by Mariah Dietz
“Why have I been hauling this shit around for so many years?” I kick the box and reach for my beer to drown the feeling of defeat. I thought unpacking was going to be like a prolonged Christmas where I would find timeless treasures and exciting memorabilia that would take me on journeys down memory lane. So far all I’ve come across is stuff that’s going to fill my garbage bin for the next nine consecutive weeks.
A rapid knock at the front door has me moving swiftly. On the other side is Rachel, her eyes wide with terror for half a second before she clutches my arms.
“Do you have an EpiPen?”
“What?”
“An EpiPen. I can’t find mine, and Hayden didn’t bring his backpack, and he’s having an allergic reaction, and he’s not…”
I don’t hear the rest, because I’m already ripping open the door of my truck and grabbing the medical kit kept beneath the seat. It takes me twenty steps to pass through her front door, and I count each of them just like I have for every other emergency I’ve responded to. Something about knowing what number is next helps balance me for the unexpected.
It takes mere seconds to locate my EpiPen and inject the small boy with swollen lips, puffy eyes, and blotchy skin, while delivering a quiet apology for the sting that is going to save his life. Lowering my ear to his mouth, I listen carefully while resting a hand on his chest. His breathing is too strained, prompting me to pull out my cell phone and place a call directly to the station.
“Rachel.” I speak clearly, my voice raised to ensure she can hear me, but calm in an attempt to not scare the little guy. “A man named Drake is going to answer. I need you to talk to him and tell him what happened.”
Shaking hands reach for the phone I’ve set beside me so I can aid Hayden. “All right, buddy, everything’s going to be okay. Remember to stay calm, and try taking deep breaths. I’m going to help you out. Breathe deeply, okay?”
His blue eyes are wild as he attempts to take everything in. Fear has already set in, and unfortunately, it’s nearly as bad as him consuming more peanuts. I tilt his chin skyward and suck in a deep breath before blowing the air into his mouth.
Rachel needs to get out of here and compose herself because her tears and pleas are only freaking the little boy out more, but I also need to make sure she’s telling the station the right information.
I’m still administering most of his oxygen when the sirens pierce the night air that seemed to fall silent the second I stepped out my front door. Rachel is back in the kitchen, her cries only marginally quieter. Still, I’m grateful she’s here because it allows me to remain in place while she answers the door.
“What do we have, DeLuca?” Drake’s familiar voice calls from the doorway.
“Get oxygen and some steroids.”
“On it.”
Drake drops a hand on my shoulder and shoves me to the side to let me know he’s at my side, ready to relieve me with a far more effective method. With well-practiced hands, he places an oxygen mask over the boy’s mouth and nose and calmly explains his actions. Drake is paramedic-trained like me, and while he’s had half a dozen complaints filed against him for his lack of bedside manner, he’s great with kids.
“Hayden, my name’s Coen. Sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier.” I set a hand on his shoulder. “This here’s my friend Drake.”
Hayden’s eyes are still wide with fear. I can’t blame him. Being stripped of oxygen is horrifying.
“I met your mom yesterday, and she told me you’re allergic to peanuts. We’re going to give you some medicine that will help you feel better, okay?”
His jaw flexes with a nearly invisible trace of fear, one neither Drake nor I mention. I’m not allowed to assist now that the team is here since I’m not on duty and they’re able to take care of him, but I remain by his side as Chester comes to his other side as support in case Hayden moves or tries fighting off the shot. While many believe fire is our biggest threat, it’s actually blood. We’re the first responders, and when nearly two thirds of our calls are medical which include drug addicts passed out in gutters and hookers who drink their weight in cheap booze to erase the demons they chase each night, we have to be really careful to not catch ourselves with a syringe if a patient starts going crazy.
Hayden grits his teeth but doesn’t move an inch as Drake injects him. While it’s a relief to not see him have to be held down, it’s almost more heartbreaking because I know he’s had to endure this before.
I’m impressed to hear the sirens of an ambulance. Sometimes it can take twenty minutes for them to arrive once we’re on a scene.
