Compass (Siren Songs Book 2)

by Stephie Walls

  “Was that Cam?”

  “No. I haven’t been able to reach her. I tried Dax’s cell, too. I left them both a message, so hopefully, one will call soon. If not, I’m sure Cam will call when she sees I’m not at work.”

  “So, who was it?”

  Letting out a deep sigh, praying I don’t upset him more by answering, I say, “My dad.”

  “Seriously, Piper? You called your dad? You’re making way too big a deal out of this.”

  I don’t respond to him and instead fiddle with the heat controls on my seat. I’m not going to argue and risk spiking his blood pressure even more. Each time he speaks, his words are more garbled than the last and I know things are getting worse with each precious second that passes.

  She’s starting to freak me out. No, I don’t feel normal, something’s definitely off kilter, but I don’t think it’s cause for alarm. I can tell she’s nervous, biting the side of her lip, but whatever’s going on in that pretty little head of hers, she’s not sharing. Piper’s quiet for most of the ride, so I don’t push. I understand my wife’s fear. I get it.

  “Moby, when did you start feeling bad?”

  “I’ve had a headache for a couple days.”

  “Is that it? Just the headache?”

  “I don’t know. I guess. Last night I felt weird. There were a couple times I got really dizzy like I’d stood up too fast, but it passed as quickly as it came, so I didn’t think much about it.”

  “Anything else?”

  I hesitate—this is like the Spanish Inquisition. I know I’m about to piss her off, but she was sick. “Last night after you went to bed my hand started to tingle, kind of like it was asleep. I couldn’t get it to stop.”

  She glares at me, giving me serious stink eye, before turning back to the road. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  “I didn’t think it was anything to get worked up over.”

  “We will revisit that later. What happened after that?”

  “The tingling started in my leg,” I say it like it’s insignificant but based on my rapid decline I know now it isn’t. “I laid down on the couch hoping it would go away. I didn’t want to come to bed and wake you up.”

  “So when you woke up it was worse?”

  “I never went to sleep. I couldn’t get comfortable, and the tingling never stopped.”

  “You’ve been up all night?” The shrill tone of her voice is indicative of her anxiety level. We are at DEFCON five. She’s cute when she’s stressed out. Her nose scrunches up at the top just a tad. Now probably wouldn’t be the best time to tell her.

  I ignore that question because I’ve already answered it. “When I heard your alarm, I got up. You know the rest.”

  “When did the dizzy spells start?”

  “I had the first one when you sent me the text asking me to get you medicine at the drug store.” I mentally start to count down to the eruption, knowing she’s about to explode.

  “You drove like that? What were you thinking, Moby? I would have come to get you!”

  “I was thinking I didn’t feel good, and just wanted to get home but my wife was sick. I thought it was what you would do for me.” I shouldn’t snap at her. She had no idea how I was feeling last night. If she did, she wouldn’t have asked me to stop. It’s my own fault for repeatedly lying to her and telling her my head wasn’t hurting anymore.

  She shakes her head, not saying another word until we arrived at Regional Hospital.

  Her dad must have flown to beat us here. He lives ten minutes farther than we do, but here he is, standing outside the emergency room waiting to help me out of the car with two nurses in tow. Opening my door, he steps in to help me out; I assume he has no information about why we’re here because Piper didn’t tell him anything.

  Swinging my right leg out the door, I try to the other one with it. It doesn’t move. No matter how hard I try to make the muscles do as I will them, my leg isn’t budging. Frustrated, I use my hands to lift it out of the car. The tingling in my left hand has rendered it useless, but I try just the same. Her dad, after watching me struggling for a second, reaches in the car and lifts my foot out the door before leaning in to bear hug me out. Once I’m up and out, my right leg is useful but just enough to allow me to pivot into the wheelchair, the nurse has lined up with the door.

  Her dad leans back in the car and says, “Go park the car. I’ll take him in.”

  She hands him my wallet. “His insurance card is in it. I’ll be right there.”

