by Lily Jenkins
I don’t respond. What’s the catch?
“When you woke up this morning, you couldn’t even look at a car. Now you’re riding in one. On busy streets, no less. Going fast.” He takes my hand, cupping mine in both of his. Only his top hand isn’t empty. He’s pressing the keys into my palm.
“I don’t think we’ve hit your limit yet. I think you’ve beaten this thing. I think you can take us the rest of the way.”
I know it’s crazy, but I kind of want to, just to see if I can. But I’m worried I won’t be able to. I try to hand the keys back, and Adam shakes his head.
“Not until we find your limit,” he says. “I know you can do more. But we’ll go slow. Do you think, with the car parked and the engine off, that you could sit in the driver’s seat? Just sit in it?”
I nod. I know I can do that.
“Okay.” He unbuckles and is halfway around the car before I realize that this will require me getting out too. I unbuckle just as he’s opening my door. My legs are wobbly as I stand up.
What if I crash? What if I’m too shaky to drive and I crash?
The idea doesn’t feel illogical.
I shake my head. If I don’t feel up to it, I won’t drive. I’ll just sit and I won’t drive. But I know I can sit.
I sink into the driver’s seat. It’s still warm from Adam. I shut my door and look over at Adam with a queasy smile.
“See?” Adam says. “No big deal.” He buckles his seatbelt. I take a deep breath, then I buckle mine.
I put the key into the ignition. I pause a moment, not taking my hand off of the key. Then, squinting my eyes shut and giving a little yelp, I start the car.
I laugh nervously, looking over at Adam. He looks at me intensely, but his body is completely relaxed.
“Adjust your mirrors,” he prompts.
I roll my eyes at myself. “Right. It’s been a while.”
“You’re doing great,” Adam says.
When everything is ready, Adam handles the shifting for me. “There’s enough to think about without having to learn all this too,” he says. “I got this part. You just take this street to the beach, slow as you want. It goes all the way through.”
I look at him, asking with my eyes: How do you know this?
He gives a guilty grin. “I had Levi check on his phone while you were in the shower.”
“You had this planned?” I ask. “But how did you—I mean, what if I—”
“Erica,” he says solemnly, “I knew you could do this. You’re stronger than you realize. Now, I’ll be right here if you need me. You’ve got this.”
Okay. Okay, okay, okay. I can do this. I look out the windshield ahead at the empty road. I glance in my side mirrors, and my rear view. All clear. My hands are gripping the wheel tightly, the leather forming little indents in my skin. I test the gas pedal and the engine gives a corresponding vroom.
“I’m ready,” I tell Adam, and he shifts the car into gear. We start rolling forward slightly, and I—very lightly—press my foot on the gas. The car lurches ahead and I lift off my foot as if it were touching fire. Adam says nothing, patiently letting me find my own way. I try again, this time pressing down on the pedal with easy pressure. The engine purrs a little, and we start gliding along. It feels—it feels too fast. I take my foot off the gas and touch the brakes. We don’t slam to a stop but I feel my body being thrust into the seatbelt, and I almost stop right there, in the middle of the road, and chicken out.
But I don’t. I take a deep breath.
“You’re doing great,” Adam says. “Keep going.”
So I do. This time, I get the car moving at a steady pace. It feels so incredibly fast at first, and then I look at the speedometer and it’s barely ten miles an hour. I’m just glad there are no other cars on this road.
Gradually, I pick up a little speed. I haven’t been on this particular side road, but I know that we’re a good five miles from the beachfront. My confidence is building a bit, and we get up to twenty-five miles an hour.
“Almost second gear!” Adam yells with glee. He’s laughing, and I laugh too.
“I’m driving, Adam! I’m driving!” I must sound like a complete fool, shouting because I’m going as fast as a school bus chugging uphill, but it feels good! “I’m doing it! I can’t believe it!”
“I can,” Adam says. He looks up ahead and claps his hands. “Almost there!”
I see an empty parking lot about five blocks away. “I can make it,” I tell Adam. “I’m going to make it.”
