Someone catches my arm, then my other arm. Two arms pull me back. A woman in a long nightdress. She holds me to her, trying to keep me from getting to Vivi. Her body is big and soft, and I feel like I’m being held against pastry dough. Comforting. A man is running from their little house toward Vivi, a phone to his ear. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt and flannel pants.
I think the woman asked me something. But I can’t make words come out. Her mouth looks like she’s shushing me, lips pursed but exposing front teeth. Am I making noise? I can’t hear anything except the deafening ring in my ears.
It happened. Make it go back. Make time go back one minute. I won’t let it happen.
There’s some sort of hot film over my eyes; I can hardly see anything. I think neighbors have gathered around us. I think another woman is running toward Vivi. Purposefully. Please let her be a doctor. Let her be more than a doctor. What would Viv want her to be? A “miracle-ist.”
I can’t breathe. The blood, the bone. Inhaling feels like trying to blow up two balloons with holes in them. So much effort, but empty. Thin air.
How long has it been like this? I think I’m dreaming. This can’t be real. In the distance, red lights pulse, sharp color in the dead of night. They’re here for her. They’ll take care of her. I need to beg them, but I can’t. My legs snap like old ropes and then the world is black. My head.
I hear voices. And then I don’t. And then I do again.
The last thing I remember is the sound of beating wings.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Vivi
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Jonah
A deep voice. “Has he vomited?”
“Several times but dry heaving at this point.” A woman’s voice. They sound fogged over. Far away. I think I’m outside, but the ground is not cold. A smell wafts through the cool air. It’s like smoke and oil and heartache. I know where I am. Vivi.
My eyes snap open. I try to jolt up, but I’m held down by strong hands.
“Lay still,” a voice says. “Try not to move. Relax.”
“I’m okay,” I say. At least, I think I am. I’m on a stretcher, looking out the open back doors of an ambulance. But I can’t see Vivi—only flashing lights, people milling around. “I’m okay. Is Vivi okay?”
“She’s being helicoptered to the hospital.” That means she’s alive. Thank God. Oh, thank God. They wouldn’t bother with a helicopter if there was no chance she’ll be okay. Right? The person speaking is a paramedic. He has black hair in curls that fall to his ears. “Her driver’s license had a Seattle address and phone number. Do you have a home number for her?”
“Yes. My phone . . . it’s in my pocket. Her mom’s number . . . is under ‘Carrie.’”
“Stay still,” the paramedic says, reaching into my pocket. I couldn’t move if I wanted to. My legs and arms are restrained. Am I okay?
He calls out to someone, who rushes over, and the paramedic reads off the number. Then the doors are closed behind us. We lurch forward.
“No, I want to go with her! I don’t need an ambulance. I . . .”
“It’s precautionary. Look here.” He shines a flashlight straight into my eyes. “We need to keep watch for a possible concussion, so we’ll keep you at the ER for observation. Not for long.”
“I’m really fine. Just not good with . . . blood.” Or bone. Oh God, the memory of Vivi’s arm and shoulder makes me woozy again.
I lean to the side just as my stomach lurches again. The paramedic has a bag in front of me, though all I do is heave. I wipe my mouth anyway.
“Deep breaths. I think we’re gonna need to get you some fluids,” he says. He holds up my cell phone. “I’m going to call your parents now and let them know what’s happening.”
“No. Don’t bother. They’re . . .” They’re what? One is dead and the other one is barely able to make toast, let alone handle a crisis? “Um . . . out of town.”
He asks me questions like if my head hurts, if I know who the president of the United States is, if I know what day it is. I answer them. I ask him questions about Vivi and what is happening. He dodges them. When I roll my eyes in frustration, he breaks his flashlight out again and directs the beam at my pupils. I’m not sure if it’s a medical precaution or punishment.
“Wait,” I say, when the ambulance stops. “I can’t go in there.”
With such a short drive time, we can only be at one hospital. This is the building where my dad was pronounced dead. I consider asking the paramedic to call my mom after all. Don’t they need consent or something? She could say no. She wouldn’t, though. She’d just freak out.
“Hey,” the paramedic says. He grasps my arm. “You’re fine. Everything’s going to be okay.”
The ambulance driver opens the back doors and climbs in to help slide the stretcher out.
I want to thrash. I want to break loose like an outtake from One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest. They can’t take me in against my will. But the truth is, I’m so worn down. I’ve got no fight left. In fact, once I lie back in surrender, something occurs to me: it’s kind of nice to have someone else wheeling me forward for once.
I didn’t even feel the needle go into my arm. I was in the bed, but I wasn’t really there. A nurse tucked a warm blanket around me. The IV fluids will make you cold, she said. I felt nothing.