Trust (10 page)

THE MOMENT BEFORE WALKING INTO the hospital room was always the worst part of the visit.

Once Heather was inside, sitting beside her sister and chatting away, she was fine. She was comfortable. But it was just that initial moment — the moment of opening the door and seeing Phoebe in bed, so skinny and pale, almost
translucent
, hooked up to a million tubes and wires . . .

Whatever.
Thinking
about it wouldn't make it any easier.

Drawing in her breath, Heather forced herself to turn the knob.

“Hey, Feeb,” she said breezily, strolling across the linoleum floor, deliberately avoiding looking at the bed. She squinted in the morning sunlight as she placed a small potted African violet on the windowsill. “I saw this little plant in the gift shop. I couldn't resist it. See the tiny pink flowers?”

From under her covers, Phoebe looked over at the plant and nodded, managing a faint smile. “It's pretty,” she murmured. Her voice was hoarse, raspy.

Heather took off her coat and dropped her purse on the ugly vinyl armchair, then smirked. “Can you believe I actually bought a plant?” she asked.

Phoebe laughed. Almost instantly Heather felt better. The laugh sounded strong, almost like the old Phoebe. Was she recovering? Would she get out of this awful place sometime soon? Maybe if she did, Heather would feel ready to go back to her old life. With her old friends. She suddenly realized she hadn't talked to anyone but her parents, Phoebe, and Ed in the last week. It was scary. Of course, she didn't want people to feel pity for her just because she had a sister in the hospital. Pity led to avoidance — which led to loss. But still, she couldn't help but wonder, why hadn't her friends been calling her? Had she
already
lost them?

No. Of course not. Her friends were still there for her. She just needed to reestablish the connection. Anyway, a few of them
had
left messages, but she just didn't want to deal with them. Mostly they'd wanted to know about Sam. And this was neither the time nor the place to get hung up about it. She stood over the bed and smiled down at Phoebe.

“If the plant gets enough sun, it'll bloom all year,” she said. “That's what they told me.”

“Cool,” said Phoebe. “It'll be nice to look at.” She raised her blue eyes. At least
those
had some life in them — even though they were ringed by dark circles, even though they seemed so huge now in her gaunt, almost skeletal face. “So how's it going?”

“Oh, fine,” Heather said automatically. She pushed her long, dark hair over her shoulders. “It's chilly out there. I'm sick of this weather. Remember that year Mom and Dad took us to Disney World, and it was like eighty degrees in the middle of winter —”

“Heather?” Phoebe interrupted.

Heather blinked. “Yeah?”

“You look like shit. What's going on?”

For a moment Heather was startled. A little annoyed, in fact. But strangely, she was encouraged at the same time. If Phoebe was alert enough to notice that Heather was having a bad hair day, then Phoebe was definitely on the mend.

“I'm fine,” Heather lied. “What do you mean?” Phoebe pursed her lips. “Heather, I'm sick, not stupid. You're talking about the weather. You
never
talk about the weather.”

Heather laughed. But then, for some unfathomable reason, her laughter abruptly stopped. All of a sudden she started crying. What the hell was her problem? She was never this out of control. But the more she thought about it, the harder she cried. This was just great. She was having a mental breakdown in front of the sister who'd already suffered a mental breakdown of her own. For God's sake, she was here to put on a cheerful face. With a gasp of indrawn breath, she collapsed into the chair next to her purse.

“It's Ed,” she finally managed.

Phoebe's face creased with worry. She struggled to prop herself up against the pillows. “What about him? Did something happen?”

“No, no.” Heather shook her head and sniffed, shifting uncomfortably. She rubbed her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “It's just, uh . . . we kind of hooked up last night.”

Phoebe's mouth fell open. “
Really?
” she cried. The raspiness in her voice was gone. A smile spread across her face. “What happened? Tell me everything.”

A last tired laugh escaped Heather's lips. It was amazing how a little sordid gossip could revitalize a sick person. Oh, well. At least Heather's misery was serving
some
positive purpose. They should just get rid of all the IVs in this place and send people around to spread rumors. Then everyone would get better a hell of a lot quicker.

