Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
HAILEY
F orty-eight hours. That’s how long I’ve been here, and Jack still hasn’t said a word to me since our initial greeting. As of eight o’clock this morning, R&R is over. Dispatch called the crew to their first assignment, and Ben and I stayed behind. It’s only ten minutes outside of town. We can be there in five if we have to.
I overheard the incident size-up report over the radio before their buggy pulled out: a spot fire on a farm next to the highway. A hot exhaust pipe from a vehicle drug over a patch of dry cheatgrass. It lit on fire and ran for a ten-foot pine tree, a single barn structure, and a flock of sheep.
I’ve spent years knowing my father was in dangerous situations like this one, but being up close and personal, I wasn’t prepared to feel worried about him. I try to distract myself with another too-quiet day alone with Ben, restocking supplies.
“How many emesis bags does one need in an ambulance?” I mumble. There’s enough for the entire crew to get food poisoning at the exact same time.
“Oh, you’d be surprised when those come in handy,” Ben says. “I’ve used them as ice pack covers, breathing aids, dry bags, urine sample holders?—”
“Do you actually like this part of the job?” I cut him off. “I’ve known you all of ten seconds, but you seem happy with… slow. No offense.”
He pats me on the head. “I’m what they call an eternal optimist.”
My teeth worry at my bottom lip. Does that make me a pessimist? Feeling concerned about my father while he’s on the line and finding little distraction in anything else? I consider it for a moment. How much joy it brings me to take care of the people I love.
I stuff the last of the barf sacks in the jump bag. “I think I’m an altruist,” I declare in some boisterous form of self-discovery.
“And you’re not with them right now. That’s why you’re feeling anxious. Makes sense,” Ben adds. He continues stocking sedatives, anticonvulsants, aspirin, and over-the-counter medications in an overhead compartment like he didn’t just fill in as my therapist, validating my feelings.
My leg bounces a million miles a minute from where I’m perched on the gurney. “Well, doesn’t it bug you not knowing how they’re doing?”
He shakes his head. “Not really. But I don’t have someone I care about on our crew.”
“I don’t have…” I start to lie but decide to flip the conversation back to him. “But you must have experienced this feeling at some point? To become a paramedic, I mean. Unless you genuinely love life-threatening emergencies, high-stress environments, trauma, and performing under intense pressure simply for the fun of it.” My eyes widen. “I do sound like a pessimist.”
Ben chuckles. “You sound like someone who chose this job for the right reasons, knowing you could face all of that.”
I nod .
“Everyone has a story for why they do what they do.” Dropping his eyes from my face, he leaves the back of the ambulance without another word.
We don’t talk much the rest of the day, managing to busy ourselves until early evening and never getting our own radio alert.
“I make a mean spaghetti,” Ben says as he turns off the lights to the medic wing. “You want to eat together?”
Cooking is something I’ve never enjoyed, but eating alone I don’t mind so much. After being stuck at the barracks all day, I could use a night out.
“Thanks, but maybe another time? I think I’ll take a drive and pick up some food along the way. I have a phone call to make.”
“Sure,” he says, ducking out the door.
My stomach churns. None of what I said to him was a lie. I haven’t checked in with Aunt Karen since I got here, and she’s been blowing up my phone with love life updates. Except for the part about rescheduling for another time. I don’t think that’s a good idea at all. Platonic coworkers don’t have a spaghetti dinner for two without it ending up Lady and the Tramp –style. I’m already distracted enough with…
Slumped shoulders and a bobbing head take up the front door window of the building. I rush to the door, holding it open as Dean and Murphy carry a limp Reed through the opening. They’re supporting him by each arm.
“What the hell happened?” I gasp when I see Reed’s face. He’s part pale, part green, with his head flopping all over the place.
“He’s too good for water,” Dean grumbles as they lay him down on the closest gurney.
“Red?” Reed croaks out.
