Chapter 46 Ivan
I wake up in the middle of the night with my heart pounding and a sick feeling in my gut that I can't rationalize away.
Something is terribly wrong.
I can feel it the way you feel a storm coming before the clouds roll in, before the wind picks up, before the first drops of rain fall. It's been building for days now, this sense of dread, getting stronger every time I talk to Jay on the phone.
His voice has been too empty. His laughs have been too forced. His reassurances have been too quick, like he's saying what I need to hear instead of what's actually true.
What if he's falling apart while I'm working overtime and planning birthday parties.
I lie in the dark for twenty more minutes, trying desperately to convince myself I'm overreacting. Jay is fine. He said he's fine. He made it through two weekends already, handled it like an adult. And the project is almost done. Just one more week and I can see him and make sure he's really okay.
But the feeling won't go away. If anything, it's getting worse, growing stronger, more insistent. My chest feels tight. My stomach is churning. My hands are clenched into fists in the blankets.
At three-thirty, I give up trying to sleep and get out of bed.
I pull on jeans and a T-shirt in the dark, moving quietly so I don't wake anyone. I grab my keys and wallet from the dresser, shove my phone in my pocket. The house is silent around me.
I find a notepad in the kitchen and scribble a quick message for Rosalyn by the light from the stove.
Couldn't sleep. Driving down to check on Jay. Will text later. - Ivan
I leave the note on the kitchen table where she'll find it in the morning and slip out the back door as quietly as I can.
I pull out of the driveway while the streets are completely empty, the sky still black overhead.
The drive to Macon feels endless, like time has stretched and warped.
I push the speed limit the whole way. My hands are tight on the wheel. I need a cup of coffee, but I don't want to waste time stopping to get one. Instead, I watch the miles tick by on the odometer, counting down the distance between me and Jay.
Please be okay.
The sun starts to rise somewhere around the halfway point. It should be beautiful, the colors are stunning, the kind of sunrise people take pictures of. But I can't appreciate it. I can't see anything except the road ahead and the growing certainty that something is very wrong.
I should have dropped everything and driven down last night after the party instead of waiting.
Please let me be wrong.
I pull into the Vista Inn parking lot before seven. The lot is mostly empty, just a few scattered cars. And there, in its usual spot near the stairs, is Jay's motorcycle.
Thank God. He's here.
I grab the spare key from my glovebox, the one he gave me on my last visit. If he opens the door and everything's fine, I'll give him a big smile and pretend like I'm here to surprise him.
I knock on the door firmly. "Jay? It's me. It's Ivan." No answer. I knock again, louder this time, my fist pounding. "Jay? You awake? Can you hear me? Open up!"
Nothing.
No footsteps, no sound of movement from inside.
Just dead silence.
The sick feeling in my stomach gets exponentially worse. Fuck. I slide the key into the lock with shaking hands and turn it. The door swings open, and the smell hits me immediately—cheap whiskey, sharp and unmistakable, filling my nose.
No, no, no.
"Jay?" I step inside, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. The curtains are drawn, the room shadowy. The bed is empty, the covers rumpled but cold, like no one has slept there.
Then I see the bottle.
It's on the floor near the bathroom door, lying on its side. Jim Beam. The label is facing up, mocking me. Empty. Not a drop left. Completely drained.
"Jay!" I cross the room in three strides and grab the bathroom door handle. It turns, but the door only opens an inch before it hits something solid. Something heavy. Something blocking the door that won't move.
Oh God. Oh God, no.
"Jay! Can you hear me?" I push harder, throwing my shoulder against the door. It moves another inch, then another. Through the gap, I can see the tile floor, and something else—a hand, limp and pale, the fingers curled loosely.
Jay's body is blocking the door.
I shove against the door with everything I have, grunting with the effort, my shoulder screaming in pain.
The weight on the other side shifts, slides with a horrible thud, and suddenly there's enough space for me to stick my arm through and touch him.
Once I can make out where his head is, I shove again until I can squeeze through the opening.
He's lying on his side, his back against where the door was blocking, his face slack and gray. His eyes are closed. He's not moving.
And scattered across the tile around him are white pills. At least a dozen or more, some still in a cluster near his open hand, others rolled into the corners of the room. An orange prescription bottle lies empty beside him, the cap off.