“There's nothing much to tell,” Heather finally admitted. “I mean, I went over to his place, and it just kind of happened. It didn't go very far, though.”

Phoebe peered at her closely. “You know what I'm going to ask next, don't you?”

“What?” Heather groaned. “Did we do the nasty?”

“No!” Phoebe laughed, then tossed one of her pillows at her sister. Unfortunately she was still so weak that it fell to the floor at Heather's feet. “What about
Sam?
”

Oh. Right. Heather hadn't even thought of that. Which pretty much summed up the situation. She shrugged. “I don't know what's going on with Sam. All I know is that I'm not happy with him. It's been building up for a while. And when I went to Ed's sister's engagement party, I suddenly realized that I still had feelings for Ed.” She wiped her face again. “I still want to be with him, I guess.”

“Wow,” Phoebe murmured.

One of the machines beeped softly. Phoebe glanced up. Her IV drip was empty.

“What is that?” Heather asked, mildly alarmed.

Phoebe frowned wryly. “Nothing. Glucose. They're trying to fatten me up. Like a Thanksgiving turkey.”

Too bad it isn't working
, Heather thought, but she kept her mouth shut. There was no quick fix to this situation. Phoebe's recovery was going to take a long, long time.

“So tell me more about Ed,” Phoebe prompted.

Heather hesitated. “I really didn't mean to dump this on you,” she said.

“Please,” Phoebe groaned. “It's not like I'm busy or anything. Besides, your problems are much more interesting than mine. Spill it.”

“Well.” Heather slumped back in her chair. “I don't know. I'm just really confused. I mean Ed is so excellent, so adorable . . . and a total asshole.”

Phoebe chuckled softly. “Two out of three isn't bad.”

Heather just moaned.

“So are you going to break up with Sam?” Phoebe asked.

“Yeah. Even if things with Ed don't work out, I know that Sam and I are through.”

“Great! Maybe I can have him.”

Heather jerked her head, scowling.

“Just kidding,” Phoebe wheezed. She laughed weakly, then started coughing.

All at once Heather's face softened. She started laughing and crying at the same time again. Jesus. What would she have done if Phoebe had died? They'd had so many ups and downs over the years, but recently Heather felt like they'd made a breakthrough in their relationship. They'd moved past the bickering-sibling stage. They were becoming
friends
.

And then Phoebe started wasting away before Heather's eyes.

“I hope you work it out,” Phoebe said at last.

Heather nodded. “Me too. But I don't know if that's possible. I don't know if
anything's
possible.”

MIKE OD'D. MIKE MAY BE DEAD. Mike . . .

Sam jumped to his feet. “Brendan!” he yelled. “Brendan! Get out here!” But there was no answer. Sam began to panic. They had one other suite mate, but it looked like he wasn't home. Sam raced to Brendan's room and pounded on the door. Nope. Sam was on his own.

Okay, okay. He couldn't lose control. He had to think straight. Each passing second further endangered Mike's life. He scrambled back to his own room, nearly falling on his face — then lunged for the phone across the ever present pile of books and filthy laundry. With his fingers shaking, he dialed 911.

“Emergency,” a female voice answered.

“My friend OD'd,” Sam whispered. His voice was quavering so much that the words were barely intelligible. “I need help.”

“Calm down, sir,” said the emergency operator. “Tell me where you are.”

“In the NYU dorm on Eleventh and Fifth. Fourth floor. Rooms four through seven.” Sam craned his neck, peering back into the common room. He was starting to hyperventilate. “Hurry! I think he's . . .” He couldn't bring himself to say it.

“We'll be right there,” she said.

Sam slammed the phone back on the hook and raced back to Mike. After carefully removing the needle, he stretched his friend out on the ancient, beer-stained carpet. Mike's breath was so faint and shallow that Sam could hardly detect it. He put two fingers on Mike's neck. Then he started rubbing and patting Mike's hands firmly.