He looks up at me like I’m a kaleidoscope of colors swirling in the most transfixing pattern. Then his grin blooms and that small depression hollows his cheek. Damn if I don’t blush right there on the spot.
“ Red ?” Dean questions.
“Don’t ask.” Here is not the time nor place to be divulging my connection to the newest recruit. That knowledge won’t win me any favors with Jack. And Dean’s still not off my forgiveness list.
“I’m starting to like your office,” Reed slurs, like he’s either drunk or hallucinating, but I know it’s because he’s dehydrated. It draws our attention back to him.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” I tell him as I cradle his head in my lap. “Do you listen to any of the advice you’re given?”
“I do when it comes from you,” he says. “But not this drill sergeant.” He waves an accusatory finger at Dean, who rolls his eyes.
I hide my amusement with the bow of my head. “I see that strategy is panning out quite well for you.”
“I saved a flock of sheep today!” Reed exclaims.
“Congratulations, rookie. You graduated from kindergarten,” Dean mocks.
Reed groans and his eyes swirl around the room. I ease his head to the side.
“Okay, boys. I think I’ve got it from here,” I say, escorting them both to the door.
The husky guy next to Dean turns around before reaching the exit. “I’m Logan Murphy, by the way.” I swear his voice rattles the walls with how deep it is. I shake his outstretched hand.
“We may not have met until now, but I heard a lot about you today.” His amused eyes flash to Reed. “I’ll tell your dad where he is.”
“Thanks,” I say.
And as much as I try to dodge Dean, I nod goodbye in his direction. Please, forgive me , his expression reads. The same one he had yesterday morning on our hike. But I turn away and ignore it.
By the time I make it back to Reed’s side, he’s looking more than pale. I’m afraid he’s about to puke. I find an emesis bag, place it over his mouth, and push on his back to tip him to the side—a movement that takes all of my body weight to accomplish.
Sure enough, he vomits. When he’s done, he rolls onto his back on his own. With the contents of his stomach purged, he no longer looks green but flush. I graze the backs of my fingertips over his forehead.
Fever . I need to cool his body temp.
I dispose of the soiled bag in the nearest wastebasket and grab the first block of ice I can find. Recalling my conversation with Ben earlier, I slide it in a clean barf bag and hold it to his forehead. If we were at my childhood home, I’d be using a cold washcloth or a bag of frozen peas. But it’s probably for the best. This medical grade slab feels far less intimate.
When I press it softly against his forehead, he wraps his fingers around my wrist, pulling me closer to his face.
Okay, not more intimate than this .
“I’m not any good at letting people in.”
There’s a deep sadness to his voice he’s hiding behind, and as much as I promised myself I would keep my distance, I want to strip it all away. Find out what it is that makes him feel unworthy of being cared for. But he’s not in the right mental or physical place for that kind of conversation.
I try to make light of it instead. “Mr. Cocky is not talking himself up anymore?”
“I think I like being around you,” he confesses. But it’s not accompanied by his usual perma-grin. Instead, he looks terrified to say it out loud. I doubt he means it in the way most people say it. We’ve known each other for barely three days. He’s delirious and woozy and fighting a serious case of dehydration. That’s a one-way ticket to a local hospital and out of this job if I don’t get him in a better place.
“And I think I need to give you an IV to get some fluids in your system.” I dodge his comment. “I’m going to need you to keep your arm straight and relaxed for me, okay?”
“Yep,” is all he says back as his eyes wander around the room. The fact that he’s still conscious is the most important thing, but I hope I didn’t hurt his feelings.
Warm water douses my hands as I scrub them with soap. I towel them dry and squeeze on a pair of Latex gloves. An antiseptic wipe, a tourniquet, an IV catheter, and tape are all the supplies I gather on a metal tray beside Reed’s bed.
If there was ever a time to be thankful for the extra courses and service hours I completed to get my advanced EMT license, it’s right now. I’d need Ben’s help to break the skin if not, and I don’t want him in here.
“This might feel cold,” I warn him as I swirl the sterile wipe over the crook of his arm.
