"Hannah. Hannah..."
He clasped my arm. I had never seen such fear in his eyes. His gaze darted around on the tiled floor, where all I could see were pale tiles with gray speckles.
"Matt, it's okay now, listen to me, it's okay."
Every time I brushed back his hair, a fresh sheen of sweat sprang up on his brow. I touched his neck. His heart was racing. My god, what was this?
"Xanax," he chattered. "Get me one. Get me a Xanax. In the k-kitchen."
"Matt, I don't think—"
"Hannah!"
I scurried to the kitchen. Okay, Xanax. Get a Xanax. Maybe Matt was addicted. Fuck, maybe that's what this was. Fuck. Did he need some kind of fix? Was he doing more than drinking himself to death?
Panic made it impossible to focus. My hands knocked against the table and scattered pill bottles. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Which was which? Why did Matt have all these fucking pharmaceuticals anyway?
Finally I found the Xanax. I shook out one blue oval and ran back to Matt, who was gripping the sink. Water dripped from his hair. He grabbed the pill, chewed and swallowed it, his face twisted in disgust.
I hovered at his side. He smiled grimly at me.
Oh god, I despised my emotions right now. Tears gathered in my eyes and I dashed them away. Fuck, I couldn't stand to see Matt—a man who always seemed so smug and in control—this frightened.
He splashed water on his face. He drank from his cupped hands. I tried to rub his back, but he flinched from my touch. His skin was on fire.
"Matt, what can I do? What's going on? This—" I hesitated. This didn't look like any hangover I had ever seen.
Matt shrank into the corner again. He opened his mouth, then lunged for the toilet, clinging to it and gagging. There was nothing in his stomach. Nothing but water, bile, and a blue swirl of crushed Xanax.
"Ah, fuck," he groaned.
Violent shivers racked him.
I caught his hand and squeezed it.
"Matt," I said helplessly.
He seemed to be struggling with himself. After a space, he pulled himself to his feet.
"We have to... g-go to the hospital," he said. He searched my eyes, which were the size of plates. "It's okay, Hannah, b-but we h-have to go. Th-this is withdrawal."
Matt's grip on my hand was weak.
His words sank in slowly.
Alcohol withdrawal. I should have guessed, but I had never witnessed it. I had no idea. God, I didn't know a single real alcoholic.
Until Matt.
"Yeah, okay," I said. I needed to be strong right now. I needed to be calm. "Okay, the—"
"Get m-me in the c-car," Matt prompted, lurching toward the doorway. "Your ph-phone. Geneva General."
Matt's anxiety was contagious. My heart began to hammer and my hands shook. At least I had something to do besides hover and panic.
I helped Matt through the cabin and out onto the porch. He vomited over the rail.
He was still wearing boxers and those sad old slippers. I couldn't look at the slippers. I could not break down right now.
I boosted him into the car as best I could. Matt slumped in the seat. I dashed back to the cabin for my flip-flops and purse.
Geneva General Hospital was less than four miles away. I propped my phone on my thigh and studied the directions as I backed up the drive too fast, thwacking branches. I squeezed Matt's shoulder.
"It's okay now," I said. "We'll be there in eight minutes. Five minutes. I love you, Matt."
If Matt heard me, he gave no indication. He was crumpled against the car door. He flinched with each bump in the road and his shallow breath hitched, but I wasn't about to slow down. I drove like hell, swerving and spraying gravel. My headlights bobbed crazily in the morning dark.
"It's okay," I kept saying, "it's okay," staring between my phone and the road. Fuck the dark. Fuck these road signs!
"Here!" I turned sharply onto North Street. Matt swayed. "Sorry, I—" I glanced at Matt and slammed on the brakes. My scream filled the car. Matt was convulsing, his eyes rolled into the back of his head and his arms and legs jerking spastically.