  From the moment the wheelchair starts moving, everything becomes surreal. I see the people in the waiting room, the buzz of constant chatter fills my ears, but the nurse doesn’t stop. She takes me back to triage, talking a mile a minute, asking me to detail the last few hours. Her voice reminds me of Minnie Mouse and I’m having a hard time focusing on anything other than her animated tone. There’s no point in trying to communicate; she doesn’t understand anything I’m trying to tell her. My tongue feels swollen and useless. The frustration is becoming overwhelming.

  Stopping in a little triage room, she leaves me with another nurse telling her she’s going to get a portable EKG machine. I can’t manage to even tell, Heather—her name is Heather—my name. Nothing intelligible is coming from my mouth. I give up as a tear streaks down my cheek. Her dad hands me a handkerchief and starts answering the questions he can for me, but he doesn’t know much either.

  Where the hell is Piper? I need my wife! It can’t possibly take this long to park a goddamn car. My inability to communicate, the loss of function on my left side, is all scaring the fuck out of me and the only person I need with me, isn’t fucking here.

  Pam has returned with a machine that has what appears to be one thousand wires hanging from it, and sticky circles on the end of the wires. She doesn’t waste time having me put on a gown; she simply strips my shirt from my body after confirming I have no physical wounds. With nothing to do but read name tags and watch, I memorize the names of the women around me, those trying to help me. The chirps of the machines and sounds of squeaky wheels on moving hospital beds will forever be etched in my brain.

  In less than two minutes, Pam has the screen lit up, monitoring my heart, slipping a plastic clip on my finger that she tells me is to measure my oxygen levels. Finally, a blood pressure cuff, and with the press of a button, the cuff starts to inflate. The familiar sounds of the motor have never been cause for anxiety before. I watch, waiting for the little box to show the numbers everyone is anxiously waiting for. When they fill the screen, Piper gasps behind me. Turning to look at her, unaware she had come in, I see the terror in her eyes, her hands covering her mouth. One lone tear escapes her eye. Quickly wiping it away along with the fear I saw, she puts on her game face, taking my hand in hers. She knows what’s wrong, but for whatever reason, she’s not telling me.

  The numbers on the screen don’t mean anything to Moby, but two hundred and twenty-one over one hundred and sixty, my husband is actively stroking. I have never seen it firsthand, but my mother educated me for years after watching her mother die from repeat strokes. It never dawned on me those constant reminders of visual clues would come in handy—the slurred speech, facial distortion, motor function loss—I knew but hoped I was wrong. I wish now I was oblivious to the reality we’re about to face, but I’m not. I’m all too aware of just how bad this truly is.

  In an instant, there’s a flurry of people and alarms going off on the machines tracking my husband’s heart. They quickly transfer him to a bed and start an IV. With only one of us allowed to go back to the room, my dad turns to leave.

  I grab his arm in panic. “Daddy, will you keep trying to call Moby’s parents and Cam? She doesn’t know I’m going to be late, so at this point, I think it’s safe to tell her I won’t be in at all. Be prepared for her to blow a gasket but don’t give her any information. Let Moby’s parents know where we are and tell them he’s having a stroke. They need to get here sooner than later.”

  No one had ma
de that proclamation, but the nurse didn’t correct me either. I handed my dad Moby’s cell phone thinking his parents would be more apt to answer a call from their son than my dad this early in the morning. Checking my watch, I realize it’s 7:30 am. It’s likely we missed the twelve-hour window for tPA. My heart seizes at the notion we might have been able to stop this if Moby had told me what was going on last night. No point in worrying about that now.

  I follow the nurses carrying all the machines and pushing the blood pressure monitor to a secluded room. I sit silently watching my husband as he watches the nurses move the connections to machines in the room instead of those they brought to him. The fluorescent light above him flickers repeatedly and the smell of cleanser is pungent. His eyes are more sad than scared. His focus moves from them adjusting the connections, back to me. The weak smile he gives me says more than any words he could try to use to convey his emotion right now. Dragging my chair next to the bed, I take his hand, careful of the IV sticking in it, and hold on for dear life.