I’m practically hopping on the seat, I’m so excited. Adam’s going a bit crazy next to me too. He’s peering ahead and then looking back at me, giving just enough attention to the car to shift us if necessary.
“All right,” he says, laughing. “Now slow it down and turn us in.”
I can’t believe it. I drove here. I drove here! As I turn into the parking lot, I see the ocean spread out before us on the horizon. We’re both laughing as I slowly roll the car ahead.
“If only Prickly Pete could see me now,” I say, and even though it doesn’t really make sense, it makes us both laugh hysterically. I’ve got tears in my eyes, and I hear Adam cough a little, he’s laughing so hard.
“Careful there,” I tell him.
He struggles to say something, and can’t through his laughter. We roll forward, and suddenly Adam coughs again. This time it shakes his whole body, and suddenly he’s not laughing anymore, just coughing. It sounds phlegmy and wheezy at the same time.
“Adam?” I ask. “You okay?”
His hand is at his mouth, and his eyes are shut as if he’s in pain. I want to turn to him but my hands are on the wheel. I tap my foot on the brakes so that I can help him, and we both lurch forward slightly. His hand goes down, and he coughs again.
He coughs a spray of blood that lands on the silver dashboard.
“Adam!” I scream, my foot coming off the brake pedal. He doesn’t respond—he’s still coughing too much. His face looks pale, like he can’t breathe.
Then there’s a major bump, and I look up to see that we’re rolling past the edge of the parking lot and onto the sand.
“No,” I beg, “not again.” A chill runs through my whole body. I put my foot on the brake and struggle with the stick shift to put the car into park. Meanwhile, Adam is fumbling with his seatbelt. He unlatches it before I can stop him and pulls open his car door.
“Adam, wait!” I call, struggling with the latch of my own seatbelt. The car is still running, the smell of exhaust wafting over us.
He stumbles out, takes a step and falls, his legs giving out. I scream for him again, my voice cracking. I unlatch my belt, throw open my door, and run around the front of the car.
There is Adam, his arms sprawled out, his body on the sand. He landed on his stomach, and he is facing away.
“Please,” I beg and rush over to him. I put my hands on his shoulder and give him a small nudge. “Adam?” I ask.
His eyes are open, but his pupils have rolled back into his head. There’s blood on his lips. I call out his name again but he doesn’t hear me. He isn’t moving.
I look around. The car engine rumbles, and the waves crash in the distance beyond. We are alone. I am helpless.
It feels like this is all happening again.
Then a wheeze comes out of Adam. He’s still alive, and this thought sobers me.
He’s not Conner. He’s not dead. I have to do something. I have to call for help.
But my cell phone is at home.
“I need your phone, Adam.” I pray that it’s on him, that he didn’t leave it behind too. I have to reach around him, feeling his pockets. The bulky shape of his wallet is in the pocket facing up. He’s leaning on his other pocket, pressing it into the sand. That’s where his phone is, and I’m not sure if it’s safe to move him, but I know it’s not safe to just leave him here, so I lean him back a little. It scares me how limp his body is. His arm falls back over his shoulder. “You’re going to be fine
,” I tell him, although I don’t know why. Maybe I’m telling myself more than him. “Nothing is going to happen to you.” I pull the phone from his pocket and carefully return him to his side.
I flip open the phone and am thankful it doesn’t have any sort of lock code. I suppose even phones with a password allow emergency calls though. I press 9-1-1 and put the phone to my ear.
Nothing.
Then I realize I have to press the green button to dial. While it’s ringing, I look down at Adam. I put my hand on his chest, trying to feel if he’s still breathing, if he’s still alive—
“Nine one one, what’s your emergency?”
It’s a woman on the other end with a nasal voice. I’m annoyed immediately that she sounds almost bored.
“Help!” I gasp. “I need help!”
“What’s the emergency, ma’am?”
