THE WINTER AIR WAS FREEZING cold on Darby’s skin as she stood in the ambulance bay, but the adrenaline made it easy to ignore. She didn’t have to wait long. She’d been out there for less than a minute when she saw the flashing lights and the vehicle with the words Chicago Fire Department written on the side come barreling around the corner. The driver performed a well-practiced three-point turn in order to back it up to the door.
The doors began to open before it came to a full stop. One EMT was spread eagle on the gurney performing chest compressions on the patient. Darby recognized a second tech as he began to speak.
“Unidentified female in her late twenties. Suspected overdose, and evidence of freebasing on the scene. Track marks on her arm, but they don’t look fresh.”
“Who called it in?” she asked the EMT performing chest compressions. He paused just long enough to get the patient off of the truck, helping to lower the gurney. Darby looked down, wanting to see her face, needing to know whether she knew the patient.
Many of the overdoses that came into the ER—too many—were people she had seen before. She recognized Allison immediately—she’d been in more times than Darby could count. Allison had three kids who’d been in foster care for more than a year by then. One time, her eldest son had been the one to call it in. She remembered the day CPS had taken all three of them away.
Shit.
“The boyfriend, we think,” the EMT continued as they walked. She helped him wheel Allison into one of the more private rooms the ER reserved for critical condition triage. “He wasn’t at the scene when we arrived,” the EMT said flatly, giving Darby a knowing look.
“No.” Darby said emotionlessly. “It was probably her husband.”
She helped hook up the monitors but barely needed to ask the next question to find out what she could already see. Allison’s lips were blue and her skin was gray. She’d clearly been down for a while.
“How long?”
The EMT looked at his watch.
“Six and a half minutes since we found her. No heartbeat at the scene.”
She nodded. They’d done what they were supposed to do, which was to start CPR until they reached the hospital. Only at the hospital or by a coroner on the scene could a patient be pronounced dead, and everybody had to follow the procedure, no matter how futile the process was. Darby pulled out a pen light and lifted Allison’s eyelids. By then an ER nurse named Lucy had joined them and stood on the sidelines, charting.
“Pupils are non-reactive,” Darby said aloud. “Monitors show no heartbeat. Stop compressions.” She felt for a pulse, looked for movement and listened for breath sounds. She found none.
“Time of death…” Her eyes flicked up to the wall clock. “12:39PM.”
The room got quiet. Darby stared down at Allison’s face and remembered the faces of her children. The EMT who had been performing CPR for six and a half minutes caught his breath. The machines continued to hum.
“The patient’s name is Allison Handler,” she said, her eyes finally swinging to Lucy. “Call CPS, and the police. If her husband doesn’t turn up, they’ll need to track him down.”
She stripped off her gloves and threw them into the trash bin without looking, as she had a hundred times before. It wasn’t until she got back to her office that she let herself cry.
It didn’t escape Darby that from a mental health perspective, her career choice had been unwise. Sub-specializing in psychopharmacology placed her in a position to help addicts. It also placed her in a position to relive the trauma of her own mother’s death on at least a weekly basis. Losing any patient was hard, but losing a mother with kids messed her up every single time. The younger the kids, the worse it destroyed her. Allison’s youngest was still in diapers.
“Hello?” she answered her phone when it rang, so out of her own mind that it didn’t occur to her not to answer. She hadn’t even looked at the caller ID.
“Darby. What’s wrong?” came Michael’s alarmed voice.
“Nothing.” They both knew it was a lie. But a sure way to set herself off again would be to actually talk about it. “What’s up?”
“Nothing that can’t wait.” He sounded annoyed. “I asked you what’s wrong.”
“It’s nothing.”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“Michael, it’s nothing. I’ll be fine.”
“Have it your way.”
And then he hung up. She stared at the phone in abject surprise for half a minute—he’d never done anything nearly so rude. Then she dissolved back into tears at the realization that she had just alienated one of the only people who gave her respite. She reached across her desk to grab a Kleenex, because things were starting to get messy. When she pulled out of the box to find it crumpled in a way that told her it was the last one, she only cried harder. Some time later—she didn’t know how long—a loud knock sounded at her door.
“Come back later, please,” she called loudly and in a normal-enough voice, sniffling quietly a second after she’d spoken.
“Open the door.”
Her crying stopped that second. That was Michael’s voice. And since she knew he wouldn’t take no for an answer, she opened the door as he requested. He let himself in and closed the door behind him quickly, surveying her the entire time. He seemed to be looking for evidence of some kind, and finding none, he asked.
“What. Happened?”
“I can’t believe you came here.”
He closed his blazing eyes in frustration, and she could see it was costing him effort not to lose his patience.
“Darby…” His tone was warning.
“I lost a patient,” she said miserably and felt a fresh round of tears threaten.
“But you’re not hurt?”
She shook her head, and only then did he look relieved.
“You can’t do that,” he commanded, and not gently. “You can’t let me think something has happened to you and not tell me you’re okay.”
“I told you I’d be okay,” she protested weakly. She bit her lip and sniffled, but it was no use. Seconds later, she sobbed into her hands.
Through her tears, she heard him curse under his breath, and then he brushed her hands away from her face and pulled her into his arms. This, of course, only made her cry harder which only made him hold her tighter.
“It’s okay,” he whispered once, then twice, before her sobs quieted.
Finally, she pulled back, sniffling. He reached into his pocket and placed a handkerchief in her hand. Her eyes flipped up to his.
“You carry a handkerchief?”
He didn’t answer, but his eyes softened even more. She lifted it to dab at her eyes and noted, even through her stuffed up nose, that it smelled like him.
He’s never getting this back.
“Things between us aren’t supposed to be complicated.” She whispered.
This made him sigh.
“We’ve had this conversation,” he reminded her gently.
She put her head back on his shoulder, letting him hold her again until she calmed down completely.
“What were you calling about anyway?”
“To ask you out to lunch.” He kissed her forehead.
“Can we get sushi?” she asked.
“We can get anything you want.”