  With Moby rendered speechless, it leaves me to piece together a timeline of events. The nurse confirmed what I already knew; the stroke likely started last night around six. Precious hours wasted, she doesn’t say it but I see the look in her eyes, and I know the truth. Heather, the nurse we met in triage, has stayed with us, administering countless drugs through his IV. I’m trying to keep track of what’s going on and what he takes, but the names of these damn drugs are just clouding my mind, keeping me from focusing on what’s important. Moby.

  Disappearing briefly, the nurse returns with a doctor whose name I can’t pronounce, telling us they need to start doing scans to see if they can find the problem causing the elevated blood pressure. He explains the procedure, which essentially consists of Moby lying on his back while they take multiple x-rays of his head giving them a more in-depth look at the brain. It’s cold and impersonal, but I guess you have to stay aloof to work in an ER. People breeze in, and out like the waves on the beach. As soon as they come in, they’re already making their way out.

  When the nurse comes to take Moby for a CT scan, I seize the opportunity to go to the restroom and see if my dad has had any luck reaching the Coopers. I figure I have about thirty minutes before he’ll be back and need to stretch my legs, maybe find a cup of coffee.

  Pushing through the double doors, I see, not only did my dad reach the Coopers, but our entire clan is here. The Coopers and their brood, the Wrights and their tribe, and my Fish. The only person not here is my mom who my dad tells me is on her way. Dax sees me first, rushing to me, hammering me with questions. When the rest of the gang realizes who I am, they all stand to gather around me, firing off questions faster than I can process them much less answer.

  I hold up my hands to silence them all. “Guys.” They’re still talking and not listening. “Guys!” I raise my voice sharply to get their attention. Suddenly, they meet my eyes. “Stop, okay? I’ll tell you what I know, but it’s not much at this point.”

  “You guys have been here for hours, how can they not know anything?” Joey’s voice strains with emotion threatening to let loose. He lost his older brother, Jeremy, and Moby is his best friend. He will be the hardest to keep calm.

  “Moby is actively stroking. They have given him medication to bring his blood pressure down, but so far nothing has worked. They just took him for a CT scan. That’s all the information I have.”

  “There’s medicine they can give him to stop a stroke, have they done that?” Joey’s desperate. Grasping at straws. I can see the hysteria mounting in his mind. His eyes are wild, darting all over my face, and a thin bead of sweat dots his forehead.

  I shake my head as the tears start to stream down my face unable to forge the words. The reality of Moby’s choice not to tell me what was going on last night slapping me in the face as I try to explain how grave things are to our family.

  “Why the fuck not?” His screaming is almost hysterical and people around us stare at his outburst. Tears prick his eyes, threatening to fall, I’m not sure if it’s from anger or fear, but they’re there. If Joey were a violent guy, I would worry about his fists clenched by his side; they’re so tightly squeezed together his knuckles are white, and his hands are almost purple.

  I hadn’t asked because I knew the answer. I knew when I gave the nurses the timeline of events Moby gave me in the car it was pointless.

  Joey grabs me by the shoulders forcefully shaking me. “Go back in there and tell them to give him the fucking medicine, Piper!”

  He’s adamant, but without my dam breaking, I can’t give him the words I need to.

  “You’re not listening. You’re wasting time. Tell them! You’re his wife; you’re the only one who can make the decision. Man the fuck up, Piper!” The veins bulge in his neck, ticking faster than the soft clicks of the second hand on the clock behind me. His nostrils flare, and his face burns a dark crimson red, making the brown of his eyes stand out. He loses the ability to maintain his composure. The words coming from his mouth are helpless cries, pleas to save his best friend.

  I know the pain he’s experiencing, the utter helplessness. He’s not angry with me. The terror of losing his best friend is too much to endure.

  Moby’s dad, Nate, catches Joey, pulling him to him. He saw this before with Jeremy, they all did. They know the heartache of losing a child, a brother, and a best friend. Nate holds Joey securely against his chest, somehow the patriarch of this crowd silently calming the madness.

