by Urban, Ami
I nodded in agreement. “Lisa is something special.”
“Yup. And I became a surgeon to carry on Amy’s legacy. I didn’t think I’d like it so much, but it always feels like she’s proud when I do it right. It keeps me going. But…” After a second or two of silence, he jumped in his seat. “Hey, wait! Aren’t you a doctor of cars?”
What an obnoxious level of happy after such a shitty story. The epitome of glossing over the hard stuff. I didn’t answer because I wasn’t sure what to say. He stood up and motioned for me to follow him, so I did.
And his car was just as flashy as his smile.
It was gorgeous, for sure. A bright red ‘76 Ford Mustang. Although I preferred the defunct Cobra, the Mustang was still a head-turner. And if it weren’t the apocalypse, it would’ve been a huge pussy-magnet. Hell, it probably still was.
“Whale oil beef hooked.” I approached Brendon’s car while it sat quietly in the dark garage. “This is some machine, you got here.”
A chuckle escaped him. “Coming from you, that’s a compliment.”
“As it stands.” I placed both my hands on the driver’s side door. The metal felt cool under my skin. “What’s she doin’?”
“Huh?” He looked surprised for a second. “Oh. Yeah. Um, I was hoping you could tell me. It just doesn’t drive as smoothly as it did before all this shit happened.” His voice took on a darkened edge as he referred to the world we lived in.
“Man, I always tell people not to buy vintage cars for that exact reason.”
A confused gaze passed over his eyes. “In case of the apocalypse?”
I shrugged. “Mechanics are at the bottom of the food chain. We can’t run very fast and you can smell engine grease for miles when we’re around. Pop the hood, please.”
He took the keys off a ring on the wall and did as I asked.
“I only survived by taking a page from the Book of Bear Grylls.” I rounded the front of the car. The driver’s side door slammed shut and Brendon was beside me.
“What? Drinking your own pee?” he asked, a twinkle in his dark eyes.
I gave him a solemn nod. “Not mine, man. Not mine.”
He chortled as my gaze roamed the engine. It was pretty clean. There were no after-market kits that often ruin the value of an older car like that. There was no shoddy repair work done. All weldings looked solid. “Ever replaced any of these gaskets?”
He was quiet for a moment. “I, uh… I’ve literally never opened this thing up. My guy used to do everything for me.”
An impressed nod accompanied a tilt of my head. “He’s good. Does he specialize in vintage cars?” I tossed a look his way.
Brendon’s mouth turned down in a scowl. “He did.”
Realization flooded through me. “Ah.” I went back to work. “Well, I don’t see anything wrong under here. Let’s get the tires off and check the brakes.”
The two of us got to work. Brendon wasn’t really much for help, but he lifted where he could and stepped on the lug wrench when I asked. I wondered how he was in surgery. Lazy? Professional? Accomplished? I’d ask Lisa later.
“Ever wonder if there’s life on other planets?” Brendon asked wistfully at one point while I was removing a hubcap.
My head snapped up, watching as he gazed into a clear blue sky while standing in the middle of his driveway. “I can honestly say I’ve never had someone ask that question during the day.”
He chuckled. “Maybe there’s life on the sun!”
Weirdo. I tossed the lug wrench I’d found to the side. The hubcap joined it a moment later. Just inside the wheel well, I noticed the problem in an instant.
Sure, the brake itself was a bit rusty. Orange splotches of oxidized metal covered the faceplate. Just beyond, the bright red shock suspension coiled into the convertible’s underside. That all looked okay. Not a good idea, but you can drive with a little rust.
On one side of the rotor, a small piece of silver caught the sunlight. I fiddled with it, adjusting my position until I could see behind the brake itself. I turned the caliper all the way to the opposite side.
“I take it you found something?” The hood clunked as Brendon sat down.
“Seen it a million times.” I slipped my arm inside the well all the way up my elbow, keeping my head outside so I could continue speaking to him. “Ford is notorious for just throwing parts at Mustangs.” I could feel something give when I tugged once more. Finally, I was able to pull a good six-inch piece of equipment out. One end was metal, leading to a black ribbed piece of plastic that acted as a sort of piston. I held it up to the light. The color drained from Brendon’s face as if I’d just totaled his baby. “Not an original Mustang part.”
