62. Elliott
SIXTY-TWO
Elliott
Sheila’s hurried and frantic voice echoes in my ears long after I hung up. Fire. Jillian. Jamie. Hospital. Her words yanked me from sleep like a plunge into the Arctic Sea, robbing me of breath while my mind scrambled to catch up.
Now I’m tearing through the quiet streets, barely aware of my surroundings—the late hour offers no comfort, only silence that amplifies the chaos in my head. My fingers ache from the death grip I have on the steering wheel, and my stomach churns, twisting tighter with every passing second. I can’t lose them. The thought claws at my chest, sharp and relentless.
I hit red lights that seem to last an eternity, holding back the need to stamp my foot on the gas pedal and blow through the intersection. My pulse thrums in my ears, drowning out the faint sound of the GPS navigating me to the hospital. I know the way, but my mind is too scattered, too frantic to trust myself not to get lost. I can barely focus on the road, let alone remember a route.
When the hospital finally comes into view, relief doesn’t come. The tall building looms, more like a threat than a sanctuary, my tires screeching as I slam on the brakes to slow down. My heart bangs into my ribs as I search for a spot.
“Please, please, please.” I scan the street frantically. Thirty yards ahead, taillights flash, and a car pulls out. I don’t hesitate, cutting off another driver and barely registering the blaring horn. Sending a silent thank you to the Universe, I drive into the open spot, throw the car into park, and leap out, not bothering to lock it, my legs carrying me toward the emergency entrance like I’m running out of time.
The smell of antiseptic and over-sanitized air hits me the moment I burst through the doors, my lungs constricting with each breath coming in shallow gasps. The too bright lights hurt my eyes as I bolt to the front desk.
“An ambulance brought a woman and her son here.” My voice is louder than I intended. “There was a fire.”
The woman behind the desk glances up, her calm demeanor jarring against the storm raging inside me. Can’t she see this is an emergency? “What are their names?” She has a musical, Jamaican accent.
“Jillian—” For a moment, I forget her last name. “Heart. Jillian Heart.” I swallow. “And Jamie Heart. Please.”
“One moment.” She types slowly, her fingers deliberate on the keyboard.
It takes everything in me not to scream at her to move faster. I can’t breathe—my lungs are locked—I suck in a sharp breath and I have to make an effort to push it down into my chest .
“Yes. They are here, and they’re being evaluated right now.” Her tone is aloof.
“Can I see them?” My voice cracks, raw with desperation.
The nurse raises an eyebrow. “Are you related?”
“Yes.” My response is automatic. “I’m Jillian’s fiancé.” The lie slides out easily, but it doesn’t feel like a lie at all.
Her gaze lingers for a moment before she picks up the phone. “One moment, please.” Turning to the side, she talks to someone, her voice too low for me to make it out. When she hangs up, she looks at me. “A nurse will come to get you in a few minutes. Please have a seat.”
I want to scream and break through the doors leading to the triage area, but I thank her instead. I don’t sit. I can’t. I pace back and forth as if the motion alone can keep me from falling apart. My mind races with questions, fears, worst-case scenarios that play in an endless loop. I check my watch again and again, the minutes dragging like hours.
Finally, a nurse appears through the triage doors, and I rush to her before she can say anything. “Jillian and Jamie?”
She gives me a sympathetic smile. “Follow me, please.”
I walk next to her, the antiseptic smell growing stronger, suffocating me with each step taking me closer to them. My heart pounds harder—the relentless drumbeat matching the chaos in my head.
She stops in front of a curtained area. “Wait here, please.” And disappears behind it.
A few feet of colorful fabric are all that’s between me and them. My hands ache with the urge to tear the curtain aside and see them. I close my eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply, and the scent of antiseptic and smoke fills my lungs, making my stomach churn harder. Low voices come from behind the fabric and a raspy okay I recognize as Jillian’s.
The curtain finally pulls back. The nurse steps out and holds it open for me. “You can go in now.”
I walk through like I’m stepping into a nightmare. Bracing myself for what I may see, praying they’re unhurt. The sight of them nearly brings me to my knees.
