Wild Open

by Bec Linder

  He didn’t get much sleep that night. Leah was… Well. They had a good time.

  He woke early, left Leah a note, and went back to his own room to catch a few more hours of sleep. It was late in the morning by the time he finally made it downstairs. Breakfast was over, but maybe he could talk Rushani into going to buy him a bagel.

  James was in the lobby with a couple of the roadies. They beckoned O’Connor over. “Day off in Denver, man!” Tom said, and held up his hand for a high five. “We’re gonna get us some of that legal weed!”

  James rolled his eyes without looking up from his phone.

  “I’ve got other plans, but thanks,” O’Connor said. His plans involved Leah, a bed, and plenty of condoms.

  “Your loss,” Leonard said. “I hear they’ve got the good stuff.”

  “Yeah, I’ll just have to miss out,” O’Connor said, shrugging. He didn’t smoke weed very much anyway. The cotton mouth wasn’t worth it.

  Tom and Leonard headed out, talking loudly about how incredibly high they were going to get. “There go the most responsible roadies in the business,” James said.

  O’Connor grinned. James wasn’t being sarcastic: they had made a policy of being incredibly picky about who they took on tour, and their crew were serious, hardworking people who periodically acted like junkie slackers just to maintain their roadie cred. “They’ll have a lot of fun and they’ll be back before midnight.”

  “Or earlier,” James agreed. “You know how Leonard likes his sleep.”

  O’Connor settled on the couch next to James and peeked over his shoulder. Twitter, it looked like. “Have you seen Rushani?”

  “Nope,” James said. “Go out and get your own bagel, you lazy bastard.”

  Busted. “But it tastes so much better when she gets it for me.”

  James poked at his phone. “Speak of the devil.” He held it to his ear and said, “Yeah?” He listened for a minute. O’Connor watched as his face changed: a sudden stillness, and then a hard, frozen fear. O’Connor sat up straight and leaned toward him, trying to eavesdrop. “Okay. Rushani. Rushani! Call 911. Yeah. I know. I know. Do it now. I’m on my way up with O’Connor.”

  O’Connor was already on his feet. He knew, of course. There was no need to talk about it.

  It must have been pretty bad if Rushani—capable, resourceful Rushani—was too rattled to remember to call 911.

  She opened the door on the first knock, her phone held to her ear. She was speaking rapidly to the emergency dispatcher. She stepped aside to let them into the room, and they both went immediately to the bed, where Andrew was splayed on top of the covers, one hand dangling down toward the floor.

  James felt for a pulse, bent down and listened at Andrew’s mouth. “He’s breathing.”

  O’Connor stared. He didn’t quite believe it. Andrew looked like a corpse, waxy and limp. How long had he been like this before Rushani found him? How long had he been like this? They had all known, all of them, for months, and none of them had done anything about it, and now here it was: the worst thing, the ultimate nightmare. They could have stopped it. Somehow. Before it came to this.

  “O’Connor,” James said sharply, and O’Connor snapped to attention. “Listen to me! Search the room and see if you can find what he took.”

  “Right,” O’Connor said, grateful to be told what to do. He knelt on the carpet and lifted the bed skirt to peer beneath the frame.

  “They’re on their way,” Rushani said above him, her voice wobbling.

  “Good,” James said. “Rushani. Come here.” Fabric rustled. They were hugging. O’Connor stayed on the floor. There was nothing under the bed. His eyes hurt. His eyeballs were throbbing in his skull, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He wanted to go back to sleep. He wanted to still be asleep. James said, “It wasn’t your fault.”

  Rushani started weeping.

  The EMTs arrived, clamped an oxygen mask on Andrew’s face, lifted him onto a gurney. O’Connor felt numb as they took the elevator down to the ground floor. His skull buzzed, a dull electric whine. The man at the front desk watched them leave, eyes wide. There was room for only one additional person in the back of the ambulance. Rushani went, gripping Andrew’s limp hand as the doors closed and the ambulance peeled out of the lot, lights flashing.

