Ensure the patient is lying on a hard, flat surface. If no neck injury is suspected, turn patient to the side to reduce choking hazard. Do not put anything in patient’s mouth. Place soft object under patient’s head to avoid further injury.
Panting, I snatched the silken wrap from my shoulders and jammed the material beneath his shorn hair, cushioning his head before he could bash his brains out. I ripped his tie off and loosened his collar. Dimly, I realized that hotel guests had begun to gather around us, their faces shocked at the sight of me tearing at my friend’s clothes.
Remain calm. Seizures rarely last longer than sixty to ninety seconds.
I prayed that was true, though it seemed like hours, not minutes, as Doug wrenched and juddered. I tried to turn him to his side but he was too heavy, the muscle contractions too strong. His arm flailed up. When his fist glanced off my jaw, snapping my head back, someone in the crowd cried, “Notify the authorities at once! That colored boy just struck this girl!”
“No, he didn’t, you idiot.” I snarled as I swiped away the warmth that trickled from my split lip. “And he doesn’t need police! He needs a doctor! He’s having a seiz . . . a—?a fit!”
Oh God. Collum. Mac. Phoebe. Where are you?
Time after time, Doug’s head banged against the wadded cloak. His breaths were torn, ragged things that made fear curl into a hard ball in the pit of my stomach.
As long as proper measures are taken, seizures rarely cause any permanent damage.
Doug’s neck stretched so far back I thought his head would pop off. As ropy ligaments strained, a small red dot caught my eye. I frowned and peered closer at the single bead of drying blood. When I swiped at it, another filled in and trickled down the side of his neck.
Is that . . . Is that a puncture wound?
I thought back to the wild look in Doug’s eyes as he had entered the lobby. The pinprick pupils. The vein thudding frantically in his neck. He’d been trying to tell me something.
Someone s-stuck me with a . . . with a . . .
Laying a hand on his chest, I could feel a heartbeat, but it was erratic. And way, way too fast.
Does this happen during a seizure? I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t—?
His breath stuttered. The hammering beneath my hand paused.
No.
Another shallow rasp. Thump-thump.
And then . . . it all just stopped.
I blinked, two, three, ten times. My palms felt numb as I pressed them harder to his deep chest, waiting to feel the next heartbeat. The next ragged inhalation.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
“But . . .” In the silence that choked the expansive marble and gilt lobby, my voice sounded so small.
Though difficult to watch, the article had promised, a seizure can often be more traumatic to those witnessing the event than to the actual patient themselves.
His head lolled to the side, eyes half-slits behind round, historically accurate spectacles.
For an instant, all I could picture was his utter delight when Moira had returned from the Edinburgh optician after picking up his new frames.
“Doug?” I shook him gently. The muscles had gone slack now and so, so still. A white-hot panic spiraled up my spine and shot out to every nerve ending. I grabbed his lapels and shook him so hard the glasses dropped to the floor. “Doug!”
My dad’s family were charter members of our tiny town’s only country club. Before my mom decided she’d had her fill of my grandmother’s prejudice against anyone not born with a certain skin color and bloodline, we’d often joined them in the eighties-era dining room for Saturday brunch. From my spot near the huge smoked-glass wall, I used to watch the other kids splash in the turquoise swimming pool.
I—?of course—?had never been allowed to touch toe to the cool water, though. Just the sight of those other kids roughhousing had caused my mom to decide it was imperative I become certified in CPR.
Why? I’d asked. Am I going to drown in a mud puddle?
Now, I sent up a prayer of gratitude as I ripped open Doug’s white shirt and—?kneeling at his side—?began performing chest compressions.
I ignored the crowd’s mutterings as I made the sharp downward thrusts.
One, two, three, four, five . . . fifteen.
When I pinched his nostrils closed, tilted his head back, and sealed my mouth over his, discust and objections rang out through the hotel lobby.
“What in God’s name . . . ?” “Dear Lord! She’s kissing him. She’s kissing that dead boy!” “She must be mad!”
I ignored them as I heaved two long breaths into Doug’s lungs. I watched his chest rise, then fall with each exhalation.
Come on. Come on.
Nothing.
I started again. Over and over.
Fifteen compressions. Two breaths. Fifteen and two. Fifteen and two. That’s it. You’ve got it, Walton. Keep going. Don’t stop.
By the sixth or seventh round, the muscles in my arms were trembling. I was out of breath. I could no longer press down hard enough. Tears blinded me until all I could hear was the susurration of the crowd around me. They sounded confused. Angry.
Wake. The. Hell. Up!
As I bent to pinch his nostrils one last time, I felt someone grab my shoulders and try to haul me back. “That’s enough, girl, you’re shaming yourself.”
“No!” Ragged and desperate, I jerked out of the anonymous grip and struck out blindly, connecting with something soft. I heard an “Oof” as I crawled forward and jammed my fingers under Doug’s now-pliant jawline.
Wait. Is . . . is that a pulse?
Before I could feel it again, two sets of hands dragged me back. This time, no matter how much I fought, I couldn’t get away. I scratched and twisted, snarling, “Let go of me. I need—”
“Make way!” a deep voice boomed. “Let me through. I’m a doctor.”
Still held back by strangers, I nearly sobbed with relief as a handsome older man came bustling through the ring of onlookers. Dressed in black and carrying a leather satchel, the man’s long salt-and-pepper hair pulled straight back and tied at the nape of his neck. I could hear his knees pop as he eased himself down beside Doug and peered through the spectacles that rested on the tip of his long nose. A uniformed assistant knelt at the doctor’s side.
“I am Dr. Carson. And if I may ask, how long has the young man been unconscious?” The doctor’s voice was calm and soothing as he picked up Doug’s limp arm and placed two fingers to his wrist.
“He stopped breathing.” I yanked loose from the men who had been holding me, and still on my knees, crawled closer. “His heart stopped too,” I said. “And so I—”
The doctor’s brows rose patiently as I stammered. “He . . . I—?I was . . .”
How to explain CPR to a nineteenth-century physician?
But Carson only nodded, as if he understood completely. He rummaged in his bag, pulled out a rudimentary stethoscope, and placed the belled rubber end against my friend’s chest.
A small movement caught my eye. I looked down just as Doug’s chest rose slightly. I tensed as it fell. When it rose again, and again, pure joy erupted through me.
Though Doug’s eyes didn’t open, a labored snoring rattled from his throat. He twitched, lips turned down, as if suffering a nightmare.