  “Why haven’t they given him this medicine, Pipes?” Charlie’s soft voice breaks through the silence. It’s questioning, not accusatory. Her meek manner typically makes her easy to overlook but today I welcome her timid ways.

  “It’s been too long. tPA is only administered in the first twelve hours of stroke symptoms appearing. Moby’s symptoms started last night before he left the gym. We didn’t get here in time.” I begin to sob in the middle of the ER waiting room, in front of my friends, my family, and twenty rank strangers. My shoulders slump under the weight of the situation and the sadness consuming me. Our despair on display for those around us.

  I see Moby’s mom, behind the crowd of our loved ones, sit down on the bench, alone. Overwhelmed with grief. She stares at the floor, not speaking, having pulled away from the hysteria surrounding me. My mind blocks out the noise in the room, the voices talking over each other, it pushes the bodies out of my line of vision, honing in on Patty. My feet start moving in her direction, hands grab at my arms to stop me to ask more questions I don’t have answers for, but I keep moving. Taking a seat next to my husband’s mother, I lace my fingers with hers, and for the first time in years, I begin to pray.

  I heard the words Piper said, but can’t really wrap my mind around the possibility of a stroke. It didn’t take a genius to notice the nurse didn’t correct her assumption. I can’t fathom how the hell I could be having a stroke. My head is throbbing, but I’m completely lucid. I’m young, in great shape, eat a healthy diet; this only happens to grossly obese people my age, not healthy, thirty-two-year-old men. My limited knowledge of stroke symptoms, patients, and the like is zilch, but the point is it shouldn’t be me. I don’t smoke, and I rarely drink. I just married my wife for the love of God. What the fuck is Piper going to do with what’s left of me?

  Lying on this bed, unable to talk to my wife, the emotions seize me, Heather steps to my side. She doesn’t speak. She places her hand on my forearm while we wait for the nurse to usher us in for the CT scan. The warmth of her touch grounds me and reminds me I’m not alone. When the doors finally open, signaling our turn, she gives me a gentle squeeze and a soft smile. I wish I knew if Heather would be with us for the duration, but I’m sure her shift will end in a few hours, and another nurse will replace her. Not being able to communicate clearly is maddening to say the least, but it’s hard to understand someone who sounds like they’re chewing on marbles.

  The nurses help me shift from the bed to the platform on the machine. Unabl
e to even move my body on my own ignites a level of irritation I’ve never felt. Something that only yesterday seemed so insignificant, I wholeheartedly took for granted, and now I’m completely debilitated. As each minute passes, I lose more control over my muscle function. Taking deep breaths to calm myself, the table slowly moves into position and the lights go out in the room around me. I hold as still as possible while the technicians do their job counting the minutes until I can see Piper again.

  Returning to my room in the ER, I don’t find my wife. Instead, my mother and father are both waiting for me. My mom looks like Jeremy’s mom did the night he passed away. My dad seems confused. Hell, so am I. As much as I love them, they aren’t who I want with me.

  “Where’s Piper?” My question is callous, but I need her. They don’t understand me, so I grab the paper in my mom’s hand indicating I need something to write with. She produces a pen from her purse and waits while I scratch out my question.

  “She’s in the waiting room. They didn’t want two of us back here. She begged the nurse to let us both in so we could see you.” My mom’s voice sounds haunted. Fear hangs in the air.

  I nod my head in understanding. This is all going to become a waiting game, so I’m sure there’s plenty of time for me to spend with her. The presence of anyone else at my side irritates me.

  “Son, we’re going to get through this. You have a group of people who love you and are going to do whatever we need to do to get you back to a hundred percent.”

  It’s a nice gesture. I’m sure my dad means well, but it’s a little premature. We have no idea what this is, nor what it will take to get me back to fully functioning, or if that’s even possible. I try to voice my concern, but neither of my parents understand me. When my mom tries to hand me the paper and pen again, I knock it out of her hand, sending it sailing across the floor before turning away. She starts to cry and it just pisses me off. She’s not the one lying in a damn hospital bed. If I’m not crying, she needs to suck it the fuck up.