28. Chapter 28
Chapter twenty-eight
Elias
“Elias! Please…please! Don’t…don’t let them put me under. S…save me from th…e d…dark.”
"Shhhhhh, Sunshine. I’m here. I’ll always be here."
Thirty-two hours ago, I rushed Sadie to the emergency room.
Thirty-two hours ago, I watched strangers shove IV lines into her thin arms, place a thin tube down her throat, push fluids, then strap her on her side as she threw up everything she had sloshing inside of her belly.
Thirty-two hours ago, I came back with arms full of groceries to find her on the floor, shaking violently with foam pouring out of her mouth, and her eyes rolled back so far only the blushing whites were visible.
She drank enough whiskey to send herself into a seizure.
I knew her medication and alcohol didn't mix, but it never occurred to me that she'd grab my bottle when I've never seen her drink before.
In the moment, there wasn't time for guilt, but it's raging in the pit of my stomach now.
I should have known better. Had I taken two fucking seconds to use my brain and put it away, she wouldn't be under sedation right now.
To top it all off, on her way down she dropped the damn bottle, where it shattered along with the rest of her psyche. Though it's not much to hold on to, at least she didn't get cut again—I can't clean up any more of her blood.
Long after the trauma team stabilized Sadie, the staff moved us to a different floor for observation.
Nurses tried to convince me to step away to eat and shower but it didn’t work.
Not when there was the possibility that Sadie could wake up alone.
Since then, they’ve brought turkey and cheese sandwiches, refilled water I haven't touched, and even offered to bring extra blankets, but I just ignored their hospitality.
One finally broke through to tell me that her sedation wouldn't wear off anytime soon, and would keep Sadie safe while I ran for my go-bag and to square away any loose ends.
Needless to say, there was little for me to do other than get back to her as fast as possible. Sleeping or not, my place is at her side. I can work anywhere in the world; what I can't do is hold her hand and feel how cold she is from home.
A little bit ago, the hospitalist came in and removed the sedation protocol for her under the supervision of her psychologist. They want to evaluate and determine if she's going to remain on a seventy-two-hour hold once she wakes up.
I feel like a sellout. I told them everything when they started asking questions. I laid it all out in painful black and white: the appointments, issues at school, her instability, basically every event leading up to this point. It needed to be done, doesn't mean I liked it.
Since then, she’s woken up. I don't want to overwhelm her, but there are people coming, and they’re going to want her to talk. She’ll want to shut down but she can’t.
"Thirsty?" I ask, low and gentle.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Her heart monitor answers. Disappointment creeps and crawls through my chest at her silence. I knew she wouldn’t reply, just hoped she would. I’m worried. Hell, I miss her.
"Doc's going to come by. Ask some questions."
Clutching Sadie’s hand, my thumb brushes over her pale knuckles.
The contrast from my livelier, desert war tanned, and scared ones drop too many 'what if' scenarios into my head.
She's still here, alive, and that's better than what could have been.
The only direction from here is up, which I'll do whatever it takes to get her there.
"I was…" I stop.
Words I had prepared stack in my throat—heavy, and boulder-like. She doesn't need to hear shit that will make her feel worse about herself. Yeah, her actions were irresponsible and dangerous, but throwing it in her face won't help either.
Neither will the lack of consequences.
Biting the bullet, I continue.
"I was so scared, Sunshine."
My fingers lace with hers, too much of a coward to look at the woman who's nothing like the violent smart-mouthed thing I've Pavloved myself into needing.
There's a soft knock at the door before it pops open. A head of chestnut-colored French braids and blue scrubs peeks in.
"She awake?" Nurse Camille asks without entering fully.
"Yeah," I mumble.
I take in Sadie’s profile once my head lifts, watching her blink slowly.
"I'll let the psychologist know." She slips out without another word.
"Got maybe ten minutes. I’m gonna grab some water and a rag, get you cleaned up before she gets here.”
At my return, I ghost a kiss on her forehead before setting down the basin, washcloth, and the awful foam soap hospitals provide.
Little by little, we set a groove: wet the cloth, dampen her skin, apply soap, scrub with another cloth, wipe and repeat.
Her face is first, then her neck and a few inches inside of her gown.
Both arms are after that. Against the wishes of medical staff, I detached one restraint to get around her wrists, then the same with her legs and feet.
