Cutline The first thing I noticed when I woke up was that my head was pounding from the alcohol. The second thing I realized was that we weren’t moving. I was still in Jamie’s lap. His forehead was resting on the steering wheel and his right arm was on the dashboard out in front of him. My initial assumption was that he was sleeping. I shimmied out from underneath him and saw that he was clutching the bottle of glucose tablets in his left hand. We were across the bridge in the parking lot of Golden Gate Overlook, facing the city. I looked closely at Jamie and saw that his eyes were very slightly open.
“Jamie.”
“Mmhmm.”
“Jamie, are you okay?” I grabbed the bottle from his left hand and discovered that it was empty. I became frantic. I put my hand to his forehead, and he tried to give me a weak smile.
“What is it?”
“Low,” he mumbled, barely loud enough for me to hear.
It occurred to me, very brutally, that Jamie had given himself too much insulin. I started searching the car but couldn’t find the glucagon kit. “Jamie!” I screamed, but at that point his eyes were closed and he was unresponsive. He started to lean left. I gently laid him against the driver’s side door and then glanced out at the bridge. The traffic had stopped; the pedestrians were frozen in space and time. I felt frustrated and powerless, like in a dream. I screamed again, “Where is it?” And then I prayed and reached for my phone, but just before I dialed 911, I visualized the orange case under the seat. Visualize to realize. When I looked, it was there. Yanking it from below and popping it open, my motions were fluid and precise, as if I were on autopilot. Somehow I knew exactly how to pump the liquid into the vial of powder. I filled the syringe and pushed a drop up through the needle, removing any air. I unbuckled his belt and yanked at his jeans to where I could see just enough skin below his hip to give him the shot, and then I jabbed the needle into his flesh and pushed the liquid through. I was crying, panic-stricken. Please be okay. Please be okay.
I dialed 911 on my phone, just in case, but right before I hit SEND, I heard Jamie speak.
“Katy?” he murmured.
“Yes?” I slid toward him. He sat up against the seat, his head falling back, and took two deep breaths. I straddled him and cupped his face, searching his eyes. They were dilated and he was clammy, but he was conscious and watching me.
“Oh my god, Jamie! Oh my god!”
“I’m okay,” he mumbled. Between each loud sob, I kissed him all over his face and neck. His hands rested on my thighs. He let me smother him with kisses while my tears spilled all over his face. I wanted to cradle and rock him like a baby. I wanted to soothe him. But at that point I was the one who needed the soothing.
“Baby, stop crying, please. I know that was scary for you, but I’m okay. I messed up. That’s never happened before.” He became more alert. He brought his hands up to my face and wiped away the tears. “I’m sorry I couldn’t take care of you.”
“We can take care of each other,” I said instantly, and then as if a new portal in my brain had been unlocked, I remembered my dream. The whispers.
It was a moment, like so many I’d had before, where I’d go the entire day not remembering my dream from the previous night and then suddenly, it would be triggered by a smell or a song or a comment made by a colleague and the dream would rush back to me, like a tidal wave of memories. That’s what happened in the truck that night. I remembered my dream—the dream. I was there again, hovering over Rose’s body, the sound of heartbeats streaming loudly, except I realized there were two sets beating. I leaned down over her to listen, but the sound wasn’t coming from her. It was a human sound, a living sound. My memory of the dream was clear, finally. When she spoke, her voice was soft and melodic, but pleading.
Take care of each other, she said, and then she glanced at the figure standing next to me. It was Jamie, and the heartbeats were ours. His and mine.
In the truck, still straddling him, I held my hand to my heart.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing.” I shivered.
“Calm down. Everything is okay.”
“I know.” I laid my head on his chest and he held me tightly. An hour must have passed. Every few minutes I would look up at his face to check on him and he would smile at me every time, but we remained quiet and still, just holding each other.
Finally, I crawled off of his lap. “Shouldn’t I take you to the hospital?”
He shook his head. “I’m okay. I just need to eat something.”
“Oh yeah.” I pulled a Balance bar from my purse, unwrapped it quickly, and held it to his mouth.