He shook his head. But said nothing.
“See this?” I adjusted the part in my hand until the small silver piece at the end pointed outward. “That’s a tie rod. This end of it is from a Granada. They don’t even make those anymore.”
Well, obviously. But you get what I meant.
“The rack bellow, wheel spindle and caliper all look okay. So, it’s probably just the tie rod ends on each wheel.”
“Okay,” he said simply. “Can you fix it?”
All I could offer was a shrug. “Not unless you have a time machine back to 1976. Otherwise all I can do is replace it with another tie rod end from another model. Just don’t take this baby on a cross-country road trip and you’ll be fine.”
A groan escaped him. “Great. I take such good care of this car for years and just like that…” He snapped his fingers. “It goes out.”
I tossed him a look. “You’ve been getting it serviced in the last two years somehow?”
Brendon pushed a hand through his head of dark hair. “Well, no…”
“Well, then the least I can do is service it for you. I’ll change the oil, replace your fluids, that kind of stuff. And if someone else comes out here with a Mustang, I’ll let you know. We can harvest the tie rod ends.”
“Kinda like we’re gonna harvest some cartilage from your chest and put it in your knee?”
Our gazes met. “Yeah. Kinda. Except this is easier.” I gestured toward the car.
“I dunno, Dood.” Brendon shook his head. “I wouldn’t be able to do any of this. I’ve never even changed a tire in my whole life.”
Well, color me surprised. “Are you serious? What thirty-year-old doesn’t know how to change a tire?”
He sheepishly raised a hand as I rolled my eyes. “No one ever taught me.”
I glanced into the car, noting the absence of a gear shift. “And you drive automatic? What is wrong with you?”
“What?”
“How can you drive a car as nice as this and not use a manual transmission?” I almost couldn’t bear to be around him at that point. Who the fuck drives an automatic sports car?
“I never learned how to drive stick.”
Now, I knew I wasn’t much older than him, but it seemed like we were worlds apart in that moment.
Kids these days…
Fuck off, Silas.
“It’s your lucky day, then.” I tossed him the keys. “I have a manual Celica at the garage you can try out.”
“What if I don’t want to learn it?”
My hands flew to my ears. “I didn’t hear that!”
***
“You have to smoothly transition.”
The car lurched forward as Brendon stopped it in the middle of the highway. I glanced around us.
“Okay. So, I know you know you can’t just park on the freeway.”
“Yeah, I know!” He scowled as he fiddled with the stick shift, pushing it away and toward him like he had no clue what he was doing. The car groaned in protest with each wrong gear. I reached over and pushed it into the correct one.
“Clutch first,” I reminded him. The vehicle bucked forward, and we were off once more. “When you hit the clutch, you want to let go on the gas at the same time. But you don’t want to have your feet off or on both pedals at
same time.”
“Okay.” His tone was nervous. He hadn’t sung anything from the moment we’d fastened our seatbelts. He was concentrating that hard. He tried to shift again. I jerked forward with it.
“Needs to be a smooth transition. Otherwise you’ll stall.”
No sooner had I said that, the engine died, drifting to a stop in the emergency lane. Brendon made a frustrated noise in his throat while turning the key again.
“Hey, Hakuna Matata, man. It’s not easy.”
“You’ve got to be the most patient Dood. Your kids are lucky you’ll be teaching them to drive.”
After a quick glance out the window, I said, “I’ve junked a lot of beaters in my day.”
Pfft. He ain’t gonna break this ten-year-old manual unless he slams headfirst into a brick wall goin’ fifty.
“Exactly.”
“You say something?” Brendon shifted into another gear. Smoothly this time. “Hey, I did it!”
I nodded. “Nice one. Try and get up to speed, though. If I were driving behind you, I would’ve flipped you the bird several times over by now.”