As I finish up, pouring cloudy water down the bathroom sink, we're interrupted once more. This time, it's the Spanish inquisition dressed in black trousers and a cardigan.
"Miss Wilson?" The older woman with greying hair calls her name and plasters on a smile she's reserved for families of trauma, and patients who have given up.
"I'm Doctor Ophelia, the resident psychiatrist. I was hoping we could talk some, would that be alright?" She looks at me, but I turn my back, busying myself with the cleanup of Sadie's sponge bath.
She doesn't seem offended by my reluctance to talk; instead, she moves to take up space on Sadie's other side—claiming the pull-out couch I’ve ignored for the past few days.
"I understand we had a pretty rough time a few days ago. Do you remember what happened? Why you're here instead of home?"
Of course, Sadie doesn't answer. Rather than crowd her or push, I stand near the bathroom and shove my hands into my pockets. All I want is to touch her, make sure she's real and still here with me.
At her silence, the doc writes a few things on the notepad she brought with her and asks follow up questions.
"Do you know where you are?"
Nothing.
"Can you tell me how you’re feeling?"
Nothing.
"Did something happen at home that you're afraid to talk about?"
Nothing.
"Does anyone in your home make you feel unsafe?"
Every question goes unanswered. Just as I go to step away from the counter, Sadie tilts her head and hits me with the deadest pair of blue eyes.
"Miss Wilson?" The doc attempts to get her attention then glances at me for a second.
"Does he make you feel unsafe?"
Uncomfortable, and ticked off, I keep quiet. Does she really feel that way? Maybe trying to leave because I can recognize how unstable we are together is exactly what she's finally noticed. I've...I've not hurt her, not in ways she didn't like. The...I...
"Sunshine?" The endearment burns when I speak.
I'm at her side in a few strides, pulling my seat closer to the bed as I sit and claim her hand once more.
"Whatever you're afraid to say, you can tell her. It will stay between the three of us. She needs to know, so we can get you the right kind of help."
A slight bit of hope bursts in my chest when she doesn't look away. She's here. Not the voices or the hallucinations. No anger or confusion. Just Sadie and her cautious stare that snaps from one of my facial features to the next.
I'm sure I look like hammered shit. Hair's a mess from my fingers running through it every ten minutes, can't remember the last time I shaved—could make a caveman jealous—and my clothes?
Well, they need to be run through the dryer a few times before the wrinkles become permanent.
Even so, she steadily looks at me as if I have all the answers.
Without thinking, I lift her hand to my mouth and kiss her chilled knuckles. "Let her have it, Sunshine."
I give a weak smile for encouragement. Patient as ever, the doc fades into existence, not interrupting my girl and I. Now that I think about it, she's the only one who's seen us together—a privilege, because there's not a soul on this rock I want to share our life with.
"Okay," she whispers.
The doc perks up. "Miss Wilson?"
The formality grates my nerves, but I'll let it slide if it means this process moves forward.
Sadie's chest deflates as if it's painful to exhale. Like the soldier she is, her head turns and tilts back to the bed where she stares at the ceiling again.
"Yeah, I...I'm here."
"I'm glad. Let's start over, shall we? Do you know where you're at and why you're here?"
"Hospital," Sadie utters. "Can't remember."
"Is that normal for you, to not remember certain things?"
As quick as she opens up, she shuts down again.
We both look her way when a flush carves its way into every feature and hides between the words she refuses to say.
For most of her life, she's known there's something inherently different about her—something she hates. Living too many of her short years viewed by others as abnormal, all while she forced herself to accept what she sees in the mirror. But when Sadie walks out the door, she pulls down a heavy mask so well painted most people don’t realize she’s still different.
When her illness is pointed out, that’s when she becomes embarrassed and her self-hatred rears its ugly head.
"Hey..." I tug her hand gently. "Look at me."
Sadie sighs exasperatedly, but turns my way anyway.
"Doc's not here to judge you or make assumptions. I know you're tired and want to be alone, but this has to happen. Do you want me to answer when you can't?"
"Mr. Sulli—"
I almost give myself whiplash when I jerk my head towards the doc.
"Do you want answers or not?"
"Yes, however, I need her to—"
"Shit out of luck, Doc. If she doesn't feel comfortable, then you'll have to settle with me."
"Mr. Sullivan, I must in—"
"No!" I bite, in the same tone I use when neck-deep in operations. Squeezing Sadie's hand, I steamroll forward.