“Mike, man, you screwed up,” he found himself muttering. “What the hell were you thinking? When did you —”

All of a sudden Mike's eyes fluttered, then rolled back in his head. His back arched slightly, then he relaxed. He quit breathing. His pulse was gone.

No. No. No . . .

Without thinking, Sam jumped up and ran to the suite door, flinging it open. “Help!” he shouted. “Somebody help!”

Again no answer. But it didn't matter. Sam knew CPR. And now he had to use it. He was premed, after all; he'd better get used to crises like this.His mind seemed to shut off as he darted back to Mike and went to work. Pinch nose, breathe out, count, breathe in . . . Where was that frigging ambulance? Sam breathed into Mike's mouth again, firmly and steadily, then sat up and compressed Mike's chest four times: one, two, three, four. Then another breath. Then chest compression.

“Come on, Mike,” Sam grunted, desperately fighting back panic. “Start breathing!”

One, two, three, four . . .

Mike gasped faintly. Sam repeated the technique. Yes . . . Mike had a pulse. Sam found himself grinning maniacally. He was doing this! He clutched Mike's wrist, unaware how much time was passing. All he knew was that the color of his friend's face was changing from waxy gray to a pale, sickly yellow.

There were pounding footsteps in the hall. Sam whirled around. Two paramedics burst through the door with a portable stretcher.

“His heart stopped,” Sam said faintly. “I did CPR. . . .”

“Good for you, kid,” one of the paramedics said.

Sam stood up and stepped aside so that the EMT unit could do their job. His knees were wobbly. He couldn't stop staring at Mike. He rubbed his forehead and his eyes, wishing he would wake up, that this bad dream would end. He'd started this day determined to fix his life — instead he'd wound up with his friend almost dying. And who knew what would happen to Mike now? Maybe he would be in a coma for the rest of his life. Maybe he would be a vegetable. Maybe Sam had been too late.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Time:
11:03 A.M.
Re:
Good morning

Hey, Ed —

So did you manage to get any sleep last night? I have to say, when you told me about the whole thing with Heather, I tried my best to deal with it. But do you really think that going after her is such a hot idea? She's hurt you. Needless to say, she can be a bitch. But you know all this. Anyway, write back. There's something I really want to talk to you about.

G$

 

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Time:
11:33 A.M.
Re:
No sleep

G$ —

You should really give Heather a chance. You don't know her. And who isn't a bitch at some time or another? (That wasn't meant to be a dis, even though it sounds like one. No offense.) Anyway, I've hurt her, too. I know, I know — you're probably wondering why I'm not being devastatingly witty as usual. I guess I'm too depressed. So what is it you wanted to tell me?

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Re:
No big deal
Time:
11:47 A.M.

Hey, Ed,

Don't worry about it. And you're right about the bitch thing. (No offense taken.) Just get some sleep. We can talk later.

A huge chunk of brick and cement exploded on the ground with a deafening crash — less than two yards away from her.

 

HOSPITAL MACHINE COFFEE WAS about one step up from horse piss, Sam realized. He swirled the scummy gray dregs of his third cup around in its plastic foam container. It probably wasn't the best thing to drink, considering the stress he was under. His stomach felt acidic, knotted with tension and fear.

He glanced around the emergency-room waiting area. He'd been here for about five hours already, but there were people who had been waiting longer than he had — people who hadn't seen a doctor yet. There was one young woman who kept puking into a plastic basin. Her skin was literally green. Her boyfriend kept complaining that she'd been here since this morning — pretty much to anyone who would listen. But still, the staff was too busy to see her. All around him, it seemed there was moaning. Children were crying fretfully or playing listlessly on the cold tiled floor. Talk about depressing. Did he really want to be premed and be faced with
this
every day of his life?

“Mr. Moon?” a strident voice called.

Sam turned to see an approaching African American woman in green surgical scrubs, a stethoscope hanging around her neck. She was flipping pages on a clipboard. She had a name tag: Dr. Burton.

