by Jo Raven
Not working. I sink down on the sofa. Something is digging into my ass, and I pull out my cell. A light is blinking on top. Missed calls. I check them. Rafe. Asher. Erin. Dakota. I hit ‘call’ on the last one.
My hand shakes when I bring the cell to my ear. I close my eyes and wait as her line rings and rings, then stops.
“The phone you are calling,” an automated voice says, “is currently out of the service area. Please try your call again later.”
I lower the cell, stare at it. Whatever. Fuck you, too, machine. My fingers spasm around the phone, itching with the urge to throw it against the wall.
I need… I don’t know what I need. What could make the mess in my head better. I suck on the barbell in my tongue. The emptiness of the apartment is taunting me. Reminding me of what I’m trying to forget. Being alone isn’t a good idea right now.
So I call Ash. My fingers drum on the armrest as his phone rings and rings. I call Rafe, and the call goes directly to voicemail.
“I don’t wanna fucking leave a message,” I yell into the phone and try to draw a breath through my nose, try to calm the hell down.
What the hell is going on?
I call Dakota again. Same result. Breathing hard, I lean back and close my eyes. What the hell is happening? Where is everyone?
Everyone’s gone.
No, dammit. No.
I scrub my hands over my face, trying to erase the image of the coffin, the flowers, Emma’s still face.
Fuck this. I reach for the paper bag and draw a whiskey bottle out. I unscrew the lid, tip the bottle and swallow.
A hiss leaves my throat as liquid heat slides down my throat, coating my insides. Pushing away the cold. I upend the bottle, gulping the whiskey down.
My vision blurs, and I wipe a hand over my eyes. Better. Yeah, fuzziness is good. Everything inside me, the razor-sharp edge of every thought and feeling, begins to dull, so I drink some more.
I can do this. Stay here, wait until Dakota or Ash or Erin or whoever calls or comes back here. Just need to hold on to sanity a little bit longer.
Someone will come. Someone will call. I know I’ve been walking around like a loaded gun for the past few weeks, snapping at everyone or avoiding them.
Shit. Dakota will come. She will.
I drink more, the warmth of the alcohol spreading in my stomach. The room tilts, and I fall back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. It spins in lazy circles. I need to… Fuck, I don’t know anymore.
Need to fit into this fucking new world order.
My eyes fall on a pair of scissors on the table. I grab them, test the edge. Yeah, they’ll do nicely. I lift them, see my wild eyes reflected in the shiny metal. Hands shaking, I get to work, cutting through my Mohawk. It’s like cutting through cardboard. Like cutting through my childhood, through my past, through all I am.
Bad idea.
The scissors clatter to the floor, and I run my hands over the chopped tufts. My head feels too light—but the heavy feeling in my chest is only getting worse. Grabbing the bottle, I chug down half of it in one go.
Bile rises in my throat, and I swallow hard. The room spins. I’m not sure what I’m doing here.
I need to call Dakota. Where’s my cell?
Turns out it’s lying by my side on the sofa. A symbol is flashing on the screen. It’s a tiny receiver. You have a voice message.
This is funny, and I snort. Who leaves voice messages nowadays?
Bad news, the voice in my head whispers. More bad news. Don’t listen to it. Drink some more.
I take another swig from the bottle and another. The room is still spinning, and my cell is still blinking. My fingers move of their own accord, tapping on the cell screen and opening the message. Swallowing hard, I bring the phone to my ear.
This message was received yesterday morning, a robotic voice informs me, and then it plays.
“Hello?” A man’s voice I don’t recognize. “Dakota, you said to call here. The hospital gave the final diagnosis…” The line breaks with static. I frown. “…her results came in. I’m afraid the cancer is back. It’s not looking good. They…” The line breaks again. “…come by…”
The line goes dead.
The cell drops from my fingers and smashes to the floor, pieces skittering across the room. I stare at the far wall, not seeing anything. Ugly words are ringing inside my head. Final diagnosis. Cancer is back.
She’s dying. Of cancer. Like Emma.
