Beckett
January 1st
Zelda and I scrambled to our feet and yanked open the office door. A crowd gathered in the hall leading to the bathroom. I pushed through them, panic coursing through my veins, chatter coming at me from all directions.
“How long has she been in there?”
“Twenty minutes, at least.”
Twenty minutes, with people pounding on the door, and I hadn’t been one of them. A guy was fumbling with a screwdriver at the door to get the knob off. I shoved him aside.
Riding on pure adrenaline, I planted one foot and aimed the heel of the other just above the knob. The impact rocketed up my leg but the door banged open.
Darlene sat slumped like a ragdoll between the toilet and the sink, legs were splayed out. White foam bubbled out of her nose and mouth.
Jesus Christ, she’s dead.
I sank to my knees just as Wes muscled his way into the bathroom and crouched down with me. “We called 911. Look for a pulse, does she have a pulse?”
Both our hands slid on either side of her jaw. I felt a flutter beneath my fingertips and pressed deeper. “I got it,” I said. “I feel it.”
“So do I. She’s breathing.”
“Dude, what did she take?” I demanded. “Who gave it to her?”
Wes only shook his head. The people crowded in the doorway stared.
“What do we do?” His voice was verging on frantic. “I don’t know what to do. I only know what I saw in Pulp Fiction”
“Let’s get her out of here,” I snapped. Off the bathroom floor and away from the goddamn toilet.
We lifted Darlene out of the bathroom and laid her on the hallway carpet, her head in my lap. I used the sleeve of Mrs. Santino’s sweater to wipe Darlene’s face. Her lips had a bruised, bluish tint. Her shallow breaths stunk of something like vinegar. She moaned then, and her eyes fluttered open. The pupils were constricted to tiny black dots.
Heroin? I couldn’t be sure. Darlene hadn’t been a very loyal addict to any one drug, but dabbled in many. Too many.
“Darlene,” I said, driving my voice through her fog. I slapped her cheek lightly. “Darlene, come on. Wake up.”
Her head lolled toward me. “Becks.”
“I’m here, sweetheart.”
Her voice was a croak. “I can’t hold on…to anything. I try. I try so hard…”
“Shh, you’re going to be okay.”
Zelda knelt beside me, handed me a wet washcloth. I brushed Darlene’s hair back and gently wiped her face.
“Ambulance just turned down the street,” someone yelled.
Darlene’s head lolled on her chest. She dipped in and out of consciousness, crying softly in between.
Finally the EMTs bustled in, driving us out of the way. One shone a penlight in Darlene’s eyes and spoke in a loud, clear voice, giving his name as Julio and asking her what she was on. But Darlene had fallen under again.
“Does anyone know?” Julio asked the room at large.
“No,” Wes said. “We found her in here. We don’t know what she took, how much or who gave it to her.”
“Looks like heroin,” the second EMT said, his gloved finger touching the small leak of yellowish white that dribbled out of her nose. “Easy to snort too much.”
He let go of her arms. Her hands tumbled into her lap and rested there, turned up, palms facing the ceiling. My legs trembled and I stood over the scene, Zelda beside me, watching as the EMTs gave Darlene a shot of Naloxone. Her breathing evened a little and some color returned to her cheeks. Then they were strapping her on the gurney and wheeling her away.
I walked alongside, holding Darlene’s hand. I saw Zelda and reached my free hand out. Her fingers slipped into mine and held on tight as we took the service elevator down.
“An addict?” Julio asked.
“Recovering,” I said. I glanced down at Darlene, an oxygen mask over her mouth and smeared make-up streaking her cheeks like black tears. “Or relapsed.”
“Is she going to be okay?” Zelda asked in a small voice.
“She’s pretty stable,” Julio said. “Vitals are good. We’ll let the ER physicians make the call.”
The elevator opened and we stepped outside just as two policemen were exiting their squad car. They talked with the EMTs as Darlene was loaded into the ambulance. I started to help Zelda climb in but Julio stopped us.
“Only one person rides with her.”
Zelda hugged herself in the cold, worry etched into every delicate feature of her face.
“You go,” she said. “Go with her. I’ll see if I can help here and then meet you at the hospital. I saw Darlene talk to two guys earlier. Maybe they sold it to her? Or know something?”
“I’ll text you from the hospital.”
We exchanged a final look and then the ambulance door closed between us. Darlene was stabilized on the Naloxone, and the EMTs asked me for her personal information—full name, family to contact, and her drug history. I told them as much as I could, and felt like a traitor for it. But I couldn’t lie or hide it. The officials would know soon enough and Darlene’s parole might be extended or her restrictions would tighten.
Or she’ll go back to jail.
I squeezed her hand.
Darlene couldn’t do more time. She’d barely made it out of Bedford Hills after her last eighteen-month stint. She’d worked her ass off for a year to stay clean, and it’d all come crashing down in a single night.
Kyle, that fucker…
It wasn’t his fault but that didn’t stop me from wishing pain on him. I wished too, that Roy was Darlene’s parole officer. Instead she had some strict asshole who didn't care whether she lived or died, only that she did as he said.
I wondered if I could call Roy anyway. For advice, or to see if he could make things easier for Darlene—help get her into a better rehab plan or something. My wallet was tucked in my back pocket, but no phone. Of course. My phone was in my jacket, which was back at the loft.
Fuck.
The ambulance pulled into New York-Presbyterian Hospital. Darlene was swiftly wheeled into the ER and into a curtained-off cubicle. Julio pointed to a line of chairs against a wall and I took one.
And waited.
Finally, a doctor with a bald head and kind eyes emerged from behind the curtains. “Your friend is in fair condition but needs rest and observation. There’s nothing more you can do for her tonight.”
I wanted to tell him I hadn’t done anything for her. She’d fallen backward, hard, and I hadn’t been there to catch her.
A nurse approached and laid her hand on my arm. “Go home and get some sleep. Visiting hours begin at eight in the morning. Come back then and see your friend.”
I let her lead me away from the curtained partitions, and used the phone at the nurses’ station to call an Uber. I struggled to recall Zelda’s cell number but couldn’t, so I called my own phone, hoping Zelda had it. The call went to voicemail. I left a quick message and hung up to wait for my ride.
Outside, it was snowing, the large flakes blown by an icy wind into swirls and eddies against the dark, starless sky.