“We really should go to the hospital,” I whisper. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise, but I think you might need serious help.”
“No,” he stubbornly mutters through chattering teeth. I let out a deep breath and wonder if I should make the driver go anyway.
As I stare out at the dark streets, made hazy by rain and fog, my fingers start to slowly weave through the hair I’ve pushed back. When they reach the end of the strands, they find Tristan’s scalp and begin their slow comb all over again, then again, and again. When I realize this is happening, I almost stop, but I notice his breathing has gone smooth and decide against it. He really is just an overgrown little kid.
The driver comes to a stop not long after we turn down Church Street. He steps out to open the door and I get out first so I can help Tristan. He crawls out after me and immediately heads for a set of resplendent doors, sort of dragging me along with him. I am about to protest that I got him here and now I’m going back, but my feet are absolutely freezing in the wet socks, and I still haven’t thought of what I’m going to tell Leanne.
As Tristan punches in the code to get into the building I call back to the driver, “Will you wait?”
“I wait ten minute,” he replies in a heavy Russian accent.
I’ll just go up with him and borrow some socks and shoes, I think. Julian being who he is, I’m sure he’ll let me. I glance back at the driver, who remains standing solemnly outside of the car, massive umbrella held tight.
We walk into a lobby that is extremely fancy. If there were a reception desk instead of mailboxes I’d assume this was a really nice hotel. It’s way too fancy-looking for someone who is in grad school and drives a Prius.
Tristan pulls us toward the elevator. Inside, he mutters, “Seven,” which I assume indicates the button I am supposed to press. Another coughing fit hits, and continues as we make our way out of the elevator and down the hall; I feel bad for all the people trying to sleep.
Tristan stops in front of apartment 707 and with shaky hands pulls out a single key and unlocks the door. Inside, there is warm lamp light coming from around the wall. The door closes behind us. Tristan leans against the wall and slides down it, until he is a balled-up, sweat-drenched heap.
“Julian?” I call, assuming that if Tristan wanted to be here then Julian must not have roommates.
“Mia?” Julian’s startled voice calls back as feet hit the floor. In seconds he is in front of us, wearing gray lounge pants, a white T-shirt, and glasses. His eyes shift from me to Tristan and the smile in them fades as a serious frown grows.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“He’s sick, or on drugs, or both,” I answer. “He showed up at my room and insisted I bring him here.”
Julian crouches down beside Tristan and checks his neck and forehead just like I did. “How long have you been like this, Tristan?” Julian asks.
“I don’t know. Hours,” Tristan answers through chattering teeth.
“Have you taken your temperature?” Julian asks, calm but serious, like a doctor.
“No.” Tristan wraps his arms around his knees, pulling them to his chest. “C-cold.”
“Mia.” Julian turns to me. “Across the living room to the left is my bedroom, inside is a bathroom, in the top drawer to the left of the sink there should be a thermometer. Will you get it, please? Also, get the blanket off the bed.”
I instantly do what he says. Something about the quiet, serious urgency combined with his clinical calm makes me wonder if whatever is going on is more serious than just a fever. Does Tristan have some sort of chronic condition he’s managed to keep hidden from everyone in Berkeley?
My feet squish across the carpet as I go, and I stop just long enough to sluice my socks off. Peripherally, I take in little bits of data—how nice Julian’s apartment is, the packed-to-the-brim built-in bookshelves that go all the way to the ceiling, the immaculate modern furniture, the huge paintings on the walls. I don’t really look at any of them, but I see all of them.
Julian’s bed is made, his bathroom towels hang at exact even lengths, his drawer has a sorter inside of it, and the thermometer is easy to find because it has its own slot. I drop my wet socks in the sink, grab the thermometer, then yank the blanket off the bed, letting pillows fall to the floor in its wake. When I get back out to the living room, Julian has Tristan’s arm over his shoulder, and he is half dragging him to the couch.
