Pumped (Mars Fitness #3)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER

TWO

OWEN

Soft violin filters through speakers hidden around my study, and I settle into the plush armchair by the window. A glass of red wine sits next to me on the side table, and the latest issue of JAVMA is cued up on my iPad. Ahead of me stretches two full days of uninterrupted time. No shifts at the animal hospital where I’m a veterinary surgeon. No chores or paperwork to get caught up on. No plans to drive up to Westchester to see my parents or to head out to Brooklyn to see my brother and his family. I’ve got nothing but time to read, go for a few walks, maybe try out a couple new recipes I’ve bookmarked. Total bliss.

I take a sip of the pinot noir from an up-and-coming vineyard in Napa Valley and scroll to the article that piqued my interest: new procedures for treating cleft palates in canines. I’m only halfway through the introduction when the screen on my phone lights up.

Unknown Caller ID.

I stare at it for a second, debating whether I should ignore the call and let it go to voicemail. It’s probably my hospital. I’m not supposed to be on call, but there could be an emergency they need me for.

I swipe to accept. “Hello?”

“Is this Owen Lambert?”

My entire body snaps into high alert at the dry, official tone of the unfamiliar female voice. “Yes, this is he.”

“I’m calling from New York-Presbyterian Hospital. You’re listed as the next of kin for Jeremy and Eden Lambert?”

Her words are a bucket of cold water right in my face. The chill soaks straight into my bones. “Yes? Are they okay? What happened?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lambert, there’s been an accident. You need to come to the hospital.”

I don’t hear the rest of what she says.

For a moment, I’m frozen. Sitting on the edge of my armchair, holding my phone to my ear, I disassociate. Whatever this is, it isn’t real. This phone call isn’t real. The person on the other end isn’t either. Any second now, I’m going to snap back to reality and continue with my evening as planned.

But I don’t. And it doesn’t. I’m still holding my phone to my ear and the woman on the other end is still talking.

“Mr. Lambert? Are you there?”

I give myself a little shake. Snap out of it, Lambert. “Yes, I’m here.”

“Do you need the address of the hospital?”

“No, I know where it is.”

The call disconnects and I jump into action. This is not the time for emotions, for shock or fear or anything other than taking decisive steps forward. My brain races, throwing thoughts at me a mile a minute: make sure I have my phone, my wallet, my keys; pull out the file folder with all of Jeremy and Eden’s emergency information; grab the phone charger from the bedroom, and a bottle of water from the kitchen; double check the stove is off.

And while my conscious mind is assessing the situation, creating a game plan, and executing it, a ball of unease grows in the pit of my stomach. There was something off about that woman’s voice over the phone, something not quite right. A touch too much sadness, perhaps. A noticeable lack of urgency. I don’t like it. I don’t like what I think it means.

The trip from my apartment in Alphabet City up to the hospital in the Upper East Side takes almost twice as long as it should. I swear to god, the taxi hits every red light along the way, and pedestrians keep darting out onto the road like this is some fucking obstacle course. My leg won’t stop bouncing the entire ride.

When the cab finally spits me out in front of the hospital, I’m itching to run inside, but I force myself to walk instead. Stay calm. Stay focused. Stay in control. I put a stranglehold on the emotions that are building inside me and force them down. This is not the time.

“I’m Owen Lambert. I got a call about my brother and sister-in-law. Jeremy and Eden Lambert.” I can hear myself speak. It’s flat and rigid, cold and distant.

The receptionist directs me up to the eighth floor and I jab at the elevator buttons, convinced that pressing them multiple times makes the damn thing move faster. A doctor is waiting for me at the nurses’ station, and from the apologetic expression on her face, I know I’m not going to like what she has to say.

“Mr. Lambert?”

“ Dr. Lambert.” The correction slips out before I’m able to stop it, landing just shy of harsh and demanding. I’m not sure why I do it. It wasn’t a conscious choice. But that small change in address keeps the floor under my feet just a little bit firmer. “I’m a veterinarian.”

She flashes a quick, understanding smile. “Dr. Lambert, let’s sit down over here.”

It takes a second for me to move. I don’t want to sit. I want her to tell me what happened. I want to go see my brother. My big brother. My hero. My best friend. Because if I can just see him, then everything will be alright. Everything has to be alright.

Stiffly, I sit where she’s indicated, hands braced on my knees to keep them from bouncing.

The doctor pulls a chair over and sits down across from me. In the same even-keeled tone I use on my own clients, she explains the situation. “There was a multi-car accident. They were in the backseat of a cab and weren’t wearing seatbelts. The car flipped over and was hit multiple times.”

A choked sound claws at my throat, but I swallow it back down. Keep it together, Lambert. Lock it down.

“I’m afraid Jeremy didn’t make it.”

Air rushes from my lungs as the doctor’s pronouncement punches me in the gut.

“Eden’s on life support, but there’s no brain activity.”

My diaphragm spasms, unable to contract and draw in oxygen.

“I’m so sorry.”

My lungs burn. The room tilts. My ears ring. I’m this close to passing out before I’m finally able to force myself to breathe.

This can’t be right. I must have heard her wrong. But the doctor’s watching me with a wary look in her eyes, like she’s waiting for me to break down into sobs or to freak out in a rampage.

I’m not going to do either. Because neither will make this situation any easier. Instead, I nod, the movement abrupt and jerky.

“I’ll give you a moment and get someone to take you to see them. Eden’s room is on this floor, but Jeremy is down in the morgue.”