No. No fucking way. Dakota would’ve told me. I would’ve noticed if she was sick.
Only with Emma I didn’t know until she was hospitalized.
The room spins faster. My stomach roils, and it all comes back up. Bending over the armrest, I lose my—dinner? Something I don’t remember eating—on the floor.
I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and lean back. My body feels like a block of ice. I clench my hands, but I don’t really feel them. The light dims.
Shit. Dakota.
I’m losing it, sinking so fast I can’t grab hold of anything. This is it, I think. This is where I lose everything. My breath catches in my throat. If I break down now, I don’t know if anyone can put me back together.
Dakota doesn’t deserve this. She can’t… She can’t die.
“Why?” I lurch to my feet and throw the bottle at the wall. It lands with a satisfying crash. But it’s not enough. Not nearly. “Why her?”
I kick the chairs, grab the ashtrays and hurl them at the walls. Hurl them at my framed drawings, smashing the glass, tearing the paper to shreds. The frames drop to the floor, breaking to pieces.
Still not enough. Not enough destruction.
Lurching back to the table, I grab the other bottle from the bag and unscrew the cap. I drink, swallowing so fast I barely stop to breathe. It doesn’t burn quite as much going down as before. Maybe if I drink enough, it’ll black out my memory, strikethrough my thoughts. Erase everything. Change everything.
Except everything has already changed.
I clench my fingers around the bottle. No. I won’t let anything happen to her. I won’t. Except…
Nothing good ever lasts. You should know this by now.
“No!” I shout at the empty apartment. “I’m not giving up on her! I’m not fucking giving up. I love her.”
I grab the lamp and throw it against the window, lifting my arm over my face as glass rains down. As if it matters.
I love her.
“I won’t lose you, too,” I say into the deafening silence. “I can’t.”
But there’s no answer. There never is. No answer. No miracles. I’m raving and ranting alone, and fate doesn’t give a damn.
So I drink until my stomach turns itself inside out again, and I puke my guts on the floor. And then I drink more. Not sure it’ll be enough.
Or maybe it will. My vision is going blurry, and no matter how much I blink it doesn’t clear. I dimly realize I’ve dropped to my knees. After a while, everything goes black and quiet, and it’s like flying. But I can’t fly, so I guess I must be falling, and it almost feels the same.
Chapter Fourteen
Dakota
We’re standing outside Aunt Carolina’s room. God, I hate hospitals, hate all the pain they contain. But this is my aunt, my mom’s sister, and as I hold Mom in my arms, I’m glad I came, glad my poor little car didn’t give up the ghost on the way yesterday.
Only thing that’s bothering me a little is that I haven’t talked to Zane yet. I called him from Mom’s phone several times—my cell has been declared officially dead—but he won’t pick up. Then again, Tessa, who gave me Dad’s message about Aunt Carolina, said Ash and the guys were going to the movies, so maybe they took him along.
God knows he could use a break. His sister’s sickness is taking a toll on him. He barely eats, barely smiles. It’s worrying me.
At least I hope he sees the note I wrote and stuck on the fridge. When I called Dad yesterday morning, he told me he called Zane and left a message, so
hopefully Zane knows where I am, one way or another.
God, I wish he were here with me. I’m so sad about Aunt Carolina. She’s worse off than Dad told me last night. The cancer has spread everywhere. She’s dying as we speak.
“Darling girl,” she told me this morning, holding my hand. “I lived a full life. Did what I wanted. And I want my art exhibition to happen, no matter what. Will you see to it?”
And I said yes, because I’d do anything for her and because she makes me so proud. She did live a full life. Followed her heart, married for love, and when her husband died, she traveled around the world, studied and lived happy.
I want to be like her. Follow my heart. Trust my feelings.
Be with Zane. If he wants to be with me, too.
Dad comes out of the doctor’s room, his face drawn in tense lines. He pulls Mom into his arms and pats her back. “We’ll get through this, honey.”
I rub my hands up and down my arms. “What did they say?”
