Live For This

by Kathryn R. Biel

  The bastards are going to pay. As the bus rumbles through the Lincoln Tunnel and up I-87, Chase, Scott, and Todd are being greeted by the police. Put in handcuffs. Finger printed. Mug shots.

  I know this is just the beginning. The woman from the DA’s office explained the timeline. It could take up to a year to go to trial. They will try to keep my name out of the media. I don’t have high hopes for that. I know my name and face will be splashed across the Internet. I need to go online and deactivate all my social media sites. I can only imagine what photos will be used against me. The police gave me the name of a counselor to help deal with everything that’s about to come my way.

  I did it. I got through it. And as hard as the last few days have been, I feel lighter. The weight that’s been crushing me is somehow lighter. I can’t wait to get home and tell Michael. Well, to sleep and to tell Michael.

  I finally feel like maybe now I can move forward. I still don’t get how everything will work. I don’t think I need to figure it out right now. All I know is I need to be around Michael.

  I did it.

  The bus ride feels about four times as long as it did to get down to New York. Even sleep doesn’t help the time pass. Once in the dimly lit bus station, I have to wait for a taxi. This whole weekend set me back financially between the bus tickets, food and hotel room, but it will be worth it in the end. I hope.

  I can’t wait to tell Michael all about it. I hope he’s proud of me. I know he will be. That’s an odd thought—seeking and receiving someone’s approval. I haven’t had that in a while. Of course, I haven’t deserved it in a while either.

  There’s even part of me that thinks, when all this is over, I’m going to find my father and find out why he’s been such a shit to me. That’s down the road. I can only handle one challenge at a time.

  The house is dark. Completely dark. That’s odd. Michael must be out. It takes me a minute to remember what day it is—Sunday. He should be home. Entering through the garage, I see his car is here. Maybe he’s in the bathroom or something.

  I flick the light on in the laundry room as I come in. It gives me enough light to see into the living room. I wonder where Michael is. Maybe Mitchell took him somewhere. I know Michael prefers to drive because he has his system for getting the chair in and out of the car. It’s thrown off when he has to figure out a new car. Michael has his systems for pretty much everything. I guess he has to. I wonder if he was like that before the accident, or if his physical needs have dictated that sort of lifestyle.

  Thinking about the stuff he told me, it’s a lot. And it would have scared me off before. Like it did with my mom. I don’t know if I can ever come to terms with leaving my mom alone when she must have been so scared. I’ll have to figure out some way to deal with that. In my head, I sort of feel like if I’m here with Michael, and can help him out, it somehow makes amends for leaving my mom. I know it’s convoluted reasoning.

  After using the bathroom, I dig out Michael’s cell phone number. He gave it to me a long time ago. I haven’t used my phone and now it’s in custody for evidence. I picked up a TracFone so I can still call Michael whenever I want. I dial Michael’s number. I’m surprised to hear his cell phone ringing in the house. It sounds like it’s coming from the kitchen.

  With the phone pressed to my ear, I follow the sound of his phone. Flicking the kitchen lights on, I see him. He’s at the table, face down. His cell phone is lit up and vibrating next to his head. He’s not moving.

  Time freezes and accelerates all at the same time. I don’t recognize the screaming as my own at first. “Michael! Michael! MICHAEL!” I’m at his side, kneeling down next to him. Shaking him, feeling his forehead. Feeling for a pulse.

  But I don’t know how to feel for a pulse, and I don’t feel anything.

  Oh my God, what do I do? He’s not responding. Oh God, is he dead? What if he’s dead? Oh my God, what do I do?

  His phone is still ringing because I haven’t disconnected my phone yet. I dropped it on the other side of the kitchen. Still on my hands and knees, I scramble across the floor. My hand hits the phone, and it slides away, just out of my reach. I lunge again, this time grasping the phone. I end the call and then dial 9-1-1.

  “Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

  “Oh my God, please help. I don’t know if he’s breathing.”