I flinch at the word. The morgue—but that’s where they put the corpses. If Jeremy’s down there, then that means… No. Don’t go there. Don’t feel. Don’t succumb to emotions. This isn’t the time.

“I’d like to see him first.”

The doctor hesitates like she’s not sure she should let me.

“Please, I need to see him.” The words come out rough. I clear my throat and shove my emotions back down.

An orderly leads me down to the morgue, and the entire way, a stray thought dangles at the back of my mind. Maybe they got it wrong. Maybe it’s not Jeremy. Maybe this whole thing is just a big mistake. I don’t let myself reach for the thought, but I don’t bat it away either. I can’t afford to cling to false hope, but I also can’t quite give it up altogether. I balance precariously in the in-between until the coroner’s assistant leads me to a body covered with a white sheet.

My hands curl into fists, my nails dig into my palms. Don’t let it be him. Don’t let it be him.

The coroner’s assistant waits for my nod before lifting the sheet and folding it back.

I stare.

It looks like Jeremy. The hair is dark like mine. The same nose, same chin. He has a scar above his left eyebrow from playing basketball. He looks… normal. Like he’s asleep. Like I can reach out and shake him and he’ll open his eyes. He barely has any scratches on his face.

But— I don’t— He can’t— I just saw him earlier in the week. We grabbed coffee after the meeting he had in my neighborhood. I’m supposed to go over for brunch next weekend. How— What?—

“Mr. Lambert suffered massive internal bleeding,” the coroner’s assistant reads from a chart. “The paramedics rushed him to the emergency department, but he’d already lost too much blood. There was nothing the doctors could do.”

My control slips and a riot of emotions surges forward. Bile shoots up from my stomach, burning my esophagus. I spin and race out of the room, away from the sharp, stinging odor of formaldehyde. I gasp as I burst into the hallways, trying to breathe past the sudden bout of nausea.

Fuck. FUCK.

I slam my fist into the concrete wall and the pain radiating through my hand and up my arm helps to clear the nausea from my stomach. I shake out my hand and slump back against the wall, banging my head against it a couple times when the nausea threatens to return.

It’s true. I don’t know how, but it is.

Jeremy is dead.

“Mr. Lambert?”

Taking a deep breath, I squeeze my eyes tightly shut until the stinging fades. Only then do I straighten and open my eyes.

The coroner’s assistant holds out a clear plastic bag. “The clothes and other belongings your brother had on him when he arrived at the hospital.”

I stare at the bag. The folded clothes look like a suit and shirt. The dress shoes look like the pair I got him for Christmas last year. Wallet, keys, phone. It’s so normal. Like he folded it all up and placed it neatly inside the bag before climbing onto the table.

I reach for the bag, bracing myself for the weight. But it’s surprisingly light. Too light. It should be heavier, shouldn’t it? Considering it contains the last bits of life my brother lived. I clutch it to my chest as I make my way back upstairs.

A nurse shows me to Eden’s room and I stop just inside the door, afraid to go any farther.

Somehow, seeing her like this is harder than seeing Jeremy downstairs. The sheets are arranged neatly around her and her hands are clasped gently on her stomach. Someone took the time to brush out her long blond hair, pulling it to the side to lay across one shoulder.

She looks peaceful, serene, like she too could wake up if I reached out and shook her. She’s breathing steadily, her chest rising and falling in time with a whooshing sound coming from the machine. But it’s not actually Eden who’s breathing.

She’s alive. But she’s not. She’s here. But not really.

Reluctantly, I inch forward until I’m close enough to grip the guard rails on the side of her hospital bed.

The nurse does a quick check of the monitors. And even though I know it makes no difference, the charade is strangely comforting.

“What’s her condition?” My throat is tight and my voice is coarse.

The nurse shoots me an assessing look, and I return it with as much steely confidence as I can muster. Solemnly, he picks up Eden’s chart.

“She had—has a severe concussion and several broken ribs. There were also some internal injuries. She was taken into emergency surgery and they were able to repair the damage. But then her heart stopped beating. The team was able to revive it, but by then her brain had already been deprived of oxygen for too long.”

In slow motion, my legs give out under me and I sink into the chair next to the bed. The bag of Jeremy’s belongings lies in my lap. A similar bag sits on a table beside me. The fabric inside is dark purple, along with nude pumps and a small, sparkly clutch. I glance from it to the bag on my lap.

They were dressed up. They were on their date to the opera. Carmen . The show’s gotten good reviews. They must have enjoyed themselves.

And now they’re dead.

A hollowness opens up inside me, a deep, yawning cavern that wants to swallow me whole. I wrap my fingers around the wooden armrests of the chair and hold on tight, willing myself not to fall in.

The nurse quietly closes the chart and replaces it. “The doctor will stop by in a bit to answer any questions you have. Would you like us to call anyone for you?”

It takes a second for my brain to process the nurse’s question. Call? Call.

Fuck. I’ll have to break the news to the rest of the family. Mom and Dad. Eden’s parents. And?—

I shoot to my feet. “Ivy.”

Jesus, Christ, how could I forget about Ivy? Why wasn’t she the first thing that popped into my mind?

“Do you have her number?” the nurse asks helpfully.

“No…” I shake my head. Ivy doesn’t have a phone number. Because Ivy is only six years old and in her first year of big-girl school. Ivy… who must still be at home with a babysitter. Shit. “No. No, I’ve got it.”

Placing Jeremy’s belongings next to Eden’s, I pull out my phone.

The time for shock is over. Grieving will have to come later. Right now, there are things I need to take care of.