“Has her blood work come back yet?”
“No narcotics that we pick up.”
“What are the side effects of the gas?”
“A very unpleasant headache for the next few days, some general weakness, maybe disorientation, congestion, shortness of breath—it all depends on how much she actually took in. We cleaned her out thoroughly.”
“Was she conscious when she came in?”
“Semi. But she keeps going in and out. Typical.”
“Is the person who brought her in still here?”
“Don’t know. The psychiatrist on call can fill you in. She won’t be in till later today, but she feels an involuntary hold is definitely called for.”
“What’s her name?”
“Dr. Embrey. You can leave your card with the front desk or the triage nurse and ask them to give it to her.” Pulling his stethoscope off, he walked to the next door. I pushed Lucy’s open.
She was in bed, eyes closed, breathing through her mouth, hands flat on her thighs. Her hair had been topknotted with a rubber band. A plastic bag of something clear dripped into her veins; oxygen hissed into her nose from a thin tube that ran from a pressurized tank. A bank of monitors behind the bed beeped and flashed and gurgled, trying to quantify the quality of her life.
Her vital signs looked good, the blood pressure a little low. Her face was sweaty but her lips were dry.
I stared down at her, replaying our sessions, wondering if there had been warning signs.
Of course there’d been, genius. All that shame and rage.
Confession gone very sour.
Nothing to indicate she’d go this far, but what the hell did I know about her?
Out of my hands now. She was in the system, locked up for three days. More, if the psychiatrist convinced a judge she remained a danger to herself.
A woman psychiatrist. Maybe it was what she needed. God knows I wasn’t her savior.
She made a deep snoring sound, and her eyes moved under swollen lids.
More fragile than I’d thought.
Was her summer as a prostitute the cause or, more likely, a symptom?
I wondered if everything she’d told me was true.
For all I knew, her father was really a truck driver from Bell Gardens, no closer to fame than a subscription to People.
Who’d brought her to the hospital?
Who’d pulled her head out of the oven?
Her eyes opened partially. She tried blinking but couldn’t. I moved into her field of vision; at first she didn’t focus. Then I saw her pupils dilate. One hand moved, the fingers stretching toward me. Suddenly, they dropped.
I took hold of them. Her mouth shifted, struggling for an expression, finally settling on weariness.
I smiled down at her. She gave a feeble nod. The oxygen tube fell out of her nose, the hiss growing louder as precious gas leaked.
I replaced it. She licked her lips, and her eyes opened completely.
Trying to talk, but all that came out were wordless croaks. Tears in her eyes.
“It’s okay, Lucy.”
She fell back. Her fingers grew cold and loose.
For the next twenty minutes, she slept as I held her hand. A nurse came in, checked her, and left, closing the door hard. Lucy woke up with a start, systolic pressure jumping.
Panic in her eyes.
“You’re okay, Lucy. You’re in the emergency room at Woodbridge Hospital, and you’re doing fine.”
She started coughing and couldn’t stop. The oxygen line flew out again. Each spasm lifted her from the mattress, an involuntary calisthenic that tightened her face with pain. She coughed harder and spit up vile-looking gray mucus that I wiped away.
When the coughing stopped, I put the line back.
It took a long time for her to catch her breath.
“What,” she said, very softly and hoarsely, “happen?”
“You’re in the emergency room. Woodbridge Hospital.”
Confusion.
“What’s the last thing you remember, Lucy?”
She gave a mystified stare. “Sleeping.”
Her face screwed up and her eyes closed. More pain—or shame? Or both?
The eyes opened. “Hurts.”
“What does?”
“Head.”
She moaned and wept.
I checked the contents of her IV bag: glucose and electrolytes, no analgesic. I pressed the nurse call button. A bark came through a wall speaker. “Yes?”