I pause, wondering how I should describe Adam in relation to me. “My friend, he’s not breathing.” I realize this may not be true. I feel the faintest bit of breath come from Adam. “I mean, he’s passed out. He’s breathing a little. But it’s—there’s blood.”
I hear a keyboard clattering. “Where is the blood coming from?” Her voice is alert now.
“He coughed it up. We were in the car and—and laughing. Everything was fine. Then he started coughing and—oh my god—he coughed up blood and then fell over and wouldn’t wake up.”
“We will get your friend the help he needs. Now, who am I speaking with?”
“Erica. Erica Harper.” Then, after a moment of thought, “He’s my boyfriend. Adam.”
More keyboard clacks. “Where are you?”
I look up, seeing the car idling over the edge of the parking lot. I look to the street, then the ocean. Nothing is familiar.
“Um, I don’t know. We were on our way to Seaside. We pulled off.”
“What do you see around you? Are there any street signs? Do you have GPS on your phone?”
“No,” I say to the last question. I look down at Adam, reluctant to leave him. I touch his shoulder and then have to stand up, walking through the sand and onto the pavement of the parking lot. “I am right by the ocean. There’s a parking lot, but nobody’s around.” I scan the road. “Wait. I see a street sign. Hold on.”
I race through the parking lot and across the street, where on the opposite corner I see a bent street sign. I scream the street names to the operator.
“Good,” she says. “I am sending an ambulance right away. Now I need you to go back to Adam and help me to figure out his condition, and if there’s anything we can do to help before the ambulance crew arrives, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, my voice shaky. I recross the empty parking lot. All the details feel unreal: the sand in the corners of the lot, the cracks in the pavement with long wispy weeds growing out of them. The car is still idling. I know I should probably turn it off, but right now the sound is comforting in this silence.
I return to Adam. He hasn’t moved.
“What is his position? Can you tell me without moving him? I want to make sure he has a clear passage of air.”
“Uh, he’s on his side. His right side.” I’m not sure if this is important or not. “His eyes are—” I cringe looking at them “—they’re still open, but they’re, they’re rolled back.”
“Is his mouth open? Is he breathing?”
“His mouth is open a little.” I lean down to listen. His breath is slow and sputtering. “Yes, he’s breathing. But it sounds weird. Wet.”
“Is there vomit?”
“No.”
More clacking.
“Does Adam have any history of asthma, laryngitis, breathing or respiratory problems?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t think so. He had a sore throat earlier.”
“You mentioned driving. Was there an accident? Had he been injured beforehand?”
“No.” I think of Adam getting punched at the party. But that was in his face. That wouldn’t do this.
“Is he on any medications?”
Again, “No.” Then, “Not that I’m aware of.”
The operator, who introduces herself as Diane, stays on the phone with me while we wait for the ambulance. Adam is still breathing, but his forehead and hands feel colder than they should. Meanwhile, Diane asks me what seem like random questions. I’m not sure if these are procedural, or if she’s trying to keep me occupied so I don’t descend into panic.
When I hear the sirens, I stand up and start waving my hands in the air like a person stranded on a desert island, flagging down a plane. “Over here!” I scream. The ambulance races toward me and turns abruptly into the parking lot. The doors fly open and two EMTs race out. They ask a flurry of questions and I do my best to answer them. It’s hard to concentrate as they tend to Adam, feeling for a heartbeat, listening to his breathing, feeling his body and limbs for injuries.
They’re both men in their thirties. One has a mustache. He is trying to talk to Adam, shouting at him. “Can you hear me, Adam?” He takes his hand. “Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”
I look to the hand and see no movement. The EMT looks to his partner, and the partner nods. Then he goes to the ambulance to pull out a stretcher.
It’s so fast, after the span of time waiting for them to arrive. The EMT with the moustache notices the car and turns off the engine. He hands me the keys, and I barely see them as I put them into my pocket along with the cell phone. I don’t even remember the conclusion of the 9-1-1 call.
