Beach House Reunion (Beach House #5)(89)

They sat in relative silence for another hour and a half. Linnea crossed her arms and leaned back in the remarkably uncomfortable chair. Hope was asleep in Cara’s arms. Julia had turned down the volume of the television in the waiting room so they could close their eyes.

At last a nurse came out to talk with them. Beside her was a man in blue scrubs who was so thin and young that Linnea couldn’t guess whether he was a resident or a physician. He was carrying a clipboard in one hand. His other hand he stretched out in greeting. Julia stepped forward to take his hand, followed by Palmer.

“I’m Dr. Foster, the resident on call tonight. You must be the Rutledges.”

Palmer cleared his throat. “Yes.”

Dr. Foster lowered his clipboard. “The good news is your son is doing well. He was admitted with opiates on board. We administered a shot of Narcan, which woke him up. He wasn’t very coherent. But he did say it wasn’t a suicide attempt.”

“Thank God,” Julia said.

“Of course it wasn’t a suicide attempt,” Palmer blustered, but his face had grown ashen at the suggestion.

“Has he been depressed?” asked Dr. Foster, pushing on. “Is there any family history of suicide or depression? Drug use?”

“No,” Palmer said with alacrity.

“Well, actually . . .” Linnea spoke up. She walked toward the doctor, avoiding looking at her parents. “I thought he seemed depressed. Not his usual self.”

The doctor wrote in the file, then looked up and asked Linnea, “And you are?”

“His sister.”

Understanding reflected in the doctor’s face.

“He wasn’t depressed,” Palmer repeated.

“He’s being stabilized now,” the doctor continued, unfazed by Palmer’s insistence. “Psychiatry is coming to see him. Whether they’ll decide to keep him or not, we don’t know yet.”

“Psychiatry?” asked Julia with alarm. “But you said it wasn’t a suicide attempt.”

“My son doesn’t need to go to a psych ward,” declared Palmer.

“Your son was in pretty bad shape when he arrived,” Dr. Foster said. “He wasn’t awake enough to get much information from him. He’ll stay here until he’s seen by Psychiatry and . . .” He paused and looked at Julia. “As soon as he is, he’ll be transferred to the psychiatric hospital.”

“But—” Palmer began, his face coloring.

“Palmer . . .” Cara said softly in warning.

“Mr. Rutledge,” Dr. Foster said with compassion, turning to address him. “Cooper is denying that this was a suicide attempt. But he could easily have killed himself. He doesn’t appreciate the gravity of that. The fact that he doesn’t concerns us. He needs to be observed for a while. He’ll also get some needed therapy.” He glanced briefly at Linnea. “His friends who brought him in also reported that he’d been depressed.”

Palmer didn’t speak.

“Can we see him?” Julia asked, stepping forward. “Please. We’ve been here all night.”

The doctor looked at the nurse and nodded. He spoke kindly to Julia. “He’s awake. He may not be terribly lucid. But yes. You can see him. For a short visit. The nurse will give you information about the psych hospital and visiting hours.” He raised the clipboard to his chest. “Okay then,” he said by way of conclusion. “I’m glad this was good news. There’ve been far too many cases of opiate overdoses brought in. Not all of them end up nearly so well.”

With a final nod, the doctor turned and hurried through the double doors.

The nurse was a short, slender woman with tight black curls. Small, but she gave off a vibe that you wouldn’t want to cross her.

“This way, please. I’ll bring you to your son.”

Julia hurried to grab her purse and sweater. Cara rose slowly so as not to wake the baby. Linnea followed her mother and father through the double doors and down a wide, brightly lit corridor with white and pale-blue flooring. Emergency room beds lined the walls, and around each were curtains that could be drawn shut when privacy was needed. A few were closed, and Linnea could hear soft voices emanating from behind. Men and women in blue scrubs with stethoscopes around their necks were all hard at work.

Their nurse stopped in front of one curtained cubicle in the middle of the room. It looked like so many others. Her stern expression slackened some.

“Right in here. As the doctor said, this can only be a short visit. We’re expecting the psych eval any moment.” She extended her arm, indicating they should go in.

Julia rushed to the side of the bed. Cooper’s eyes appeared sunken but they followed his mother, filling with tears.

“Cooper,” Julia said in a choked voice, grasping his hand. “My baby.”

“I’m sorry, Mama,” Cooper said, his voice thick and raspy. “I’m so sorry.”

Palmer stood at the end of the bed with Cara. Cooper looked over to him and cried, “I’m sorry.”

Palmer stared back at his son, working his mouth, but words didn’t come.

Linnea followed her mother to the side of the white plastic bed and leaned over the metal side rail. She let her gaze travel to her brother’s, and her voice caught in her throat. She didn’t recognize him. Cooper was rail thin; his dark eyes seemed huge in his face. But most shocking, his hair, his beautiful dark curls, had been shorn off like a sheep’s coat. His scalp was pale against the stubs of dark brown.