“DeLuca, are you attracting trouble?” I look up and spot Maggie, a paramedic I have worked closely with on multiple occasions.
She doesn’t wait for a response, just moves to Drake’s side to receive the report.
Once they have Hayden loaded onto the stretcher, Rachel reminds me of her presence as she appears at my side, her face tear-stained and shoulders rounded. I drop back, my thoughts of riding in the ambulance slowly disappearing in the breeze that is slight enough I feel almost nostalgic about the idea.
“He’s going to be fine,” I tell her.
She wipes at her damp cheeks with the back of her hand as she nods. “I can ride with him, right? They show that in the movies.”
My smile is gentle. “Yeah. It will help him to have you there.”
She cries harder. “It was some granola bar. I didn’t even know he had it. I don’t know where he even found it.”
Rachel doesn’t know me, therefore I’m certain my hand on her back offers little comfort, but I’ve never dealt well with tears.
“We got another call. It’s stupid day, apparently.” Drake stops at my side, lacking the white helmet he wears on a fire call that signifies him as a battalion chief. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Thanks for making it out so quickly.”
He’s halfway to his truck when he looks over his shoulder in acknowledgment. “I have a feeling this will be the easiest call of the night.”
Both emergency vehicles drive away, their lights and sirens blaring.
I stand in the driveway, adrenaline waning far slower than my desire to return to the plethora of boxes filling my house until I can’t see or hear the trucks anymore. This is the first time that I’ve been on the other side of an emergency in so many years. Having the shoe be on the other foot is uncomfortable and leaves me restless. After a call, I’m used to relying on my brothers to find the humor and good in situations as we drive back to the station or to the next call, and that need is so potent now as Hayden’s sad eyes fill my thoughts.
A white car speeds up the road and into the driveway. If I hadn’t been on my way to my own house, I might be road kill right now. Obscenities and accusations are pushing and shoving their way to the front of the line forming on my tongue, and then a familiar dark head appears over the top of the car that’s still running.
She leaves her door open and dashes for the house.
“He’s okay,” I call, moving toward her.
Ella’s head whips around; her blue eyes are bright as they quickly dance over me. In them is the same fear that had been present in her son’s eyes, and it sends another shot of adrenaline through me. “How do you know? Did she take him to the hospital? Where are they?”
“The ambulance left just a few minutes ago.”
She’s nearly to her car when she turns to face me, her eyes still bright. “Do you know which hospital they went to?”
“I’ll take you,” I say, realizing her driving is the largest risk for the town.
“I don’t need you to drive me. I need you to tell me where they took my son.”
“You can’t drive in your condition.”
“My condition?” she shrieks. “You’re about to see what kind of condition I’m in when some asshole keeps me from getting to my kid.” She doesn’t just look mad—she’s furious, and I’m the asshole keeping her from her kid, apparently.
; “I want to help you get to him, but you’re understandably upset—”
“I’m not waiting for a cab,” Ella says, cutting me off.
“Turn off your car. We can take my truck.”
She wants to argue. She wants to say no. She wants to get to Hayden more though because after two beats her shoulders fall and she stalks toward my truck.
“Where are you going?” she demands when I don’t follow.
“To turn off your car.” Freeing her keys from the ignition, I hold them between us and rattle them as proof before I grab her purse from the floorboard and shut the door.
Ella is already buckled in the passenger seat of my truck, her legs bouncing in unison to a level of frustration I can understand and have experienced on numerous occasions when it seems like we’ll never get to a call fast enough. But in this case, I know Hayden is safe. I would have insisted for myself or Drake to have ridden in the ambulance if he wasn’t. I also know how hard it is to consider even logic once you’ve amped yourself up as high as she has.
The light to get on the main road turns red well before we approach and her foot drums an impatient beat on the floorboard.
“He’s doing fine. The fire department gave him some extra steroids after the epinephrine and had oxygen on him.”
