It’s confusing—how your heart holds your love and your hurt in the same chamber.
“I’m glad he has you right now,” she says.
I am, too, but I don’t want to leave her here, even though an hour ago I’d done just that.
And the way she‘s looking at me before turning to look back at her friends, like she can’t hold my eyes for too long, she feels it, too.
A few days after my parents died, I struggled to see out of my right eye. There’d been warning signs that I’d ignored: floaters and everything blurred, like the world was suddenly covered in plastic. I had a detached retina, from the accident. You were a day or two away from permanently losing your vision, the surgeon chided me.
That’s how things feel with Autumn.
Like we’re being pulled apart in ways that appear small.
We could ignore it. Convince ourselves we could go on like this.
Except if we don’t fix it, today or tomorrow, we’ll lose it forever.
“Do you want me to—“
“No,” she interrupts. “You’re where you should be.”
I nod, promise to text when I know something.
I look out both small windows, each round like a porthole, and it’s like that machine the eye doctor pulls down in front of you—do you see better here or here? And it’s like we’re standing still, the beach pulling away from us. Autumn steadily gliding away from me, like she’s on a conveyor belt.
Ahead: our sirens scream movemovemove.
Behind: our flashing lights illuminating two dozen terrified faces, like jack-o’-lanterns.
I try to calculate how far we are from the hospital, but my brain’s mush.
The paramedic radios the ER—we’ve got a sixteen-year-old male with—she rattles off Q’s stats like he’s a baseball card. I catch pieces.
His lungs sound wet.
Pulse ox’s shit.
“Don’t worry, he’s still in there,” the tall paramedic assures me. “He’s a fighter.”
I resist asking how many times she’s said that and been wrong.
An hour ago, our hands were fists.
And now, I grip his fingers in mine.
His eyes flicker.
He tries to pull the oxygen from his mouth, but the paramedic holds it in place.
“Quincy, I need you to control your breathing, okay?”
But Q’s squirming now, trying to wiggle himself free.
His eyes bulge as he squeezes my hand.
“I think he’s trying to say something,” I tell the paramedic. She moves the mask aside and I lean toward Q’s face.
“You should save your strength, man.”
But Q’s shaking. “J, is . . .”—his voice drops a word—“. . . okay?”
“Is who okay, Q?”
“The girl . . . is she okay?”
The paramedic and I exchange glances. I have no idea who he’s talking about but now’s not the time for bad news.
“Everyone’s okay. Everything’s fine,” I say.
“She made it,” he whispers, shutting his eyes. “She made it,” he repeats. Tears roll down both cheeks.
87
The sirens snap off.
Then they’re pulling Q out, racing him inside, gurney wheels twitching on concrete, then linoleum. I run behind them.
In stride, the tall paramedic points to a counter enclosed in thick glass, like at a bank. “Here,” she yells. “Check in.”
And maybe it’s the ER docs’ superintense faces, or how fast they’re pushing Q through the foyer, down the hall, but I am suddenly back in that water.
All of me submerged.
Dread crashing into me, spinning me every way but up.
Because what if this is it? The last time I see Q.
What if the way things are now is the way things are left forever?
“Wait,” I hear myself say. “Just wait.”
And the tall paramedic glances over her shoulder, but they don’t slow.
“There’s something . . . I need to tell him . . .”
But they’re exploding through the double doors.
“He needs to know that I’m . . .”
But they’re already shrinking down the dim corridor.
I start after them, my palms pressed against either Authorized Personnel Only door just before they close, but the receptionist, a smiling lady with purple highlights, reads my mind. Waves me over.
“That your brother?”
“No.” I don’t say: he used to be. “He’s my friend.” I don’t say: best. I don’t caveat: former.
“Well, he’s in good hands.”
She presses a restaurant-style pager into my palm, says, “It’ll buzz when there’s an update,” says, “sit anywhere you’d like.” As if she’s the hostess and I’m here for an ice cream float.
And being out here, in this waiting area the size of my living room, with its balding blue carpet and plastic chairs the curve and color of orange peels, feels as far away as I’ve ever been from Q.
I find the least vandalized chair, de-pocket my phone.
To Autumn: We made it to the hospital. They say he’s fighting. They took him to the back. Just waiting. More when I know.
I scroll a couple threads down.
To Whit: Hey, don’t freak out, but there’s been a . . .
A what?
An accident? But had it been?
An incident? No. Too weak.
What will freak her out the least? I picture Whit’s OB, Dr. Stokes, studying me from the swivel stool, then turning back to Whit. “No unnecessary stress,” he’d made us promise.
I type hey just checking in, but I leave it unsent. I call her instead, but it rings until her voice mail picks up. Somehow, I manage to leave her a short—yet rambling—message.
In my limited hospital waiting room experience, one of two channels is always playing on the mounted TV: a cooking show, probably because they’re hoping it makes you hungry enough to risk the hospital cafeteria.
Or, it’s the local news.
Right now, there’s a tightrope-walking squirrel—OMG, look at Solomon Squirrel gooooo. Wow, he’s really moving!—which, I’m definitely not a nature expert, but squirrels scurrying across wires is pretty normal, no? But then, boom, the big reveal: this squirrel actually walks the rope STANDING UP.
The man beside me has been chuckling the entire segment, but now he nudges me, still chuckling. “A tightroping squirrel. Now I done seen everything.”
I nod, but truthfully, I’m worried for this nice man, because if this—a squirrel on a rope—is the final feather in your what crazy thing will they come up with next cap, I don’t know, it just seems like a pretty thin feather.
But I force a smile, muster a laugh, because like I said, he’s nice.
Also, I believe in karma, or at least that whatever energy you fling into the Universe boomerangs back, and I don’t know, since energy’s transferable, maybe if I cast out enough good vibes, they might find Q, find the doctors and nurses trying to save him.
“Jamal! Jamal, where is he? Where’s Q?” I know Q’s mom’s voice the way I still know my mom’s. I pop up without thinking as she bursts into the room.
What was I expecting? A hug?