He drags his eyes to the spot but doesn’t flinch.
“A little pressure,” I say next, and wrap the stretchy band tightly around his bicep. With the push of my pointer and middle fingers I work the inside of his elbow, searching for the right vein. None of them have the bouncy feel they should.
I slide his arm off the bed. Come on, gravity , do your thing .
Ten seconds , twenty , thirty-five , sixty . I keep time with the digital clock on the wall.
I lay his arm out once more and feel again. A vein in the center bulges slightly. It’s not ideal but it should work .
“Okay, little pinch,” I warn him, and then prick the skin. I feed the catheter in until I see blood.
There .
With a pull, the tourniquet releases, and I tape the catheter in place.
“What did you put in that thing, pennies?” he asks a couple minutes later.
I chuckle. “It’s saline solution. Some patients complain it tastes like metal. It should go away quickly.”
“Yep. It’s gone.” He smiles again.
Even delirious, Reed is happy and handsome and all of the things I should not be focusing on right now.
“See, there you go!” I say, before realizing I’m stroking his shoulder too and jerk my hand back.
OKAY. I officially need to leave his bedside.
“Get some rest. I’ll be”—I look around for somewhere else in the room to sit other than perched over his body and decide to simply stand a few feet away—“here if you need me.”
I forget about dinner and my phone call to Aunt Karen. I stay with him. Monitor how he’s handling the fluids and electrolytes as he slowly slips to sleep. It’s not until he’s twitching that I admit, “I think I might like being around you too.”
There are so many reasons why I shouldn’t say that. The biggest of them all steps in the doorway.
“How’s he doing?” Jack asks. As his usual distant self, his hands are wedged in his pockets. He looks more weathered every time I see him. Dark circles under his eyes, hard lines around his mouth.
“He’ll sleep it off,” I say.
My dad nods. “You’re good at this.”
We’ve never been great at talking or connecting. Finding common ground on much of anything. I think this is him trying to offer me a compliment?
“Thanks,” I reply.
And I wait for him to say something else. Anything else. He could fill our silence with the most mundane thing, and I’d still listen. I want him to get to know me. Find out what the two of us have in common… more than just the same address. It’s been years since we spent the kind of one-on-one time together that allows two people the chance to open up. Of course, I’m always wishing he’d tell me more about my mother. A dream I doubt will never come true at this point.
I’ve talked to Aunt Karen about her before. It was one of the first times after my dad left for a whole summer. I was eight and she had taken me to a Payless Shoes for new light-up sneakers. Just her undivided attention had me tearing down all of my walls.
She told me how little she knew of my mother. When my parents met, the two were so wrapped up in each other they rarely made time for anyone else. They eloped at a courthouse and had me a couple years later. I remember feeling disappointed I didn’t have anyone to ask about her. I wanted someone to tell me about the way she smelled or if I resembled her in any way… Some connection to make her feel real to me.
Instead, I got the ghost of her my dad always carries around. I lived in fear that the mere subject would smother him.
“Are you getting any sleep?” I study the pigmented crescents that frame his eyes.
“Don’t worry about me. Sleeping on the ground is part of the job. I’ve been doing it for…”
Years, I know , my brain fills in for him.
I set the ice block to the side of Reed’s face. Blotches of pink have returned to his cheeks. His body temperature has cooled down, so I don’t think he’ll need it much longer anyway. Stowed beneath the table beside me is my personal bag. I approach the side pocket filled with Ziploc bags and pull out the one labeled Melatonin .
“Try these,” I say. “They’re all natural.”
I might need a nightly dose of them myself while I’m here, come to think of it.
“Thanks.” He takes them from my outstretched hand. “For all of this. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Between his earlier compliment and this gesture now, I feel my heart swell in my chest.
Maybe he really does believe in me. Maybe the initial shock has worn off, and he’s proud of this accomplishment. Even if I only chose to do it at first because I knew it would remind him of my mom.