She gasps. “He had to have a shot of steroids?” Her high-pitched tone tells me I’ve failed miserably at attempting to console her. “Which station responded?”
I have to do a double take, curious as to why she would ask that question. “I called my station directly,” I tell her. “Why?”
She tries to shrug, but her muscles are so tightly wound they barely move. “Just curious.”
I don’t know her, but I know she’s lying. The dull tone of her voice, the attempt to appear uninterested, and the fact that it was even brought up all confirm the fact.
“I hope he doesn’t have to stay overnight. He hates being in the hospital.”
“I’m sure they won’t admit him. He’ll probably spend a few hours in the ER and be sent home.”
“I should have been there. I can’t believe this happened.” Ella drops her forehead into her palm like it weighs too much for her neck muscles to support any longer. “How did he even get peanuts?”
Words are struggling to connect let alone any that make sense, leading me to one of our catch phrases from the station. “I’m sure it was just an accident.”
Her head whips toward me, and before she unleashes the fury that single sentence has triggered, the hairs on my arms rise. “When it can kill him, there can’t be accidents.”
I’m caught off guard, waiting because I was anticipating so much more.
“That’s it?” I ask when she remains silent, her gaze focused on the darkened highway.
Her stare is as heavy as it was before but lacks the underlying anger. I turn to face her, my brows raised. “You looked like you were ready to go Hulk on me. You want to unleash the fury? It might be better to get it out before we hit the hospital.”
She turns, this time her movements slow and more pronounced. “I just need you to drive faster.”
5
Ella
My phone rings again. I know it’s Rachel. Guilt has had her calling me on the hour since I texted her to let her know they were discharging us.
With a deep breath, I silence the ringer. Exhaustion has even my hair feeling like it weighs too much tonight. There’s no way I can listen to her apologize more and fret over how the incident of Hayden’s allergic reaction occurred.
I know it was an accident.
My heart knows it was an accident.
Even my gut knows it was an accident.
Still, watching the tears run down Hayden’s face as they put an IV into his arm, and listening to his fears from the evening, has made it really hard for me to accept that the accident happened. So I text her.
Me: Sorry. Hayden’s asleep, and I decided to lie down with him.
I don’t have to fib and say he asked me to sleep next to him. She knows how I worry about him on nights that aren’t spent in the ER until after 10 p.m.
She sends me another apology along with wishes for a good night’s sleep, though we both know they won’t be granted.
Hours pass too slowly. Ones filled with my hand on Hayden’s chest, counting his breaths, and of making notes and plans for the Weile account, and doing more research to ensure I know every minute detail of cars and how Weile intends to set themselves apart with using another new form of alternative energy that won’t use carbon fuels until my eyes blur and burn.
I groan with objection when the blue walls of Hayden’s room begin to lighten. While I knew I wouldn’t get much sleep, I was hoping to catch a few intermittent hours to ensure I wouldn’t be in zombie mode, but sleep has been a myth tonight. Burying my face into a pillow and squeezing my eyes tightly shut, I wait for exhaustion to carry me to sleep, knowing that just a mere hour will help.
It feels as though my eyes have just closed when Hayden shifts and sits up, wide awake. “Hey, Mom.” He rubs his eyes, his voice chipper.
“Morning, baby. How are you feeling?” I sound like a giant frog with a cold.
“Good.” He sits up farther. “My arm’s kind of sore, but other than that, I feel good.” His reassurance makes my sleepless night easier to take when he proclaims he’s hungry for pancakes.
I’m grateful it’s Saturday. There was no way I would be comfortable with him out of my sight when he could still experience possible side effects from his allergic reaction. I should be feeling at ease. Hayden is okay. I’m now ahead with work from being up most of the night. We have the entire weekend together. Still, I can’t settle the restlessness that’s festering in my mind and stomach.
“Blueberry?” I ask.
“And whipped cream?”
“You cancel out the fruit when you put that stuff on it.”
“Aunt Rachel says pancakes are essentially mini fried cakes anyways.”