“Yes?” Sam answered. He felt dizzy for a moment and realized he hadn't eaten anything all day.

“You came in with Michael Suarez?” the doctor asked.

“Yes.” Sam swallowed. “How is he? Is he okay?”

“He's not great,” she said matter-of-factly. “It looks like he's going to live, but we're not sure about any posttraumatic disability.” She shot him a hard stare. “Have you called his parents?”

“Yes,” said Sam, details swirling in his head. “They live in Florida. They're coming up as soon as they can. They'll probably be here late tonight.”

“Good,” said Dr. Burton. “And you've talked to the police?”

Sam shook his head, suddenly nervous. “No. What for?”

“They're going to want to talk to you about the drugs,” she stated.

“But I had nothing to do —”

“Shhh,” Dr. Burton soothed. “There's no reason to get upset. It's just procedure.”

Sam took a deep breath and nodded. He glanced down at his cup. “Okay,” he whispered. “I don't even know what he took. Was it heroin?”

“I'm afraid so,” Dr. Burton said.

“He . . . stopped breathing for a while. Is he going to be —” Sam ran his hands through his hair.

“We don't know,” Dr. Burton answered shortly. “But you saved his life. He's lucky you were there. You did everything right.” She flashed him a tired smile. “Maybe you should consider med school.”

Sam laughed hollowly. “Yeah, maybe. Can I see him?”

Dr. Burton shook her head. “I'm sorry, but hospital protocols dictate that we wait until his parents get here and give you permission. Why don't you go home, shower, eat something? Come back later, after his parents get here.”

“Okay.” Sam nodded.

Dr. Burton turned and strode back into the intensive care unit. All at once he was
sure
he'd never be able to be a doctor. No way could he carry himself with such calmness and detachment, surrounded by so much death and suffering every day. It took a certain kind of person — a very, very strong person. And intelligent. Not a sniveling little worm —

“Sam?”

He whirled around.
Oh my God
. The coffee cup nearly slipped from his fingers. He fumbled with it, splattering a few drops on the floor. He couldn't believe it.
Heather
was here.

“Did — did you . . . hear about Mike?” he stammered, baffled.

Heather frowned. “Who?”

Sam's eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?”

A weary smile crossed her lips. “That's right. I forgot you didn't know.”

“Know about what?” he asked, his heart bouncing.

“Phoebe's here. She has anorexia.”

“Oh, my —” Sam broke off. He shook his head, then awkwardly reached for Heather's shoulder. But his hand fell before he made contact. Things were just too weird; he couldn't bring himself to touch her. Not
here
. . . not now. “I had no idea.”

Heather shrugged. “I know. So who's Mike?”

“My suite mate, you know — Mike Suarez. He OD'd this morning.”

“Jesus,” Heather gasped. “I didn't know Mike did stuff like that.”

“Me neither,” said Sam. “He had a needle hanging out of his arm. And then he stopped breathing, and I did CPR. . . .” He shook his head. He felt removed and spacey, as if this were all happening on a blurred movie screen and he was standing apart from himself, watching.

“Oh my God. Sam, I'm so sorry. Will he be okay?”

Sam shrugged. “Dunno.” Heather didn't look so great, now that he thought about it. For once her hair was a total mess. And her eyes were red and puffy, as if she'd been crying. But of course, that made sense. Her sister was in the hospital.

“You look beat,” Heather remarked.

Sam managed a laugh. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

Their gazes locked, then Heather turned away, staring at the floor. “Listen, Sam, it's actually a good thing I ran into you. We really need to talk. Can I come see you after school Monday?”

He nodded. “Sure.”

“Good.” Without looking at him, she turned and exited the hall, quickly and quietly. Sam watched her disappear. Once he wouldn't have let her leave without hugging her, kissing her, smoothing her hair. Now he couldn't even bring himself to lay a hand on her shoulder. He didn't know what was happening in her life. He didn't know a damn thing about her.

They were strangers. Complete strangers.