After he glanced at the speedometer, he cackled. “Didn’t even realize I was going twenty-five! I was just like, la la la!”
I rolled down the window, spit a gross wad of saliva out of my mouth and coughed. Smoker’s lung already? Sheesh.
“This must’ve been how James Dean felt.”
I leaned over for a second, ignoring the brand-new wave of pain skirting up my thigh. It was early that day. “Except James Dean went a lot faster than forty miles an hour.”
“I’m gettin’ there! I’m gettin’ there!”
Ask him about the Oxy, you idiot. If you don’t get more, you’re gonna go crazy. Well…crazier.
At Silas’ words, my hands flew to my injured knee and began to absently massage it. The pain originated just under the knee cap. If I pressed my thumb right between the joint, it would light me up like a Christmas tree.
“Almost time for another dose?” he asked, answering my silent prayer for acknowledgement.
“I’ve got another four hours before the next one.”
“Really?” He shifted again, the car shuddering up to sixty. “How much did you take this morning?”
“Ten.”
So far.
“Milligrams?”
“Yeah.”
He turned to look at me, concern written all over his face. “What’s your pain level right now?”
“About a six.”
Brendon turned the wheel to the right, making a slow trail to the edge of the highway. When we’d pulled to a stop, he killed the engine.
“Did you tell this to Lisa?”
I shrugged. “She’s been busy.”
His eyebrows drew low over his eyes. He puffed out his cheeks for a moment before sighing. “I have never seen a doctor so hell-bent on giving the lowest possible dose of pain meds when their patient is at a six.”
“Dude, I had to take my dose early at your party. That’s why I was in the closet.”
Instead of laughing which I expected, he turned back to gaze out the windshield while shaking his head back and forth.
“So, she gave you a bunch of ten milligram preloaded hypos.”
“Yeah.”
He looked at me again. “Dood, take thirty from now on. If your pain is that bad two hours after taking ten milligrams, you’re definitely not on the right dose.”
Okay. Maybe I like this guy after all.
June 1 – Jack Reynolds
He said he’d take care of it, but it didn’t sound like it was working very well. Brendon had been in Lisa’s office for an hour already that afternoon. I was just waiting patiently outside. Because he said he’d be able to get her to concede to thirty milligrams.
But like I said, it didn’t seem like she was going to do it. She kept her morals very close to her heart. Her job was to heal and do it without highly addictive substances. It was understandable, but frustrating.
When the door smashed open and he stood there with defeat written all over his face, I knew I was fucked.
“Bad news?” I asked as he shut the door behind him.
He turned to me, suddenly beaming. “I got her to agree.”
Right on! This guy keeps proving his skinny ass.
“But there’s a stipulation.” He put up one finger. “We have to try the corticosteroids again. Ready for a trip to Slumberland?” He smiled. “Mister Sandman, bring me a dream!”
Hell, anything was better than a throbbing knee. I allowed Brendon to lead me to a patient room. Mina entered shortly after. Jesus, Lisa wouldn’t even help with the procedure…
When they pushed down on the plunger, releasing the anesthetic into my blood stream, I almost felt it right away. My stomach dropped. Legs began to feel heavy…
The next thing I knew, my throat was burning. Buzzing filled my ears, vibrating my brain inside my skull. Warmth bloomed in my chest, quickly flushing to a white-hot spear in my heart.
Breathe.
Pressure built in my head until it felt like my skull would split. The heat in my torso spread to my toes.
Breathe.
Spasms began rocking my entire body, an unpleasant vibration crawled from my diaphragm into my spine.
Just. Breathe.
I couldn’t. My chest hitched. My lungs wouldn’t open. There was something in my throat. It blocked my entire airway. I tried to reach up to touch my face, but I was paralyzed. A painful but ticklish twinge in my lungs was all it took to spiral me into a panic.
My blood vessels were constricting. I could feel it happening. I couldn’t breathe. And if I didn’t soon, I was going to pass out.
Move.
The fingers on my right hand twitched.
That’s it!