  “Ma’am, please calm down. What’s the problem?”

  “I came home, and he’s face down on the kitchen table. I don’t know if he has a pulse or if he’s breathing. Please help!” The hysteria is rising in my voice.

  “Can you roll him over? Check his airway?”

  “I can’t. He’s in a wheelchair. He’s paralyzed, like from the chest down. T-something. Four. That’s it. He’s a T-4.”

  “Ma’am, EMT is on the way.”

  She asks me to confirm the address, which I do. Then she asks, “Can you tell if he’s breathing? Can you tell if his heart is beating?”

  I crawl back, not even possessing the strength to stand. As gently as I can, I slide my hand up under his arm and place it lightly on his chest. Faintly, I think I feel something. “I think his heart is beating. It’s hard to tell.”

  “Okay, ma’am. The ambulance is approaching. Can you go let them in?”

  I nod, which of course she can’t hear over the phone. Even though I should expect it, the knock on the door startles me. I disconnect the phone without saying goodbye and rush to open the door.

  The paramedics start asking what happened.

  “I don’t know. I was away for the weekend and when I got home it was dark. I didn’t think he was here. I called his phone, and that’s when I found him.”

  They start assessing the situation. Within a few seconds, Michael’s stretched out on the gurney. There are two of them and they’re working quickly. Words are bandied about that mean a great deal to them but nothing to me.

  “Is he alive?” I ask softly, afraid at what they’re going to say.

  “Yes, ma’am, but barely. We’ve got to transport immediately.”

  They start firing questions at me about his health and his medications. I see them looking at the table, and it’s then I notice all his pill bottles lined up. I know he takes a lot of medication, but I’ve never seen them all lined up like that before. What was he doing with them? Was he getting ready for the week?

  “I don’t know a lot about his medical condition. I’m …” I falter. What am I? “I’m just his roommate. I can call his mother. She’ll know.”

  “You may just want to have her meet us at the hospital.”

  I run to my room, grab my purse, and then snatch Michael’s phone as I’m following the paramedics and Michael out the door. In the ambulance, they continue to work on him, and at one point, something happens. They start administering CPR. They’re still performing CPR as the ambulance comes screaming into the ER. It’s the same hospital where Michael took me the first day we met.

  I never thought we’d be back here.

  *******

  I’ve done all I can. I called Mrs. Salinger. I called Mitchell. They’re with him now. That’s what he needs. They were able to shock Michael’s heart into beating again. They’ve put a breathing tube down his throat. I left before the doctors told the family what happened. I’m not part of the family, so I don’t deserve to know.

  Part of me wanted to stay. But seeing the family, huddled together, holding hands—I knew I didn’t belong. This was my fault. If I hadn’t gone to New York, I would have been there when he got sick. I could have taken him to the doctor. But no, yet again, I put myself before anyone else. I don’t deserve him. I don’t deserve to sit with his family and worry.

  I start walking back to the house. It takes me almost two hours to get there. Not that it matters—I’ve nothing to do anyway.

  Walking back in the house, I’m overcome with the most incredible feeling of despair. More than when my mom died. More than when my dad kicked me out. More than when I rea
lized I had been raped.

  How am I going to go on if Michael doesn’t make it?

  I can’t go through this. I can’t lose someone else that I care about. Michael is all I have in life. The house is empty without him. It’s as if he’s already gone. I should leave. It’s not my place to stay here. But I can’t. Because once I leave this house, I’ll be on my own again, and Michael will be only a memory. Fading away. Like my mother.

  The paramedics made a mess of things. I can at least clean up before I go. I can’t believe this is happening. Michael gave me the strength to face my past. To try to get justice. I can’t go through it alone. I can’t do it without him.

  I can’t do anything without him.

  I can’t live without him.

  I’m not strong enough.

  The thought hits me and I sink to the floor in the kitchen. I know it’s true. Michael has shown me that I am worthwhile and deserving of love. But if he’s not here to give it to me, then who will? I’ll be alone in this world once more.

