Chapter Forty
Crash Out
Jameson Bishop
The ambulance doors fly open before the wheels even stop. I’m out of David’s truck and running toward them as they haul Rachel out, her skin gray, her breath barely there.
“BP dropping- she’s crashing!”
“Get her inside, now!”
I nearly go to my knees.
They push her through the ER doors, and I follow so close a nurse tries to shove me back. I don’t feel her hand. I don’t feel anything except Rachel slipping away.
“Rachel!” My voice cracks. “Rachel, stay with me…stay…”
Her head lolls. Her eyes roll back. Her chest stutters.
And then everything explodes into motion.
“Code blue!” “Get a line in!” “She’s losing pressure-move!”
They swarm her, hands, machines, voices, alarms, and I’m shoved back against the wall, helpless, useless, watching the woman I love die in front of me.
“Don’t let her go!” I shout, voice breaking. “Don’t- don’t let her-”
A nurse grabs my arms. “Sir, you need to step back-”
“I’m not leaving her!”
“She needs space. We’re trying to save her!”
I fight her grip, chest heaving, vision blurring. Rachel’s body jerks as they work on her, as they try to pull her back, as they try to keep her here.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please don’t take her from me.”
Her monitor flatlines for half a second.
I stop breathing.
“Got a pulse, weak but present, move her!”
They rush her down the hall, wheels squealing, voices shouting orders. I stumble after them, nearly collapsing, grabbing the wall to stay upright.
“Where are you taking her?” My voice is raw. “Where-”
“Surgery,” a doctor snaps. “She’s bleeding internally. We need to open her up now.”
And then she’s gone. Through double doors, swallowed by the OR, leaving me standing in a hallway that suddenly feels too bright, too cold, too empty.
I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know how to breathe.
I don’t know how to exist without her.
My hands shake so violently I can’t even wipe her blood off my skin. I stagger backward, hit a chair, and sink into it, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.
I need someone. But I don’t have anyone. I need to call Gemma.
I pull out my phone with trembling fingers and hit her name.
She answers on the first ring.
“Bishop?”
My voice breaks. “Gemma… she’s hurt. Rachel – she - Beth stabbed her. She’s in surgery. They don’t know if…if she’s….”
I choke. I actually choke.
Gemma’s voice softens instantly. “Oh my God. Bishop… I’m so sorry.”
“I can’t…” My breath shudders. “I can’t lose her. I can’t…Gemma, I love her. I told her. She told me. And now she’s…. she’s-”
I can’t finish.
Gemma doesn’t make me.
“I’m getting on a plane,” she says, already moving, already grabbing things. “I’m coming to you. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“I don’t know what to do,” I whisper. “I don’t know how to sit here and wait while she’s…while she’s…”
“You’re not alone,” Gemma says firmly. “I’m coming. Hold on until I get there.”
The call ends.
I stare at the OR doors.
I don’t blink or breathe or move.
I just wait. Terrified that by the time they open, she’ll be gone.
The OR doors slam shut.
The sound hits me like a physical blow. Like they’ve sealed her away from me. Like they’ve taken the last piece of air out of the room.
I stand there for a second, just one, before my legs give out.
I drop into the nearest chair, elbows on my knees, hands shaking so violently I can’t lace my fingers together. Rachel’s blood is drying on my palms, on my shirt, on my throat. I can still feel the warmth of her breath against my neck. I can still hear her whispering don’t let me die.
And now she’s behind those doors.
Fighting alone.
I press my hands to my face, but it doesn’t stop anything. The tremors. The panic. The crushing, suffocating terror that she’s already gone.
I try to breathe. I can’t.
I try to think. I can’t.
I try to stay upright. I barely can.
A nurse walks by, glancing at me with pity. I don’t want pity. I want Rachel. I want her eyes open. I want her hand in mine. I want her heartbeat steady and strong and alive.
I want her alive.
My chest tightens until I’m sure something inside me is tearing. I lean forward, gripping the edge of the chair so hard my knuckles crack.
“She can’t die,” I whisper. “She can’t…she can’t-”
My voice breaks. My breath breaks. I break.
I don’t care who sees.
I don’t care that I’m shaking, that my eyes burn, that my throat feels like it’s closing. I don’t care that I look like a man falling apart.
I am falling apart.
Because she’s in there bleeding and I can’t stop it. Because she’s in there fighting and I can’t help her. Because she’s in there dying and I can’t reach her.
I pull out my phone again, staring at the screen like it might give me answers. It doesn’t. It only shows Gemma’s name, the last call I made, the last lifeline I grabbed.
I hit redial.
She answers instantly.
“Bishop?”
I swallow hard. “They…they took her into surgery. She crashed. They almost lost her. I…Gemma, I don’t know what to do.”
My voice is barely a voice. It’s a rasp.
Gemma’s tone softens, but there’s steel under it. “You stay right there. You breathe. You don’t move until they come out with news.”
“I can’t-” My breath shudders. “I can’t sit here while she’s dying.”
“She’s not dying,” Gemma says firmly. “She’s fighting. And you’re going to be there when she wakes up.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, tears burning hot. “I love her.”
“I know,” Gemma says. “And she knows. That matters.”
I choke on a breath. “Gemma… I’m scared. I’m so scared.”
“I’m getting on a plane,” she says. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. You’re not doing this alone.”
The call ends.
I drop the phone onto the chair beside me and bury my face in my hands, shaking so hard the chair rattles beneath me.
I don’t know how long I sit like that. Minutes. Hours. A lifetime.
All I know is that every second without her feels like a countdown.
And I don’t know what number it ends on.