  “I called a cab,” James said. “We’ll meet them there.”

  “I didn’t find it,” O’Connor said. “Whatever he took.”

  James sighed. “It doesn’t matter. He probably flushed it, flushed the bottle, whatever. They’ll figure it out at the hospital.”

  “You think he did it on purpose?” O’Connor asked. The thought hadn’t occurred to him.

  James gave him a strange look. “Yeah. Of course he did.”

  Of course.

  The hospital wasn’t far. James paid the cabbie and they walked into the antiseptic lobby. A receptionist pointed them in the direction of the ER. It wasn’t hard to locate Andrew. Thursday morning wasn’t a busy time in the ER, but there was a hive of activity centered around one curtained bed, people moving briskly in and out. And there was Rushani, standing to one side, pale, arms folded.

  She acknowledged them with a glance. “They’re pumping his stomach.”

  “Is that good?” James asked.

  She shrugged. “Too soon to tell. They said we can hang out as long as we don’t get in the way. They’ll tell us as soon as they know anything.”

  So they waited. James and O’Connor sat side by side on the empty bed beside Andrew’s, and Rushani claimed the single chair. They listened to the nurses and the ER doctor speaking to each other in rapid, impenetrable medical jargon.

  O’Connor’s stomach gurgled. He still hadn’t had any breakfast.

  After an hour or so, Rushani stood up and sighed. “I need another cup of coffee.”

  “Take O’Connor with you. He hasn’t eaten anything. I’ll stay here and hold down the fort,” James said.

  “Thanks, James,” Rushani said. “I’ll bring you a cup of coffee.”

  They walked to the cafeteria, Rushani leading the way, O’Connor trailing uselessly behind. He hated hospitals: the lights, the way they smelled.

  “Are you doing okay?” Rushani asked him, when they settled at a table with their overpriced food. “You seem a little out of it.”

  He felt out of it. “Sorry. Lack of breakfast, partly.” He stirred creamer into his coffee. “And bad memories. My grandfather died of a heart attack when I was a kid. He lived with us on the farm, and we all went with him to the hospital, and he died in the ER. I was old enough to know what was going on. I guess it was sort of traumatizing.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rushani said, and reached across the table to squeeze his hand. “You can go back to the hotel, if you want. We’ve got it under control.”

  He shook his head. “I want to be here. Sorry I haven’t been more help.”

  “You’re here,” Rushani said. “That’s plenty.” Her mouth quirked. “Me and James like being in charge anyway. You may have noticed.”

  “No,” he said, drawling the word out with ample sarcasm, and she laughed.

  They sobered quickly. Rushani said, “We’re probably going to have to cancel some tour dates.”

  “If he lives,” O’Connor said, because someone had to say it; someone had to consider the worst of all possible outcomes. They had to be prepared for anything that happened.

  “Don’t say that,” she said sharply. “He’s going to live.”

  “He’s probably going to live,” O’Connor said. “You’re right.” He didn’t want her to start crying again. He regretted opening his mouth. Of course Rushani knew what the worst outcome was. Of course she was thinking about it. They all were. There was no reason to say it aloud.

  “Oh, God,” Rushani said, and covered her face with her hands. “Oh, God. What are we going to do?”

  He didn’t have an answer to that.

  When they went back to the ER, a doctor was speaking with James.
He looked over as they approached and gave them a tight smile. “I’ve been explaining the situation to your friend,” he said. “Andrew is going to be okay, at least physically. He took a bunch of sleeping pills, which is honestly not very effective for a suicide attempt. If they’re not barbiturates, they just give you a nice long nap.”

  “So he’s going to be fine,” Rushani said, staring at the doctor.

  “Yes, we expect a full recovery,” the man said.

  They all looked at each other, numb, trying to figure out if this was good news. It was good news. Full recovery. That meant he was going to be okay. He was going to live.

  “Full recovery,” O’Connor repeated, as if saying the words made them somehow more true.