“Thanks, Mia,” Julian says, lowering Tristan onto the couch. He takes the thermometer from me and holds it out in front of Tristan, who opens his mouth and closes his eyes. His head lolls back so his chin and the thermometer are pointed at the ceiling. With his hair pushed out of his face, the puffy red circles around his eyes are more apparent. Julian wordlessly takes the blanket from me and drapes it over Tristan.
We stand in silence until the thermometer beeps. Julian pulls it from Tristan’s lips. He reads it and his frown deepens.
“What is it?” I ask, automatically curious.
“103.4,” Julian quickly replies. “Tristan, what did you take?”
“Whitecaps. A lot,” Tristan half whispers, half moans. “Then phenibut.”
“Why would you do that?” Julian groans in exasperation. Before Tristan can even answer though, he spins around, disappears behind a wall, and reappears holding his cellphone.
I don’t know what whitecaps or phenibut are, but I do know that 103.4° is a very, very high temperature. Without thinking twice, I find the kitchen and open the freezer. No frozen vegetables. No ice packs. But there is ice. I pull it out and start opening drawers until I find ziplock bags.
By the time I’m back, Julian is talking on the phone to someone. I walk behind the couch and gently tilt Tristan’s head up. His eyes flutter open to meet mine. They are so red and exhausted that my own eyes fill with empathetic tears.
“I’m going to put an ice pack on the back of your neck,” I tell him in a voice that belongs to my mother. “Your brain needs to remain at a lower temperature to properly regulate your body’s functions.”
He blinks slowly, and I take that as assent. His teeth clench when the cold hits his skin, but he quickly eases back into it. Soon his head is completely limp again.
“Yes, yes,” Julian says. “No,” then, “Okay, thank you.” He hangs the phone up.
“Bailer is on his way,” Julian says to Tristan, who replies with another tiny blink.
“Who is Bailer?”
“Dr. Maqsud. He’s a private physician,” Julian explains. “He only makes house calls. We call him Bailer because most of his business is bailing people out of recreational drug-use mistakes. Which is what this is.”
“So you’re not sick? Like contagious-germ sick?” I ask Tristan. No detectable response whatsoever.
“He’s not,” Julian says, “he’s just stupid. Seriously, Tristan, what were you thinking? Why would you do that, only three days before—”
“Exactly, three days,” Tristan mutters without opening his eyes, “to be clean.”
“To be clean?” Julian repeats, dumbfounded. “You mean for the ceremony?”
“Yeah,” Tristan sort of whistles.
“You’re so—” Julian takes in a deep breath instead of finishing his sentence, then exhales hard. He turns away from Tristan toward me. “Mia, thank you for bringing him. I’m really sorry for all of this—I know you have class tomorrow, there’s no reason for you to be any more put out. I’ll call a car for you. Sleep in,” he adds with a smile I detect no small amount of worry in, “I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to cancel my discussion classes tomorrow morning.”
“I don’t have shoes,” I respond. I think I meant to say there’s already a car, or my socks are wet.
“You can borrow some,” he instantly offers, just like I thought he would.
I’m pretty sure I mean to say yes, or thank you, but instead I say, “The car is probably gone already.”
“I’ll call a new one,” he says. “Let me
get you shoes.”
He’s into his room and back in only a few seconds. The shoes he carries are very fancy-looking rain boots. He offers them to me along with thick wool-blend socks. I sit down in the armchair and pull the socks on, then the first boot, which seems gigantic, but then...
Julian is kneeling in front of Tristan, gently feeling his forehead. There is tenderness in his touch. He really is worried about Tristan, and I…
I don’t know what I am. Tired, of course, but that’s just a peripheral feeling, pushed to the back by the strangeness of this situation. This whole thing feels surreal. I feel like I’m suspended in time and space, unable to move, unable to look away, stuck observing.
“What did he mean?” I ask, instead of putting on the second boot. “That he had to be clean?”
“Key has a ceremonial cleansing that involves a guided ayahuasca trip,” Julian explains with a disapproving frown. “He was trying to preemptively clean his psyche out so that nothing major would come out in front of the Brotherhood.” Turning back to Tristan, he adds, “Which I told you was a stupid idea.”