I curled them, then uncurled them. The fist felt weak, but at least I could move. Next, I was able to lift my forearm from whatever surface I’d been lying on. It felt hard against my elbow. I noticed my back beginning to stiffen with cramps. A muscle in my shoulder blade contracted painfully. A muted grunt escaped past whatever was in my mouth.
My left leg twitched. I was gaining more control over my body. I flexed my core, resulting in a hard contraction of every single muscle in my midsection. Another, higher pitched grunt escaped me. But I was gonna force myself through it.
I bent my right leg at the knee as far as it would go, using it as leverage to further support my upper body into a sitting position.
The burning in my chest worsened. Black and gray spots swam in my vision. I felt lightheaded.
No!
Sweat pooled beneath me. My right arm flopped back onto the table, searching. In an attempt to stay conscious, I pinched my thigh hard. Somehow, that instant sharpness brought the colors back to the world. With as much strength as I could muster, I simultaneously pushed both palms and my right foot against the table and contracted my stomach muscles. Through the fire in my nerves and pressure in my brain, I was able to sit up.
To my surprise, my arms seemed to jump to my command. My hands flew to my mouth. As my fingers probed the long, rubbery tube extruding from my throat, my eyes popped open.
I’d woken up during the procedure.
And I’d been intubated. But where was everyone? The room was empty. Was I in recovery? Why was the tube still down my throat?
My immediate thought was to get it out, so I could feel the beautiful cool rush of air filling my lungs. My hands fumbled, slick with sweat. At first, the tube didn’t budge. It was as if my jaw was clenched too tight and my teeth wouldn’t let it through.
The dots reappeared in my vision. I pulled harder on the tube. My hands slipped again. Fog rolled over my brain.
No! Not like this!
My hands went back to my mouth. I grasped the excess tubing, wrapping it once around my right hand, and tugged hard.
A bolt of pain lit up a nerve-ending in my gums. I heard a whimper come out of me. I continued to tug. The tube was begi
nning to give.
Keep going!
Another flash of pain in my gums. Something warm and sticky began to trickle into my mouth around the tube. A bright red spurt of blood splashed onto my left hand following another whimper.
With a final yank, I watched one of my teeth land on the tiled floor with a soft tick.
A loud, muffled grunt made its way out of my throat as the tube finally dislodged itself. My lungs attempted to pull in whatever air they could. A sliver of oxygen passed through before my esophagus contracted around the tube. My empty gum socket stung.
My throat spasmed. I gagged. The tube kept coming.
I could feel the end of it, wriggling all the way down in my gut. That made no sense. That’s not how intubation worked. I knew that much. But all I could think about was the sweet relief the small amount of air had provided me. And so, I kept on pulling.
Blood filled the empty space in my mouth, the excess splashing down my chin and dripping onto my chest. I gagged again and got more air. More brain fog cleared. I continued, ignoring the cramps in my back, neck, shoulders and legs. Ignoring the instinct that something wasn’t right. Ignoring the new sharp punch of pain in my groin.
I’d pulled out a good foot and a half of tube when it stopped again. My stomach lurched. Panic flooded my brain once more.
No!
Why was it stuck? Where was it stuck? My grip on it tightened. It wasn’t my mouth or teeth stopping it this time. It felt like…it stopped at the bottom of my esophagus. Refusing to quit after getting so far, I pulled with all my might.
The end of the tube broke free from my stomach, allowing whatever was in it to follow right behind it like a traffic jam. I was going to puke, but at least I’d be able to breathe. Eager to see the end, I began pulling quicker and harder.
Only a few more inches. I could feel my previous meal knocking on my uvula’s door. And there it was! The end of the tube! Sheer relief washed over me in waves. The anticipation of a good breath was like a trip to Disneyland for a kid.
But it was short-lived.
Because it wasn’t vomit at the end of the tube.
It was my fucking intestines.
Oh, dear God!
Why did I keep pulling? My hands wouldn’t stop anymore. I had no control left. They just kept tugging at the rubber until I felt my own slimy innards. Sticky red blood coated my hands and dripped down my chin.