“The same. There’s nothing they can do. They’ll make sure she’s not in pain. We’ll bring her all she needs—her drawing supplies, her MP3 player. We’ll keep her company as much as possible.”
I nod. “I think I’ll stay a couple days here. Let me call someone.”
With Mom’s borrowed cell phone in hand, I step outside and call Zane. No reply. I frown.
Time to get a new cell. Meanwhile… I call Audrey to ask if she knows anything about Zane’s whereabouts.
“Hello?”
“Hi, girl! How is it hanging?” I grin.
“Dakota, is that you? I didn’t recognize this number.”
“It’s my mom’s cell. Mine died.” I start walking through the hospital corridors. I need to get out for a moment, breathe some fresh air that doesn’t smell of disinfectant and despair.
“Your mom’s?” Audrey sounds out of breath. “Where are you?”
“Janesville, at the hospital. My aunt is sick.”
“Janesville?” Something in Audrey’s voice makes me frown.
“Is everything okay?” I walk down another corridor. It’s a maze, and I’m lost. “Audrey?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just…” She huffs. “Is Zane with you?”
“No, why?”
“He’s not?”
“Audrey…” I stop in my tracks. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. Tyler says he was acting weird yesterday afternoon, and then he suddenly left Damage Control without telling anyone where he was going. But we didn’t worry much, because you’re staying with him, and we thought… We thought he was with you.”
My heart starts to hammer in my chest. “Well, he’s not here. I haven’t seen him since yesterday midday when I left town.”
“Crap.” A pause. “Did he say he was going somewhere? Did he say anything to you?”
“No. I thought he was with you guys.”
“Crap,” Audrey says again.
Holy freaking crap. I swallow down my irrational panic. “Maybe he forgot to charge his phone.”
“Yeah, but then where is he? He’s not at Damage Control, or with anyone we know. He won’t answer the door to his apartment, and the lock seems to be jammed.”
“What about his sister? Maybe he went to visit?”
“Midweek?” Audrey sounds skeptical. “Let me see if Ash has her number to call. Stay put, I’ll call you back.”
“Okay.”
The call disconnects, and I bite my lip. Worry has my stomach tied up in knots. Where is he? God, I hope he’s okay.
Sunlight pours through a glass door, and I head that way. Suddenly, being outside is a physical need. The walls are closing in on me. I ran to the door, open it and step out into a parking lot.
I suck in lungfuls of cool air and jiggle the cell in my hand, as if that will make it ring sooner. I pace the yard as I wait, walking between the cars, looking at the buildings rising beyond the fence.
When the cell finally rings, I almost drop it in my haste to answer. “Yeah?”
“Dakota. His sister died yesterday. His brother-in-law says Zane was at the funeral this morning, then he left to drive back to Madison.”
“Oh shit.” I bend over, a hand over my stomach. Jesus. “Could he…” God, please no. “An accident? Is it possible…?”
“We have Rafe and Tyler calling all hospitals in the area. So far it doesn’t seem like he was admitted to any. There weren’t many accidents on the road this morning.”
“Then where is he?”
Audrey moves away from the phone, speaking to someone, presumably Ash. Then she’s back. “Ash is saying he’s going to try and break down the door of Zane’s apartment.”
A different kind of fear twists my insides. “What does he think happened?”
Audrey sighs. “Just come over, will you? We’re heading that way now.”
“Yeah.” I stumble as I head back inside. “I can be there in half an hour.”
I hang up without saying goodbye, too stressed for social niceties. I run through the hospital, lose my way again and end up calling Dad to tell him I have to go. I barely hear what he says before I hang up and ask for directions. Then I’m running through halls and down more corridors, finally stepping out into another lot where my car is parked.
Praying the engine will endure one more trip back to Madison, I step on the gas and gun it down the highway. I don’t bother with music. Can’t bear it, my head’s too full of noise as it is.
The scars down his arms. The shadow of pain in his eyes. Please, let him not have done anything to himself.
His sister died, and I wasn’t there for him. I didn’t know. But it doesn’t matter. I frigging wasn’t there.
Fear is a cold hand between my shoulder blades, digging sharp nails into my lungs.