Tristan’s eyes halfway open and I can see that spark of conspiratorial panic flare to life in them. “Ssssshhhhhh,” he hisses with absolutely no oomph behind it. He even tries to sit up, but ends up just rolling onto his side, face-first into the couch cushion.
Julian slips his arms under Tristan’s torso and maneuvers him back around. What drugs must Tristan have taken to end up in this state?
“Hand me a pillow?” Julian asks me.
I pull out the one behind me. Julian stuffs it under Tristan’s head, then grabs his legs and swings them up onto the couch. He grabs my ice pack and slips it back under Tristan’s neck too. It’s half melted already.
I find myself pulling off the one boot I have on, and then hurrying to the kitchen for more ice. When I get back, Julian again has his phone to his ear. I hold out the new ice pack to him just as he says, “Hello? Yes, my name is Julian Roth. I’d like to request a private car for one passenger—”
Again, the sensation of being a suspended observer, helplessly watching events unfold before me, occurs. Some being that is me, but is not me, reaches out and slips the phone right out of Julian’s hand, then taps the end-call button. Julian looks up at me in confusion.
My head shakes and for some reason my mouth says, “I’ll stay for now. Until the doctor says he’s okay.” I know drug trips can’t be contagious, but I really feel like I must have caught this one.
Julian gives me a grateful smile. “Well then, are you hungry?” he asks. “I can whip up something really quick while we wait.”
“Sure.” I nod and give him a little smile back. He stands and heads off to the kitchen. As I watch him walk away, I notice that his hands are shaking. I get the feeling he is cooking more to stay busy than to be hospitable. He must be much more worried or upset than he is letting on.
I sidestep, intending to go back to my chair, but Tristan’s arm flops into my path, and he makes a motion as if to grab me, but he can’t find the strength in his hands. I stop and look down at him. His eyes are barely open but I can tell he’s looking at me.
“I feel calmer with you,” he whispers.
Other than seeing Azzi stoned, I have pretty much no experience with drugs or people on drugs, and stoned Azzi is just extra inclined to giggle and say whatever pops into her head, which is not that different than not-stoned Azzi. Certainly, that is nothing like this.
I know that supposedly people can imagine and experience really bad illusions and delusions on drugs. I can’t imagine what horrors a spoiled kid like Tristan could conjure up, but obviously he’s managed to mess himself up pretty bad. And all because he wants to join a club of people he doesn’t want to accidentally say something embarrassing in front of? It’s kind of sad, really.
So the same part of me that got the ice pack and took off the boots wordlessly slips my hands behind his head and helps him sit up. I pull the pillow out from beneath him and sit where it used to be. He collapses back onto my lap with a little sigh of relief.
I can hear light noises coming from the kitchen—glass clinking against metal, a drawer opening and closing, then a cupboard. I focus on those sounds because there are no other sounds besides Tristan’s shallow breaths. I keep waiting for a coughing fit, but it doesn’t come.
I look around the room more thoroughly now. I see that the art is not Abstract, as I initially thought when rushing to the bedroom, but Surreal. I notice a mother-of-pearl standing globe I’d entirely overlooked before. I even spot a box of chocolates stashed in a basket underneath several magazines. The top magazine is a cooking magazine and has a picture of a rare steak on it. My stomach rumbles to life at the sight of it. I am so glad Julian is making food—I don’t really care what it is.
My fingers find their way back to Tristan’s hair, just as they did in the car, and, just like in the car, they slowly comb through his platinum locks. It gives them something to do, which is a pathological calming tendency of mine, and it seems to feel good for Tristan too. Maybe that’s what he wanted when he said I make him calmer.
“Tristan,” I whisper, “why did you need me to bring you here?”
“Trust you,” he answers, his face more peaceful than I’ve seen it all night.
“Why do you trust me?” I gently ask, careful not to break the rhythm of my strokes.
“You’re good,” he mutters.
“What do you—”
DING!
