Before I Let You Go(94)

At the door, I lift my fist to knock and then I see that it’s slightly ajar. I knock anyway, but there is no answer.

“Annie?” I call, and I wait. There is no sound from inside the trailer, so I call again, and my heart sinks a little. Maybe she was here, but she’s already left. Maybe if I’d just been more supportive a few hours ago, she would have stuck around. I push the door open and stick my head inside, and then I see her.

She’s on the bed, in nearly the same position she was resting in two months ago when we were here the first time. She’s lying on her back, but her head is limp against the pillow. There’s a tourniquet on her arm, and a needle in her vein. There is something all around her mouth—vomit?

She’s still and she’s gray.

Everything happens in slow motion from that moment. I fling the door open all the way and I move inside, but I pause to very carefully set Daisy’s car seat on the dining room table as if everything in the world is just fine—but it’s not, it’s just not, and somehow I already know that it’s never going to be fine again.

I’m shaking violently as I reach for Annie—but her skin is too cool to my touch and I know that it’s too late but it can’t be—it just can’t be—so I untie the tourniquet and I throw the syringe against the wall with violent force and fury. I take her shoulders and I shake her again and again and she’s limp—why is she so limp? I’m screaming at her, and now Daisy is crying, too.

I lay Annie back onto the bed then fumble in my bag for Narcan—but I stopped carrying it last year. I thought I didn’t need it anymore. Why couldn’t I just keep it in there, just in case? I call 911 and as I press the phone to my ear, I start compressions on Annie’s frail chest.

“My sister.” I’m sobbing, hysterical—spewing indecipherable words into the phone. It can’t end like this. I can’t lose her like this. Why didn’t I tell her I loved her? Did she do this on purpose? Is this my fault? I’ve failed her. I’ve failed my baby sister.

“Fire, ambulance or police, ma’am?”

“Paramedics. Paramedics!”

Someone else is on the phone now—the paramedic dispatcher. She is asking for the address and I can’t remember it. I only know how to get here—so I’m stammering the cross streets and her trailer number and I’m still doing chest compressions and trying to force air into her lifeless lungs between nonsensical sentences. Her chest isn’t rising. It isn’t working.

“Help me, please help me.”

“Is someone else there?” the operator asks, and I’m blabbering like a baby and my tears are all over Annie’s face. I brush them away with my wrist as I try again to breathe air and warmth and life into my sister. Then, as I’m compressing her chest again, the sound of Daisy’s screaming registers and I whisper, “The baby is here. Oh God, she’s here and Annie is . . .”

“Ma’am, is the baby okay?” the operator asks me urgently. “Try to stay calm. The paramedics are only six minutes away.”

“That’s too long!” I shake Annie again. “Please don’t leave me, Annie, please—I’m so sorry—”

I try more compressions, but then I hear her rib crack and I pull my hands violently back from her chest and drop the phone onto the floor as I do. But I can’t actually stop the compressions—she needs oxygen to her brain, and every second that I delay will mean more brain damage. So I keep right on with the CPR. I tell myself that I have to stop crying now and save my breath for Annie. Two breaths, fifteen compressions, two breaths, fifteen compressions. It’s too late—on some level I know this, but I keep going because I can’t and I won’t be the one to give up on her. Daisy’s cries echo all around us in the filthy, freezing trailer. She should be home in the warmth. She should be anywhere but here.

I’m vaguely aware of the flashing lights and siren of the ambulance outside, but I keep going until someone pulls me gently aside. Feeling helpless, I go to Daisy and I pick her up to console her—she’s purple-faced from the bellowing—and I press my face into her neck, as if she could comfort me.

But then . . . the frantic activity I’m waiting for never starts. The male paramedic is dialing on a cell phone; the woman is sorting through a medical bag.

“Is she okay?” I ask, and I’m bewildered. I look at Annie, and her lips are purple, and her skin is still that waxy-gray color. She is gone. I know that she is gone. But I won’t believe it. Someone has to fix this. I have to fix this. What can I do? I have to convince them. I can’t let them stop.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” the woman says softly.

“Why aren’t you working on her?” I demand, and they exchange a glance.

“We’re not going to commence CPR. It’s just too late.”

“Narcan—adrenaline—you have a defibrillator—” I start to sob, but the female paramedic shakes her head.

“Ma’am, she’s clearly been gone for some time. There’s nothing we can do.”

“No . . .”

“Perhaps we should take your baby outside?” the male paramedic suggests carefully, and I’m wild-eyed and frantic—my baby? I look at Daisy, and I start to sob again, because oh God, she has just lost everything and she’s not even old enough to understand. The female paramedic stands and gently steers me toward the door as I hear the male paramedic on his phone. He is speaking in a whisper, but even over my sobs, I hear him.