Jillian sits upright on the hospital bed, her face smudged with soot, her hair a disheveled mess, bandages on her hands and shoulder, but she’s alive. Jamie is curled up against her, his small body wrapped in a blanket, his breathing steady. They both wear oxygen masks, and my chest tightens at the sight.
I move toward them, my feet slow as if dragging through mud. “Thank God.” My knees threaten to give out as relief floods me, overwhelming and almost painful in its intensity. I reach out, my hand trembling as I brush a lock of hair from Jillian’s face.
Her tired eyes meet mine, and for a moment, everything else fades.
“Your hands?” I ask, my voice barely audible. The thought of her in pain sends a fresh wave of nausea through me.
“Scraped, not burned.” She lifts a hand.
Jamie stirs slightly, and I lean down and press a kiss to his head. The scent of smoke clings to him, and my throat tightens again. “Jamie?”
“He’s okay.” Her voice is muffled and raspy. “Scared but okay.” Her hand goes back to resting protectively on his back.
“What happened?” The question slips out before I can stop it .
Her expression hardens, her exhaustion replaced with something sharper. “You tell me.” Her tone is cold and flat, even through the oxygen mask.
The words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I recoil. “What?” She can’t possibly think I had anything to do with it. “What do you mean?”
“All I know,” she says, her voice trembling with restrained fury, “is that your father told you to handle the building situation, and three days later, I lose everything. My home. My store. Almost my son.”
Her words are like the lash of a whip, cutting deep, leaving scars. I want to touch her, to hold her hand, to beg her to believe me. I do none of those things.
“I swear—” I stop, swallowing the pain of her accusation when my voice breaks. “I swear I had nothing to do with this. You have to believe me.”
Tears fill her eyes. “I want to believe you, but I can’t trust your father. And I don’t know if you can either. Can you look at me and say he had nothing to do with the fire?”
Her words hang in the air, heavy and damning. I don’t have an answer. I shake my head. I don’t think my father did it. I don’t want to believe he’s capable of doing something like this, but can I be sure? No. Silence falls between us like an executor’s axe, cutting the ties we built together. This can’t be it. This cannot be the end of us. I won’t accept it.
I open my mouth to say no, that my father didn’t do it. But I can’t.
Somewhere a low beep-beep-beep sound plays in the background like a ticking clock counting down to the end of us.
I swallow again. “And Daisy? ”
“Sheila is taking her to a twenty-four-hour vet. The hospital was not too keen on having a screaming bird in the ER.” A hint of a smile softens her features. “Jamie saved us. And Daisy. She woke him up with her screeches. He came to my room and shook me and called me mommy until I woke up. I was so dizzy. If not for him, I would have been overcome by the smoke and never even known what happened.”
Her words, the thought that I could have lost her—lost them—rips a hole in my soul. “Jillian...”
Her gaze drifts away from me, lost in the terrifying memory. “We stumbled downstairs, barely made it to the door. The smoke was so thick, it blinded us. It was so hot, like being inside of an oven.”
I kneel at her bedside, my head dropping into my hands as a sob rips through me. I had nothing to do with the fire, and yet guilt is an anchor, dragging me in the depths of a sea of despair and anger and relief and gratitude that they’re okay. And fear that Jillian will pull away from me.
Her fingers thread through my hair, a small gesture of comfort that only magnifies the weight of my guilt and helplessness. I sigh, dragging in a breath that hurts as it pushes down the knot in my throat. I swallow it along with the guilt and fear.
A nurse comes in then. “We have a room ready for you. You’ll be able to bathe and change into a hospital gown if you want.”
Jillian nods. “Yes. I want to get rid of this smell.”
The nurse turns to me. “Sorry. You can’t come up. But you can return in the morning during visiting hours.”
I want to fight the nurse, demand they allow me to stay, but I don’t. I stand up, kiss the woman and the boy I’ve come to love on the head, and then step back, making room for the nurse. “I’ll be back in the morning.”
Jillian doesn’t respond, and the ache in my chest deepens as I watch her disappear down the hall, knowing the distance between us isn’t just physical.