  “We’re holding him overnight for observation,” the doctor said. “And we’re going to have a psychiatrist evaluate him. He’ll likely end up being admitted. Danger to self or others, et cetera.”

  “He isn’t a danger to anyone,” Rushani snapped.

  “He’s certainly a danger to himself,” the doctor said. “You have to understand that we’re liable if we release him and he does end up killing himself. The psychiatrist can order an involuntary hold if need be.”

  Christ. They were going to have to cancel the rest of the tour.

  “Anyway, he’s awake now,” the doctor continued, “so you can go talk to him if you’d like. We’ll move him upstairs to the psychiatric unit as soon as a bed opens up.” He raised his eyebrows at them, stuck his pen in his coat pocket, and walked off.

  Rushani glared at his retreating back. “I didn’t like that doctor at all.”

  “I don’t think ER doctors have a reputation for being particularly warm and fuzzy,” James said. “It must be a brutal job.”

  “I don’t care,” Rushani said, still scowling. “He didn’t have to talk about Andrew like that.”

  O’Connor sighed. “Let’s go see what Andrew has to say for himself.”

  They trooped into the curtained-off area where Andrew was resting. He looked very pale and very still, lying there on the bed with his eyes closed and his hands folded on top of his stomach.

  “I think he’s sleeping,” Rushani whispered.

  “He isn’t sleeping,” O’Connor said. “He’s playing possum.”

  “I’m resting,” Andrew said, and opened his eyes. “When are they letting me out of here? I know we have a show tomorrow.”

  There was a bitter edge to his voice that O’Connor didn’t want to think about.

  James cleared his throat. “Uh, well. Didn’t the doctor tell you?”

  Andrew’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me what?”

  “They’re keeping you overnight,” O’Connor said. “And probably longer than that.”

  “What? Why?” Andrew struggled to sit up. “I’m fine. The doctor said I’m going to be fine. It was a stupid mistake, I got confused about the dosage for my new sleeping pills—”

  “Really?” O’Connor asked. “Do you really think we’re going to believe that?”

  His words were sharper than he intended, but he was angry. He had known Andrew for years, since their first week of college, and they had been close friends, once. Best friends. And now Andrew was treating his life like it was something disposable, when he was so talented, and loved by so many people.

  But Andrew, of course, saw none of the love and despair in O’Connor’s tone, only the anger. His face crumpled and he looked away.

  “Oh, Andrew,” Rushani said, and knelt on the floor beside his bed. She covered his hands with hers. “Why did you do it?”

  Andrew looked over at James and O’Connor, his eyebrows lifted. There was an awkward pause. O’Connor stuck his hands in his pockets. Andrew said, “Get out.”

  James snorted, but they could all read the writing on the wall: Andrew wanted to have a heart-to-heart with Rushani, and he wasn’t going to say a word until James and O’Connor scrammed. Some part of O’Connor was hurt that Andrew didn’t want to talk to him, but mostly he knew that he deserved it. He hadn’t been a very good friend, lately. He hadn’t been paying enough attention. He was glad that Rushani was there to do the emotional heavy lifting, as always. What was he going to say to Andrew, anyway? Sorry you tried to kill yourself? Don’t do it again? I’m a fucking asshole for ever letting things get this bad?

  He grabbed James’s elbow and steered him away.

  James didn’t protest. They left the emergency room altogether and walked a loop through the hospital’s first floor. James muttered to himself under his breath, and O’Connor left him alone. He could imagine James’s dark thoughts all too well. Best to just leave it alone.

  He realized that his phone was buzzing steadily in his pocket. He pulled it out and answered without looking at the screen. “Yeah?”

  “Hey,” a voice said. Leah. “You haven’t been answering my texts.”

  A wave of irritation flooded through him. Of course he wasn’t answering her texts—he was in the fucking hospital with Andrew, who had just tried to kill himself. He took a deep breath. Leah had no way to know that. They’d made plans, and all she knew was that he had bailed on her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Look. There’s been an—we’ve had an emergency.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “Andrew.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “We’re at the hospital now.”

