Do Not Disturb
Page 95
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“You told them I was your girlfriend? I will kill you. I will kill you slowly and you will regret every phone call as you bleed a painful death below me.” I hiss, meaning seeping through every word. “You made me think he was alive, you asshole. When she said—”
“Jeremy’s alive, Deanna.” His quick words sound so surprised that I hesitate, caught off guard by his words and his tone.
“Go on.” I grind the words between clenched teeth, refusing to let the happy part of my heart celebrate without justification.
“I mean—I don’t know exact details, but the scanner talk said they pulled him from the house. That he was responsive. They took him to the hospital, he’s there somewhere, the same hospital as you. They won’t tell me shit about his condition, and all I can tell from their systems is that he’s not critical. Everything statuswise is done on paper charts; they’re stuck in the fucking stone age.” He blows a hard breath into the phone.
I close my eyes, lean back on the bed. “He’s alive?”
“Yes. I swear to you he is. If he wasn’t, I wouldn’t be calling you. I’d be hiding under a rock somewhere drowning my regrets in tequila.”
I swallow a lump of weakness, allowing a small bit of hope to enter my heart. “Fuck you, Mike.”
“I got your money back. You can’t be pissed at me about that anymore.”
“I was only mad about the money when I thought you had stolen it. I’m over that.” The money isn’t why I’m mad. It’s the betrayal of everything. “God, I hate you.”
“He’s alive, Dee.”
I snort. “You don’t know shit. Alive doesn’t tell me if he’ll make it through the night or live to be a hundred. You want to give out my personal info? Go ahead. Marcus’s issue was with me. I deserve whatever he wanted to bring my way. But you didn’t have to mention Jeremy. You shouldn’t have fucking known about him to begin with.” I lean forward, hiss into the phone with my last bit of energy. “You crossed the line, Mike.”
There is only silence. No visual of how his face is or if there is a sag in his shoulders.
“I’m sorry.”
I say nothing, and hang up the phone. Press the nurse call button until my finger aches and I hear the patter of white-soled shoes.
“There was another person in the explosion with me. A Jeremy Pacer. I’d like to see him.”
CHAPTER 115
MIKE IS RIGHT; Jeremy is alive. I ask the question to two different nurses, certain that someone is wrong, that God is fucking with me and someone will jump out and go aha! with a death certificate. But there is a consensus, and they agree to take me to him.
It takes time to get up the three floors to Jeremy’s floor. Not travel time, but bullshit time—they won’t move me from my bed until the doctor signs off. When the old man finally comes in, my attitude is running at full steam, complete with a small side of cheer at the fact that my man has survived. He made it through the explosion. I have no doubt, despite what I said to Mike, he will pull through intensive care. My man is strong and doesn’t give up. But I need to see him. Need to apologize. Need to take the blame and explain to him what happened. Need to tell him exactly what he is dealing with when it comes to me.
Maybe I won’t tell him exactly. Not while he is hooked up to a breathing machine and hovering on the brink of death. That might be too strong a blow. Maybe I’ll put it off a few days. Or weeks. Or just a couple of years. Just to be safe.
Shit. I’m doing it already. Justifying my way into lies. Lies by omission.
“I don’t need a wheelchair. I’m perfectly capable of walking.”
“Awww… we have to keep you in a wheelchair until you leave the hospital. Will someone be picking you up?” This bitch is way too cheery to be working in a place where people die. No wonder they stick her on the cupcake floor, where bumps and bruises are kissed and covered with Scooby-Doo Band-Aids and imitation Jell-O.
“I’ll get a taxi.” A taxi. Three taxis in twenty-four hours is definitely a record for me.
I don’t think SunshinePusher likes that response. There is a pause, a stumble in her step, and then the wheelchair roll powers on. Silence hangs as she tries to think of an appropriate burst of happiness to respond with. “You are so sweet, not to want to burden your friends.”
Not a bad save, though it does nothing but remind me that I have no friends. We approach a set of glass doors and I steel myself for What Is To Come.
What Is To Come ends up being the waiting room. Jeremy, apparently, is already surrounded by family and friends, the two-person limit filled in the four hours that have passed since our admission. I feel like an invalid, still in this ridiculous chair, SunshinePusher fastening a belt around me like I might go popping out. She sits next to me, opens a Woman’s Day magazine, and settles in.
