“Overdosed.” I stared at him stupidly, unable to comprehend what he was so obviously implying.
“Her friend called 911 when she found her unresponsive. We believe she took Xanax, as well as a great deal of alcohol, which is a particularly toxic combination. Fortunately, the paramedics gave her activated charcoal at the scene, and we were able to pump her stomach as soon as she came into the ER.”
I shook my head slowly, as if to deny what he was saying. “But…”
“Her friend wanted us to call you. She found your contact on Emma’s phone.”
I swallow dryly, trying to assemble my scattered, spinning thoughts. “And now…? Is Emma…?”
“She’s stable now, and our hope is she’ll regain consciousness in the next twelve hours.” The doctor paused, looking dutifully sympathetic; he couldn’t have been more than thirty. No doubt he’d drawn the short straw when it came to being on call over the holiday. “In these situations, we require the patient to see a mental health worker for an assessment before she is discharged.”
“And when would that be…?”
“Depending on when she regains consciousness, in the next day or two.”
“And then she can be discharged?”
“Hopefully, depending on the assessment.”
I stared at him, his bland face, his ruffled hair. He was trim and attractive, like he’d walked off the set of Grey’s Anatomy. I couldn’t quite believe he was a real doctor, that I was really here. “May I see her?” I asked after a moment where we’d simply stared at each other.
“Of course.”
A slight, young Asian woman was sitting by Emma’s bed as I came into the room. Startled, she rose when I opened the door. I stared at her blankly.
“I’m Sasha,” she said.
“Oh, of course.” I nodded, still feeling as if I was catching up, as if there was a three-second lag to every thought. “Thank you for…” I paused, took a breath. “Calling 911.”
Sasha nodded hurriedly, already sidling to the door. “I’ll leave you alone…”
“Did you know Emma was… depressed?” I asked, my tone a bit too urgent, and she shrugged unhappily, one hand on the doorknob.
“Sort of? She seemed stressed. But everyone does. It’s practically like a competition.” She nodded towards my daughter lying so still in the hospital bed. “I didn’t know she was like this. Thinking about it seriously. I mean… everyone talks about it.”
“About killing themselves?” My words were laced with pointed disbelief.
“Joking, like. Because of the stress. It’s just how it is.”
I shook my head, and Sasha opened the door.
“You’ll want to be alone,” she said, and then she was gone.
I sank into the chair next to Emma’s bed. Even in sleep she didn’t look peaceful. Her arms were pale and scrawny, against the hospital sheet, and as I looked closer, I saw hatching marks on the inner side of her elbow—self-harm marks. Lots of them.
I let out a shuddering sigh and closed my eyes. I didn’t feel strong enough for this, and yet I had to be.
I spent the night in that chair, half-dozing, jerking awake every few minutes to look down at my daughter. In my mind, a montage of bittersweet moments played relentlessly—Emma as a baby, born three weeks premature, yellowed, wrinkled, and tiny. As a toddler, determined to walk, pushing my hands away, the look of almost grim focus on her little face cute and yet perhaps telling. Emma in sixth grade, spending hours on a science fair project, winning second place. We were so proud, but she shoved the whole project—a model of a space station—in the basement and never looked at it again. She won first place the next year. Emma in eighth grade, with her beauty emerging from awkwardness, self-conscious about her braces, going to a father-daughter dance with Nick. The photo of them dancing together is on our living room mantelpiece.
Then, more recent images—Emma in tenth grade, on a ski trip, all rosy cheeks and long, dark hair; the eleventh-grade prom, absolutely gorgeous in a strapless red ballgown, her date, Rory, doting on her arm, even though Emma insisted he was just a friend. Emma the day we dropped her off at Harvard, a poignant mixture of confidence and nerves. She’d worn a bright green corduroy jacket that was her new college look, and she kept adjusting the lapels, unsure if it was really her or not.
When we’d driven away from her dorm, Nick and I had both struggled not to cry. “It’s just that I’m so proud,” he kept saying, and then sniffing.