PART 5
Text: “Hey hun, hope you’re doing alright. Just wanted to let you know, Mikey’s cough got a lot worse. Let me know what I can give him. Thanks <3”
The text from Jim, the one from yesterday. I saw it while I was working the floor. Didn’t think anything of it. Didn’t have time to. Too many people and not enough time.
Text: “I know you’re having a busy night, but gimmy a call when you get a chance, alright?”
My tires screech through the hospital parking lot as my fingers tumble over the buttons on my phone. My heart tries to pour itself out of my chest and through my ears.
I call Jim.
It rings.
I take a hard turn, nearly going onto two wheels. Would have if I’d had more room to speed up.
Ring.
Text: “He won’t stop coughing, love.”
I hit the roof of the car with my head as I go over a speed bump I should have seen coming.
Ring.
I’m being reckless. Slow down, Cynthia. Breathe. Take it easy. You’re no good to anyone wrapped around a tree.
I hit another speed bump and feel something shift in the undercarriage. I scream and throw my phone down on the seat as it rings again with no answer.
Text: “Gave him more of that med you’ve been talking about. Seemed to help.”
I stop the car at the gate. Security went home hours ago. I scan my badge. It doesn’t work. I scan it again, the barrier doesn’t budge.
Text: “Guess I was wrong, still coughing. He looks funny. Kind of blue. I don’t know much, but I know that’s not good. Worried. Call me, okay?”
I get out of my car and smack the scanner with my badge. The barrier doesn’t lift. So I do it over and over again. Whack! Whack! WHACK! Until the barrier lifts.
Jumping back in the car, I dial home again.
Nothing.
I speed over the next set of speed bumps without slowing down. The car can snap in half for all I care. After the second speed bump, it threatens to do so. Turning onto the main road, I floor the commercial sedan and grit my teeth. If there are any cops up ahead, they are coming home with me. I’m not stopping.
Voicemail: “Hun, I’m getting worried. He seems really tired, really sleepy, but not in a good way. I really need you. Please call me.”
The road twists in my headlights as I speed, barely in control. I skid across a guard rail, smack the wheel, and scream in helpless anger and rage.
I need to get home. I need to get to my kid. I need to make sure he is okay.
I can’t do this without him.
Voicemail: “I gave him another dose of that ivermectin. Hey, really call me back. I keep giving it to him and he feels better for a little while, but I’m kinda thinking it’s all in his head. I don’t think this stuff is doing anything. Can I give him too much? Call me, please.”
At this speed, if a deer appears in the darkness beyond my lights, we’re both dead. Liquefied in the front seat.
If I come across a car stopped, a bike, a jogger, there’s no chance I avoid them.
I’m all in.
My eyes are stitched open. I forget what blinking is. There’s only the next turn. The next straightaway. Where can I pick up speed? I’m almost there. I’m so close to home.
Text: “Feeling pretty desperate.”
I know that if I can make it home, I can make all of this okay. I’m a nurse. I’m a damn good nurse and there’s nothing that can happen that I can’t fix. No sir.
Text: “How much of this stuff is too much? He won’t talk to me anymore, he just moans.”
There’s activated charcoal in my bag. If Mikey overdosed, I can save him. If it’s COVID, we have a free vent at the hospital. I just need to get there. And if there isn’t a free vent, I’ll kick someone off one.
Up ahead, two streets more, I’m so close.
Text: “I love you hun. So does Mikey. Please call back. We need you.”
There are blue and red lights flashing through the trees up ahead. Just a few hundred feet ahead. Right where my house is. But it can’t be my house. It must be the neighbors.
Text: “He’s not breathing, love. I don’t know what to do.”
The ambulance waits with its back doors open in the driveway. My driveway. People are standing at my front door.
The flashing lights burn accusations into my eyes. I’m sobbing, choking on my breath.
Can’t think. Can’t see. Don’t know how I parked. Just out of car. On the ground. On feet.
A stretcher. Mikey is on a stretcher. O2 mask in place. Paramedics bringing him downstairs. Into the back of the ambulance.
I reach out. He’s too far. I’m on the ground again. Jim sees me, oh god, his face, no, no, this isn’t how this goes.
Jim grabs me. Lifts me up too hard. His face is nothing but pain. Nothing but worry. He’s scared. I’m scared. Mind racing. Eyes burning. Throat raw. Who’s screaming?
Is that me?
Jim holds me steady as Mikey is put into the ambulance and the doors are shut. He is silhouetted by emergency lights. He mutters, “I don’t understand,” then grabs my face with sweaty, trembling hands, turning me away from the ambulance holding our son, holding my little boy like I used to, turns me to meet his eyes, eyes broken and mad with grief, and says…
“I did everything you told me to.”