  “Is he going to be okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “But we won’t be heading to Kansas City tomorrow.”

  “Do you want me to come there?”

  He didn’t; he didn’t want her to see this, the raw breakdown of all of his dreams, Andrew’s desperate attempt to get someone to care about him. “It’s okay,” he said. “Maybe tell the roadies what’s going on? Hold on a second.” He dropped the phone to his side and turned to James. “It’s Leah. Do you want her to tell the crew what’s up?”

  James nodded. “Tell them we’ll be here at least another day. We’ll make a decision about canceling dates later this afternoon, and someone will let them know what’s happening by dinnertime.”

  He passed the message along to Leah. “Okay,” she said, sounding uncertain. “I’ll tell everyone. Do you want—is there anything I can do?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. He had planned to spend the whole day in bed with her. That seemed very distant now. “We’ll probably be back at the hotel in a few hours. I don’t know yet.”

  “Okay,” she said again. “Well.” A pause. “Good luck.”

  They kept walking, him and James, through the hospital’s white, brightly lit, gleaming corridors. The air smelled faintly of cleaning solution and even more faintly of urine. A red and white sign appeared above a doorway before them: they had made a full loop of the hospital, and were back at the emergency room.

  They came to a stop. James said, “Do you think he’s done talking to Rushani by now?”

  O’Connor shrugged. “What are you going to say to him, anyway?”

  “I have no fucking idea,” James said.

  But it was a moot point; Andrew was in the process of being moved upstairs to the psych unit, and Rushani came over to them from out of the swarm of nurses and said, “He’ll be meeting with the psychiatrist soon. So we can wait, I guess, to see if they’re going to admit him, or else go back to the hotel and come back later.”

  O’Connor shrugged. What was he going to do at the hotel that he couldn’t do here? “Let’s wait. Then we can all make a decision together.”

  “We’re going to have to cancel the tour,” James said.

  It was exactly what O’Connor had been thinking earlier, but he said, “Maybe not. Maybe only a few dates.”

  “Definitely tomorrow’s show,” Rushani said. “We won’t make it in time.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” James said, and settled a comforting hand on Rushani’s shoulder. “We’ll call Hakeem later.”

  The psychiatric ward was upstairs, at the end of a long hallway. A nurse directed them to sit in a small empty waiting room. An h
our went by. O’Connor poked listlessly at his phone. Then a man in a white lab coat came into the room and smiled at them. “You must be Andrew’s friends. I’m Dr. Ofori. I’m the psychiatrist on duty.”

  He shook their hands, and then took a seat in the chair beside Rushani. “Andrew gave me permission to speak with you. He’s resting now.”

  “You’re admitting him, aren’t you?” Rushani asked. “For more than just the one night, I mean.”

  The doctor nodded. “Yes. He’s in a bad state. He’s quite suicidal. We’ll keep him inpatient here for a few days, maybe a week, get him started on some medication. And he’ll need extensive outpatient treatment. Medication, regular therapy.”

  They sat in silence, absorbing this information.

  “Don’t worry too much,” the doctor said. “The good news is that depression is highly treatable. So with time, he should be able to resume his normal activities. I understand that you’re musicians?”

  “Yes,” James said. “We’re actually in the middle of the tour—”

  Dr. Ofori shook his head. “There’s no question of that continuing, I’m afraid. Andrew needs at least two months to do absolutely nothing but focus on his recovery.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “So what else did he say?”

  Leah shrugged. “That was it. I don’t know anything else.” O’Connor hadn’t been too informative.

  The gathered roadies—about half of the crew, which was all that Leah had been able to round up—were silent, probably absorbing what this meant for their paychecks. Then Vince, Andrew’s guitar tech, said, “I want to go see him.”

  “Call Rushani,” Leah suggested. “I might head over there later, but I’m not sure he wants any visitors.”

  “I hope you suckers have other work lined up,” Luis said. This comment was loudly booed, and Leah shot a guilty look at the front desk, hoping they weren’t being too disruptive. But it was the middle of the day and the lobby was mostly empty.