They load Adam into the back of the ambulance, and I climb inside with them. I’m directed to a small fold-down seat and instructed to buckle up. I do, watching in horror as they press an oxygen mask to Adam’s face, and then cut away his shirt to strap monitoring devices to his chest. This doesn’t feel real. This feels like a nightmare. Then they run a tube down Adam’s throat to feed him oxygen more directly.
The only comfort I have as we ride to the hospital is the sound of his heartbeat through the machines. I know as long as I can hear that constant beeping, Adam is still alive.
I am terrified the entire way, half expecting his heart to stop. For the line to go flat.
It’s only when we’re at the hospital, and the two EMTs are rushing Adam out that I realize I should be asking questions. I should ask what is going on. Will Adam be okay? Is he dying?
But I’m too afraid to ask. I’m not ready to hear the answers.
I am racing behind the stretcher as we go through the automatic doors to the hospital. A nurse is running along beside me, asking me another stream of quick questions. I answer what I can, but I’m little help. These people must think I don’t know Adam at all.
Do I know him at all?
There’s a long fluorescent hallway, and as they turn the stretcher through a set of double doors, I am stopped by a firm grip on my upper arm. I turn angrily and see a heavyset nurse giving me a stern look.
“Come this way,” she says.
“No!” I yell back, and tug at her grasp. She must be prepared for this, because she holds on tight.
“Only staff allowed beyond this point. There’s nothing you can—”
I scream out obscenities at the nurse. She takes them in with a blank face and puts an arm on my shoulder. She starts to pull me back the way we came.
“What’s wrong with him?” I ask her, my anger chilling into fear. I try to look back behind us, to somehow see through the double doors. “Will he be okay?”
“He is in good hands,” she says. “Now, the best thing you can do is let the doctors work. They don’t need you distracting them when they’re trying to help your friend.”
I stare back longingly at the doors, and then allow myself to be led back to a waiting area. This is not the main lobby. There’s a small desk here, a nurse’s station, and ugly gray chairs set out for visitors and family members. There’s a fake plant in the corner and greeting cards taped up along the front of the nurses’ desk. The nurse presses my shoulder down, sitting me
into a chair. She looks up at the desk and signals to someone that I’m to be watched.
My mind is spinning, unable to comprehend what is going on. One hour ago we were together. Everything was fine. Better than fine—it was great. I was driving, and we were laughing. We were going to be together no matter what. And now… it just doesn’t make any sense.
I sit a moment, then grow impatient. I stand up and walk to the nurses’ desk. An older woman turns to me. She has curly brown hair and painted-on eyebrows. She looks vaguely familiar.
“Erica?” she asks. “Erica Harper?”
She comes around to the front of the counter and takes in my state with pitying eyes. Without warning, she wraps her arms around me. I hear her voice muffled, asking me if I’m all right.
“My friend,” I say, pulling back. “He’s—is he all right? They won’t let me see him.”
I see her give a little sigh of relief that it is my friend that has the issue, and not someone closer. It’s then that I place her. She is a friend of my mother’s. Was. My mother hasn’t been keeping up with any of her friends. I glance at the nametag, and see her name is Mona. That sounds right.
“What’s his name?” she asks, going back behind the counter to a computer.
“Adam. Adam Lawson.”
She types it in, and then stares at the screen for a moment, her eyes darting. It takes all my resistance not to turn the screen around to read it for myself.
“He’s being x-rayed,” she tells me.
“Is he okay?”
“He’s stabilized.”
“Is that good?”
“It means he’s stabilized.”
I start to cry I’m so relieved. He’s not dead. Adam is not dead.
“It may be a while,” Mona tells me when I don’t sit back down. “Do you need me to call someone? Get you some coffee or water?”
I blink, unable to think. I’m just so exhausted.
“What about for Adam? Does he have any family to contact?”
I look at her, not able to say for the millionth time that I know absolutely nothing about Adam. I stumble back to the chair, my mind blank.
Adam. All I can think of is Adam. Picturing his body unconscious. Thinking of the blood on his mouth. I gasp. He didn’t just pass out. He had blood on him. Blood.