  I cannot do that again.

  On my hands and knees, I crawl to the kitchen table. Pulling myself up, I look at Michael’s place. A half-eaten plate of scrambled eggs. The crust of a piece of toast. His glass of juice has left a ring on the wooden table. His pill bottles, scattered. I don’t know what these medications do. I can’t pronounce most of their names. Slowly, I open up the bottles and look inside. Different shapes, different colors.

  Will they be enough to end this misery that is my life?

  I’ll need water. I pour myself a glass and head back to the table. Not that anyone will be there to read it, but I should write a note. So people know why. Even if no one cares.

  I line up the pills and count them. Fifty pills. That should do the trick. With a trembling hand, I reach out and pick up the first one. It’s a white oblong pill with a fancy V on it. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t know what it does. I just hope this cocktail works.

  I don’t want to die, but I have nothing to live for either. I put the pill down and stare at it. The phone in my pocket begins to ring, startling me. I’m no longer used to carrying a phone. It takes me a minute to remember that I have Michael’s phone. I pull it out and look. It’s Mitchell.

  I know what he’s going to say, and I don’t want to hear those words. I wish I’d taken the pills so I wouldn’t have to hear the pain in his voice.

  “Hello?”

  “Samirah? It’s Mitchell.”

  A sob escapes my throat. I can’t even form words.

  “Samirah? Where did you go?”

  “I’m at the house.” My voice is hoarse. I don’t recognize it.

  “Why did you leave?”

  “It wasn’t my place to be there. It’s for family.”

  “But he’s asking for you.”

  “What?”

  “He’s asking for you. We told him that you found him, and he wants to see you.”

  “What?” Then the tears start, choking sobs that rob my breath.

  “Samirah, are you okay?” I can’t answer. I can’t breathe. “Samirah? I’m coming to get you. Sit tight. I’ll be right there.”

  He’s alive.

  And I almost died.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: MICHAEL

  I feel like shit. Complete and utter shit. I feel like someone beat the crap out of me, which I guess they did. I swear, this is worse than the accident.

  “Michael, do you need anything?”

  “No, Mom. I’m fine.”

  “Are you feeling any better?”

  I know she’s concerned. She’s aged ten years since earlier this week. “Yeah, Mom. I’m starting to feel a little better.” I’m lying. I know it. She knows it. But she needs me to lie to her. So I will. “Is she here yet?”

  “No, Mitchell went to get her. They’ll be back soon.”

  I need to see her. I need to touch her. I can’t believe she came back. She saved my life.

  I close my eyes. My throat burns from the breathing tube. I’m glad they took the damn thing out. I didn’t need it. Well, I guess I did. They’re thinking that I have a nasty case of pneumonia that came on quickly. Very quickly. It explains why I felt so terrible these last few days.

  It hurts to take a deep breath in. I’m still on oxygen. The tubes in my nose irritate me, making my nose itch and water. I can’t believe my heart stopped. I can’t believe they brought me back. If Samirah hadn’t come back when she did, I’d be dead. Lying in my scrambled eggs, dead.

  I don’t think I’ll ever eat scrambled eggs again.

  I’m tired and my eyes won’t stay open.

  The next time I wake up, she’s sitting there. Her eyes are red and swollen. Her dark hair falls in tangles around her face. She looks terrible.

  “Hey,” I croak, my throat raw.

  She looks at me, the sadness permeating every inch of her face. “Hey.” Her voice is soft, and I can barely hear it above the machines.

  “Fancy meeting you here.”

  She gives me a weak smile. I try to match it, but I’m not sure I’m successful.

  “Your mom says you have pneumonia.”

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  “When I saw you, when I found you—” she breaks off, the tears starting. She takes a deep breath and continues. “I thought you were dead.”

  “Apparently, I was. At least for a few minutes.”

  “Those are minutes I never want to think about, ever again.”

  “You were there?”