"No, no, no, no—"
I drop to my knees beside him, my hands shaking so badly I can barely function. I press my fingers to his neck, searching desperately for a pulse.
Please don't be dead. Please don't be dead.
There. Faint, but there. A flutter under my fingertips. Weak and slow, but present.
He's alive. Thank God, he's alive.
"Jay! Jay, wake up!" I grab his shoulders and shake him hard, but he doesn't respond. His head lolls to the side, his body a dead weight on the floor. "Come on, come on, wake up! Please wake up!"
I look at the pills on the floor, trying to count them through my panic, trying to figure out how many he took.
But I don't know how many were in the bottle to start.
I don't know if what's on the floor is all of them or just the ones he dropped.
Did he take ten? Twenty? Fuck, I don't know what they are. I think he mentioned Xanax before.
I should call 911. But I'm scared to. What if they lock him up somewhere?
Jail? Or in a psychiatric hold? If I call 911, he'll be back in the system again.
He just started probation two weeks ago.
Fuck! If they find him like this, with pills and alcohol, what happens?
Does he go to jail? Does he violate probation?
He's got to wake up. "Jay!" I shout at him, shaking him as much as I can. "Wake up! Please!"
I need to know how many pills he took. What he took on top of an entire bottle of liquor.
I lean into the shower and crank the cold water on full blast. The pipes groan and shudder, and then icy water is spraying forcefully against the tile.
I grab a washcloth from the rack, soak it under the freezing stream, and rush back to Jay.
"Come on, Jay. Come on." I press the cold cloth to his face, rubbing it across his forehead, his cheeks, his neck. "Wake up. Please wake up. Please."
His eyelids don't even flutter.
I slap his face lightly, then harder when that doesn't work. "Jay! Can you hear me? You have to wake up! Please!"
Nothing. His face is slack, unresponsive. He's so pale he looks almost gray.
I'm crying now, tears streaming down my face unchecked, mixing with the water dripping from the washcloth. I drag him toward the shower, his body heavy and awkward in my arms, dead weight. I pull him half-upright against the tub, his head lolling.
"Please," I sob, the word tearing out of me from somewhere deep. "Please, God, if you're there, if you're real, if you've ever listened to anyone—please don't let him die. I just found him. Please don't take him away from me now. Please."
I angle the showerhead toward him and let the freezing water hit the back of his head, his shoulders. His body jerks slightly at the cold but his eyes stay closed, his face unchanged.
"Please give us another chance," I beg, not even sure who I'm talking to anymore—God, the universe, fate, Jay himself.
"I'll take better care of him, I swear. I can help him.
I know I can help him if you just give me one more chance.
I'll do anything. I'll give anything. Just please let him live. Please, God. Please."
I'm bargaining, making promises I don't know if I can keep, saying anything, everything, whatever it takes.
"I love him," I whisper, breaking completely.
"I've loved him my whole life. Since I was twelve years old.
Please don't take him from me. Please. He's all I have. He's everything. Jay is everything."
For what feels like an eternity, nothing happens. He just sits there, slumped against the tub, water streaming over him, his face slack and lifeless. I hold him and rock him and pray and beg, the cold water soaking through our clothes.
Please. Please. Please.
Then he gasps.
His whole body convulses violently, his eyes flying open suddenly, wild and unfocused and terrified. He sputters and chokes, choking on the water running into his mouth, his hands flailing weakly against my chest.
"Jay! Thank God! Jay, can you hear me?"
His eyes find my face, and then he shatters completely.
"No," he croaks, absolutely wrecked. "No, don't look at me. You shouldn't be here."
He tries to turn away, tries desperately to hide his face, but he's too weak to move more than a few inches. I catch his chin gently and turn him back toward me, and he squeezes his eyes shut like he can't bear to see me.
"Jay, look at me. Please look at me."
"I can't." His voice is barely a whisper, broken and raw. "No, not like this. Please go away. Go home." A sob tears out of him, violent and painful. "Forget you ever found me."
"I'm not going anywhere. I'm never leaving you." I cup his face in both hands, feeling him tremble. "I need to know—the pills, Jay. The pills on the floor. How many did you take? I need to know if I should call an ambulance."
He shakes his head weakly, still refusing to open his eyes, tears leaking from the corners. "Didn't take them."
"What? What do you mean?"