“Jeremy’s alive, Deanna.” His quick words sound so surprised that I hesitate, caught off guard by his words and his tone.
“Go on.” I grind the words between clenched teeth, refusing to let the happy part of my heart celebrate without justification.
“I mean—I don’t know exact details, but the scanner talk said they pulled him from the house. That he was responsive. They took him to the hospital, he’s there somewhere, the same hospital as you. They won’t tell me shit about his condition, and all I can tell from their systems is that he’s not critical. Everything statuswise is done on paper charts; they’re stuck in the fucking stone age.” He blows a hard breath into the phone.
I close my eyes, lean back on the bed. “He’s alive?”
“Yes. I swear to you he is. If he wasn’t, I wouldn’t be calling you. I’d be hiding under a rock somewhere drowning my regrets in tequila.”
I swallow a lump of weakness, allowing a small bit of hope to enter my heart. “Fuck you, Mike.”
“I got your money back. You can’t be pissed at me about that anymore.”
“I was only mad about the money when I thought you had stolen it. I’m over that.” The money isn’t why I’m mad. It’s the betrayal of everything. “God, I hate you.”
“He’s alive, Dee.”
I snort. “You don’t know shit. Alive doesn’t tell me if he’ll make it through the night or live to be a hundred. You want to give out my personal info? Go ahead. Marcus’s issue was with me. I deserve whatever he wanted to bring my way. But you didn’t have to mention Jeremy. You shouldn’t have fucking known about him to begin with.” I lean forward, hiss into the phone with my last bit of energy. “You crossed the line, Mike.”
There is only silence. No visual of how his face is or if there is a sag in his shoulders.
“I’m sorry.”
I say nothing, and hang up the phone. Press the nurse call button until my finger aches and I hear the patter of white-soled shoes.
“There was another person in the explosion with me. A Jeremy Pacer. I’d like to see him.”
CHAPTER 115
MIKE IS RIGHT; Jeremy is alive. I ask the question to two different nurses, certain that someone is wrong, that God is fucking with me and someone will jump out and go aha! with a death certificate. But there is a consensus, and they agree to take me to him.
It takes time to get up the three floors to Jeremy’s floor. Not travel time, but bullshit time—they won’t move me from my bed until the doctor signs off. When the old man finally comes in, my attitude is running at full steam, complete with a small side of cheer at the fact that my man has survived. He made it through the explosion. I have no doubt, despite what I said to Mike, he will pull through intensive care. My man is strong and doesn’t give up. But I need to see him. Need to apologize. Need to take the blame and explain to him what happened. Need to tell him exactly what he is dealing with when it comes to me.
Maybe I won’t tell him exactly. Not while he is hooked up to a breathing machine and hovering on the brink of death. That might be too strong a blow. Maybe I’ll put it off a few days. Or weeks. Or just a couple of years. Just to be safe.
Shit. I’m doing it already. Justifying my way into lies. Lies by omission.
“I don’t need a wheelchair. I’m perfectly capable of walking.”
“Awww… we have to keep you in a wheelchair until you leave the hospital. Will someone be picking you up?” This bitch is way too cheery to be working in a place where people die. No wonder they stick her on the cupcake floor, where bumps and bruises are kissed and covered with Scooby-Doo Band-Aids and imitation Jell-O.
“I’ll get a taxi.” A taxi. Three taxis in twenty-four hours is definitely a record for me.
I don’t think SunshinePusher likes that response. There is a pause, a stumble in her step, and then the wheelchair roll powers on. Silence hangs as she tries to think of an appropriate burst of happiness to respond with. “You are so sweet, not to want to burden your friends.”
Not a bad save, though it does nothing but remind me that I have no friends. We approach a set of glass doors and I steel myself for What Is To Come.
What Is To Come ends up being the waiting room. Jeremy, apparently, is already surrounded by family and friends, the two-person limit filled in the four hours that have passed since our admission. I feel like an invalid, still in this ridiculous chair, SunshinePusher fastening a belt around me like I might go popping out. She sits next to me, opens a Woman’s Day magazine, and settles in.