  She nods. “Yeah, it was in the ambulance. They had to do CPR and then use the machine. It was the worst few minutes of my life, watching you die.”

  When I think about what she’s been through, that statement holds a tremendous amount of weight. “The worst?”

  “Yes, the worst.”

  Her words carry so much meaning. I almost can’t handle the significance.

  “I thought you were gone.”

  “If I’d known you were sick, I wouldn’t have left. Although, I’m glad I went ahead with it.”

  “With what?”

  Before she can answer, the nurse comes in, checks me over, and gives me my meds. They’ve put a catheter in, so I don’t have to worry about that. “What time is it?”

  The nurse, whose name I promptly forget, tells me it’s almost six in the morning. She’s going off duty soon.

  When she leaves, I look at Samirah. She looks exhausted. “It’s six in the morning? Have you been here all night? Did you get any sleep?”

  She shakes her head, her hair everywhere. She runs her fingers through it and twists it back. Usually she wears an elastic on her wrist, and with a few moves, her hair is up in some elaborate bun on the top of her head. She must not have anything on her today. I bet her hair is driving her nuts.

  “I may have dozed for a few minutes. I don’t really know what time it is myself. I’m—it’s been a long day. Days. I guess it’s a new day now. Yesterday seems like a lifetime ago.”

  “It was.” The ‘it’ occurs to me. Yesterday, she was gone. And the day before that. And the day before that. She left me.

  “Where did you go?”

  Her forehead wrinkles. “I’ve been here since Mitchell brought me back. You were already asleep by then. I’ve been here ever since.”

  “No, before that. When you were gone. And then you came home and found me.” I pause to cough, and it hurts like a son of a bitch. Dammit. This sucks.

  “I told you.”

  “No, you didn’t. You came into my office and said you were leaving. I thought you meant for good.”

  Her hand, on its way to comb her hair back again, freezes in midair. Finally, it sinks down into her lap, where she clasps both hands together. “Didn’t you get my note?”

  Shit, that’s right. She did leave a note. But I was too chicken shit to read it, afraid to see why she was leaving. I shake my head and pretend to cough again.

  “I went to New York. I met with Grace, and then I filed charges. I
turned over my cell phone and the video and met with the DA. Well, an assistant DA. Anyway, they’re going to review the evidence. Most likely, they will be indicting them after the grand jury meets this week.”

  “That’s where you went? Why? Why now?”

  She takes a deep breath and the tears slowly start to slide down her cheeks. “Because I need it to be done with so I can move on with my life. With you. I need to be a better person. For you. I need to do the right thing, even though it’s hard. Because of you.”

  I’m breathless. No words will form.

  She continues. “And when I came home and found you, I thought I’d lost you. I went back to the house and lined up all your pills. I was going to take them. Fifty of them. Just to end it all. Because even though my life has been sort of shitty, it was going to be better with you in it. Without you, life isn’t worth living.”

  God, I wish I could get out of this bed and take her in my arms.

  “Samirah, don’t ever say that. You are a gift. An incredible gift. You are talented and beautiful and strong and brave. You have more strength than most people I know, including me. You can get through anything.”

  “Anything except losing you.”

  There isn’t much room beside me on the bed, so I do my best to shift over. I pat the space, and she comes to me. Her head is on my shoulder, and I see her arm wrapped around my abdomen. I can’t feel it on my skin, but I can feel it in my heart.

  “Samirah, I don’t know what I’d do without you in my life.”

  She looks at me, those gray eyes deep and soulful. “I feel the same way.”

  “So that means you’re not going to leave me?”

  “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.”

  I kiss her forehead. Her dark lashes flutter closed and I feel her exhale. “That’s good because I hear they’re very strong.”

  “But I’m stronger. Because of you.”

  “You’re strong because of you. And that’s one of the things I love about you.”

  “I … I love you too.”

  “Well, I’d hope so, because if you were willing to go all Romeo and Juliet for someone you just tolerated, I think you’d have to get your priorities in a little better alignment.”