There is a tiny crashing noise in the kitchen, and then Julian practically flies around the corner and out of sight to answer the door. The doctor sure got here fast, I think. But maybe he didn’t. Maybe my perception of time is off because it’s nearly four a.m. and I’m tired and I’m babysitting a drugged-out boy who, until a month ago, I avoided interacting with whenever possible. Seems like a distorted reality to me.
The door opens and words loud enough for me to hear but too quiet for me to understand are exchanged. Then Julian comes back into the living room, followed by a middle-aged Middle Eastern man wearing a sweat suit. He carries two large cases; one is rectangular, like a really big toolbox, and the other is circular. He looks at me and Tristan, then places the cases on the coffee table.
“Mr. Smith, I am Dr. Maqsud. Do you understand what I am saying?”
Tristan opens his mouth but a cough comes out instead of an answer.
“I take that as yes. You are girlfriend, correct?” he asks me, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “Do you know exactly how much he took of each substance?”
“I don’t know,” I answer, figuring that it doesn’t actually matter who he thinks I am.
“Wonderful, very helpful,” he sarcastically rumbles. “Has he lost consciousness at all?”
“Not that I know of.”
This whole thing is so weird. What am I doing here? Why did I stay? Is this just some morbid fascination with watching a real-life disaster unfold in front of me? Am I being like one of those people who can’t help but stop and watch as the bodies get pulled from a flipped-over car on the side of the freeway?
The doctor turns to Julian and says, “I need an electric outlet.”
Julian instantly pushes the armchair aside and pulls out whatever was plugged in.
The doctor turns back to the coffee table. I get a front row view as he opens the toolbox and pulls out tray after tray of different medical equipment—including several different-sized needles and syringes, and at least a hundred pill bottles. The other case is made of thick white leather and is zipped up around the top. He opens it very carefully and pulls out a machine that looks a bit like a bunt-cake pan.
Once the machine is settled on the table and plugged in, the doctor turns around, crouching next to us, and pulls his stethoscope out. He checks Tristan’s heartbeat, his breathing in several different spots, and then asks him to open his eyes and mouth. When Tristan is able to do both, at least partially, the doctor sort of smiles and says, “This is a g
ood sign.”
He turns back to the coffee table, opens a packet of sterile cloth, lays it out, and then he rips a needle out of its package, hooks it to a collection tube, and places it on a fresh cloth. “Mr. Smith, I’m going to draw some blood from you. Do you consent?”
“Ye—yeah,” Tristan wheezes from my lap.
Dr. Maqsud yanks up his sleeve then ties a rubber tourniquet above Tristan’s elbow. After a few quick pokes, he retrieves his prepped needle from the table. I wince watching the needle go in, but Tristan doesn’t even flinch.
When the collection tube is full, Dr. Maqsud disconnects it, but leaves the needle in Tristan’s arm and tapes it into place. I clench my jaw. I hate needles. I absolutely hate needles. Tristan must be really messed up to not even care that that thing is in his arm.
Dr. Maqsud places the vial of blood into a slot at the interior edge of the bunt-cake machine, closes the lid, and turns it on. The machine spins around and around, faster and faster. Dr. Maqsud and Julian stare intently at it.
“What is it doing?” I ask.
“It will break down his blood into chemical components and give me a read of them and their percentages, from this I will know what is in his system and how much. From there, I treat.”
Of course, it’s a centrifuge—I had to use one in my freshman bio class. I feel dumb for not recognizing it sooner. Another thing I’ll let my ego blame on lack of sleep.
“How long will it take?” Julian asks, watching it like a hawk.
The doctor shrugs nonchalantly. “Eh, ten minutes. He will not die.”
Julian says nothing and does not look away. His foot begins to tap erratically.
“Julian?” I softly say. “Will you make some coffee?”
His eyes snap to mine and a cloak of calm descends upon them with impressive speed, but I saw the fear and frustration first. Yes, giving him something to do is a good idea.
“I don’t have coffee,” he responds.
Blackmail (Skeleton Key Book 1) Page 15