Please let him be okay.
I hear the sound of sirens as I approach Zane’s building, and the claws of fear tear into me deeper. A coincidence, I think, as I turn into his street, and park. Please let it be a coincidence.
The ambulance rolls down the street and parks not twenty feet away, its lights flashing.
Holy shit.
By the time I throw my door open and step out, paramedics are rushing into the building, and I run after them, my heart in my throat. Their boots pound up the stairs, and I hurry to keep up. Maybe it’s not for Zane, I think vaguely, even as I put in another burst of speed. Maybe it’s someone else in the building. Doesn’t have to be for Zane.
But then I find his door bashed in, wide open, and voices drift through. Ash, I think. Tyler. Erin and Audrey.
Swallowing my fear, I rush inside, only to be stopped by a scene of post-apocalyptic disaster. Broken furniture, the window smashed open, shards of glass everywhere. Zane’s drawings, torn and ruined.
And then I see him, lying on his side on the floor—limp, his eyes closed. I barely recognize him. His Mohawk is mostly gone, cut unevenly, close to the scalp. He has an oxygen mask strapped over his mouth, and he looks deathly pale.
No.
The paramedics lift him onto a stretcher and roll him on his side. He doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t move.
My knees turn to water, and I grip the doorjamb not to fall. The air is heavy with the sharp stench of vomit and alcohol.
“Hey, girl.” Audrey appears at my side and puts an arm around me. “You made it.”
“What happened?” I can’t see any blood, and oh God, I’m so thankful for that.
“Not sure.” Audrey’s voice is faint. “He’s not breathing so well. They think it may be alcohol poisoning.” She shivers. “We had to break down the door. Took a while.”
I watch numbly as the paramedics take Zane’s pulse, their faces drawn into masks of worry, and I start to shake. My eyes burn like fire.
“He’ll be okay,” Audrey says and pulls me in closer. “He could have choked on his vomit. He was lucky.”
Lucky. I tear myself free of Audrey’s hold and stumble toward the stretcher. “How is he?”
The
paramedic shrugs. “Dehydration, low sugar levels.” He nods at his colleague, who’s inserting a needle into Zane’s hand. “We’re working on that.”
Quickly and efficiently, they attach a tube to the needle, and one of them holds up a clear bag with fluid. “Let’s go.”
They lift the stretcher, and Ash steps in to hold up the bag. Together, they take Zane out and down the stairs. Audrey tugs me along with Erin and Tyler, and we follow them to the ambulance, watch as they load him in.
“He’s not even conscious,” I choke out.
“Come on,” Tyler says, “let’s follow them to the hospital.”
Audrey tugs on my hand, and I nod, my throat so tight I can’t speak.
“He’s a strong guy,” she says. “He’ll pull through.”
Was there a chance he wouldn’t? Crap. I can’t hold back the tears anymore. She curls an arm around me as my breath hitches. I sob on her shoulder, trying to be quiet—as if it matters. She leads me toward her car and bundles me inside, then Ash slides into the driver’s seat and we’re off.
Through my tears, I watch the buildings and cars streak by. How did this happen? He almost drank himself to death.
‘I don’t need it when you’re here.’
His sister died, and I wasn’t there.
The buildings turn into weeping faces, the cars into snapping jaws, and I curl on the backseat, wishing this nightmare was over. That I’d never gotten the call about Aunt Carolina, that I’d never left town.
That time would turn back to yesterday morning and just stop.
Zane won’t wake up. It’s been four days since he was brought to the hospital and placed in the intensive care unit. He won’t react to anything. The doctors talk of hypoglycemia, dangerously low blood sugar, caused by the vomiting. They’ve been pumping glucose into his veins, along with fluids and antibiotics. At least it doesn’t look as though he’s banged his head, or has any internal injury.
He’s just… not responding. It’s so strange, seeing him on the narrow hospital bed, white sheets tucked up to his armpits, white walls and white tables, while he’s a riot of color with his tattooed chest and arms and the blue of what remains of his Mohawk.
