Keep Her Safe(26)

I fumble to collect the pieces, my heart hammering in my chest.

I’ve been gone maybe thirty seconds, and yet when I return, it’s an entirely different scene. Flames crawl along the walls and ceiling of the kitchen, the intense heat from the blaze causing me to flinch as I step over the spent extinguisher that lies on the floor.

The guy is holding mom’s lifeless body in his arms. “It’s too late. Come on!”

Shit. This means firefighters and maybe police . . . I lunge for the used syringe, snapping the needle off the end. I toss the syringe into the heart of the fire.

“Forget that!” The guy grabs hold of my arm and tugs me out the door with him, forcing me down the stairs. I chase after him as he marches past where Vilma stands, phone in hand, spouting a bunch of Spanish words that I do understand, like ambulancia and fuego. She must have called 9-1-1.

“Put her down!” I grab the guy’s arm, his skin hot, his muscles tense under my mom’s weight, and wave the Narcan in front of him. “I need to give her this right now.”

He finally relents, setting her down on the dirt laneway, though I can tell he doesn’t like doing it.

I rip the cap off the nasal spray applicator and the tube. Steps I memorized but have never actually executed in real life. My hands are shaking as I shove the glass cartridge into the applicator and twist it into place.

“Come on . . .” Holding her floppy head up, I spray half into one nostril, and then half into the other, hoping I haven’t messed it up and put too much in one and not enough in the other. I set the breathing mask over her mouth and lean down to blow into it.

“You’re doing it too fast.”

I try to slow down.

“Here, let me.” Strong hands clamp over my biceps and pull me to the side. Normally, my fists would be flailing—a natural reaction to anyone manhandling me—but right now I’m thankful for the help. He’s the only one who’s offering any.

He drops to his knees, sealing his mouth over the tube to blow into it. He pauses, then blows into it again before shifting his gaze to her withered chest. With a slight shake of his head, he goes back to the mask, repeating the rhythmic pace.

“If she doesn’t start breathing on her own after three to five minutes, I have to give her another dose,” I explain, wringing my hands as I watch him, desperate to hear sirens. The fire station is around the corner.

Not close enough, I accept as I glance over my shoulder to see the angry flames dancing inside, eagerly charring every last, sad possession we have.

Unfastening his watch with smooth precision, he hands it to me. “It’s been about a minute.”

I take the watch without a word.

After another glance at her chest and a pause, he warns softly, “You might want to get the other one ready.”

I dig it out of my pocket and kneel beside him, my fists balled up tight.

“Your place isn’t well marked. You should head down the road to wave them in.”

“They’ll follow the smoke. Besides, they already know where we live.”

His eyes, the color of an Arizona summer sky at mid-morning, flash to me quickly before refocusing on his task, and I catch the pity in them. But he says nothing, continuing to administer breaths as I watch the second hand make its laps, waiting for her to wake up.

Fighting to keep the tears from letting loose as I take in her bluish-tinged lips and fingernails. “Hang in there, Mom—help is coming,” I whisper. It’s not help that’s coming, though. It’s just a Band-Aid until next time.

The fire department is the first to sail in, the paramedics on their heels.

And the next minutes are a surreal flurry of firemen trying to save our home, of EMTs giving Mom another dose of Narcan, their standard questions bringing an unsettling sense of déjà vu, because I’ve been here before.

“What did she take?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you gave her Narcan. . .”

“Maybe heroin.”

“Anything else?”

“I don’t know.”

“When?”

“I don’t know.”

“How much did she take?”

“Too much, obviously.”

The crowd of curious onlookers stands nearby, watching the spectacle but offering no help, no “Come on, we’ll get you to the hospital,” as I watch the ambulance speed away, whatever energy I had drained.

Is this the last time?

How many more times can she handle?

How many more times can I handle?

I’m so tired.

“Did they tell you where they’re taking her?”

His deep voice startles me. For a moment, I actually forgot the guy was here. “St. Bart’s.” That’s where they always take her.

“We should follow them, then.”

“We?” I turn to regard him. He’s shifting from foot to foot, keys already dangling in hand, looking ready to bolt. I can’t blame him. “I’ll find my own way.” That’s probably what he’s waiting to hear.

“Come on. I’ll drive you.”

“Why?” It’s a loaded question. Why is he offering to drive me? Why is he even here? Why did he help me? “What do you want from me?” Everyone wants something.