“Is that supposed to help your argument?” I raise my eyebrows at his balanced expression. “’Cause it’s not.”
He drops his shoulders, and his lips follow suit, along with his distinct eyes. “Please?” he begs.
“I might even have some bacon left.” I relent, pulling the blankets free with a single swoop. There wasn’t a chance I was going to say no to the whipped cream even without the puppy dog eyes. Not this morning, at least.
Shakespeare and Hayden cuddle under a large fleece blanket on the couch while I free the coffee grounds from the freezer so I can make what will likely be my first of a half dozen cups of coffee. The scent alone has my mind and muscles relaxing, and it furthers when Hayden giggles loudly at the cartoon. Even Shakespeare appreciates his laugh, her nose digging into the crook of his neck, knowing it will prolong the sound.
I slot the first round of bacon onto a pile of paper towels while the pancake batter rests, waiting for a hot griddle to create the scents of vanilla and blueberries to join the aromas, when the doorbell rings. Guilt swims through my belly as I head to answer it, knowing I should have texted Rachel before cooking breakfast.
An apology is already spewing from my mouth as I pull open the door but ends mid-sentence at the sight of Rachel’s new neighbor wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and sweat-dampened white T-shirt that clings to his chest, revealing defined planes of muscles. His name completely eludes me as I stare at him, wondering why he’s here and how to prevent Hayden from seeing him. After all, it seems like really bad parenting advice to admit I got into a car with someone whose name I can’t remember.
His brown eyes are wide, moving from my graphic tee, to my face and though I don’t know him—not a single thing other than where he lives and his occupation—I know his eyes are reflecting humor though his lips are relaxed. “I just wanted to come by and make sure everything went all right last night.”
Was his voice this deep yesterday?
His raised brow makes me blink back thoughts. “Yeah. Yes
.” I shake my head for correcting myself, and take a controlled breath. “He slept well and seems to be back to his old self.”
And because my life serves as the headlining joke of some greater power, my smoke alarm blares from the kitchen, sending the fireman on my doorstep into action without delay or question.
“You don’t have to … it’s just burnt bacon!” I call, following him into the house.
Shakespeare circles him, barking loudly at the stranger while jumping on him, her ninety pounds nearly knocking him off balance as he reaches for the offending smoke alarm.
“Shakespeare!” My voice is lost in the chaos. “Shakespeare!” I yell loudly to distract her for a second, allowing Hayden to grab Shakespeare’s collar and pull her back.
It takes me a full three seconds to realize the wailing of the alarm has stopped and Rachel’s neighbor is staring at me, likely realizing I was gawking as his shirt stretched across his broad muscles while he reached for the smoke detector and removed the battery.
“Coen?” Hayden’s small voice has us both turning. My son sounds in awe of this man, and he’s too young to be idolizing Coen for his abs or quick call to action.
“Hey, little man. I just came by to check on you. See how you’re feelin’.”
I hate that I like everything about this way too much. From the way Coen is looking at Hayden with earnest attention to his voice being compassionate and warm to the fact that he just called him “little man” when Hayden’s own father never uses terms of endearment.
“I feel great.” Hayden smiles his shy grin that makes my heart grow warm and my lips involuntarily curl. “Thanks to you.”
My smile becomes a gape. I blink rapidly, as if clearing my vision will help me understand what my son just said. “Thanks to you?” I repeat.
“Didn’t Aunt Rachel tell you? Coen came over to help me last night.”
Thoughts are ricocheting off the previous ones so quickly not one registers. I’d assumed she had helped him. When she called to tell me they were taking him to the hospital, never had the idea that her neighbor—whom I barely know—had come over to administer help. Feelings of betrayal, confusion, anger, sadness—even hurt are wrapping around each of the thoughts still working to be understood, making them even more difficult to decipher. “Yeah. Yeah, I just…” Had no idea! “…total brainfart.” The words leave me before I can stop them, and my cheeks redden, already regretting that I said the word “fart” in front of the man who not only has abs I could climb like a ladder visible through his damp shirt but saved my son.