his throat, knows he’s envisioning blood and ropes, guns and pills, the same images that are filling her own brain with graphic intensity.
“They wouldn’t tell me.”
“Is she . . . will she be okay?”
“They’ll be taking her to Swedish. What do you want me to do?”
“I’ll cancel the Uber. Come get me.”
“On my way. She’s in good hands, Braden.”
He’s waiting in the driveway, shaking so badly he can’t get the door open. Phee leans over and opens it from the inside. As soon as he’s in, she throws her arms around him, and he grabs on to her as if she’s a life preserver, his cheek pressed against her hair. He begins to weep, and Phee feels her own grief and guilt and fear cresting along with his.
He needs her, though, and she forces herself to breathe. A long inhale, a controlled exhale. Slow and easy. Gradually, his trembling eases, his breathing slows and steadies to match hers.
“Thank you,” he sighs, releasing her, blotting at his eyes.
Phee blinks hard to clear her vision, then puts the car in reverse. They are silent all the way to the hospital.
“What if . . . ,” he begins as she pulls into the parking lot.
“Shhh,” she answers. “She’ll be here. Don’t even think it.”
She reaches for his hand, and his fingers clamp around hers so hard it hurts.
ER reception is small and crowded. Two women sit in chairs side by side. A man talks to the receptionist, a bloody towel wrapped around his arm. A set of official-looking double doors are posted with a sign: Staff Only. Another door is marked Family Room.
When the locked doors open and a woman in scrubs helps the guy with the bleeding arm into a wheelchair and then back into the ER, Phee holds Braden back, feeling his muscles tense as if he’s going to make a break for it.
“How can I help you?” the woman behind the desk finally asks, her eyes weary but kind.
“We’re looking for our daughter,” Phee says, low and steady. “We understand an ambulance may have brought her in.”
“Name?”
“Allie Healey.”
The woman frowns, taps a few keys.
Braden fidgets while the woman consults her computer. Phee squeezes his hand, her own heart accelerating in an agony of impatience.
“Oh, here we are. You can wait in the family room. I’ll buzz you in.”
“How is she?” Braden asks. “Can you tell me anything?”
“Please wait in the family room. A doctor will be in to talk to you shortly.”
A buzzer sounds, and Phee opens the door and pulls Braden through behind her. The family room is mercifully empty, with the exception of a young woman trying to soothe a crying baby. There are comfortable chairs, magazines, coffee, and Styrofoam cups.
“God, Phee. I can’t.”
“She’s here, they’re taking care of her,” Phee says. “Try to believe in the best.”
If only she could follow her own advice.
Braden paces, staring at the door on the other side of the room, as if willing it to open. Phee sits in a chair, focuses on her hands in her lap, her feet on the floor.
Was the receptionist trying to keep something to herself or just being professional? If Allie was okay, maybe she’d have said something. Maybe waiting in the family room like this means the worst has happened.
Braden comes to sit beside her. He’s barely holding it together, she can tell.
“Hey,” she says, a hand on his forearm. “Hey. Stay with me.”
“Panic attack,” he says through stiff lips. “I don’t have time for this shit. I need to be here for her.”
“Breathe, Braden. Slow it down.”
She puts a hand on his chest and wills calm into him. Little by little, his breathing eases.
“What if she dies, Phee? I don’t think I can—”
“She’s not going to die.”
Please make it true, she thinks. Please.
The door opens, revealing a woman in surgical scrubs, blonde hair escaping from a clip that tries to hold it back. Both of them get to their feet, linked together by their hands and a single indrawn breath.
“Mr. and Mrs. Healey?”
Braden nods. Clears his throat but doesn’t speak.
“I’m Dr. Javitz.”
“How is Allie?”
“She overdosed, Mr. Healey. She’s responded to the naloxone—that’s something that counteracts an opiate overdose, so that’s encouraging. We’ve pumped her stomach and she’s breathing on her own. We’re running a tox screen, but it would be helpful to know what all she took.”
“I—I have no idea. She’s going to be okay, right? Please tell me the truth.”
“Do you have any prescriptions she might have taken?”
“None. I . . .