Dreamland(75)

I laid Paige down and walked alongside as the gurney began moving toward the back. Repeating to the nurse what I’d said to the dispatcher, I handed over the empty prescription bottle. A moment later, the gurney disappeared behind locked doors, and I was told to return to the waiting room.

Then, like a switch had been pulled, the world descended into slow motion.

Others in the waiting room had settled back down after the commotion I’d caused, reverting into their own worlds. I was told I had to sign in for Paige and stood in a slow-moving line, until finally reaching the window. I sat and filled out forms, detailing Paige’s medical and health-insurance information. When finished, I was instructed to take a seat.

In the aftermath of flooding adrenaline, I practically collapsed into a plastic chair, feeling disoriented. There were men, women, and children of every age, but I was only distantly aware of them. Instead, I thought of all that had happened. I wondered if I’d made it to the hospital in time and if Paige would live. I tried to imagine what was being done to help my sister, tried to imagine the orders a doctor was calling out, but couldn’t picture a thing.

I waited, then waited some more. Time continued to slow. I’d check the time on my phone, sure that twenty minutes had passed, only to realize it had been just five. I tried to distract myself with the internet and learn what I could about overdoses, but there was little about the drug I thought she’d taken other than warnings and prompts that immediate treatment at a hospital was necessary. Sometime later, I thought about calling Morgan but wasn’t sure what I’d be able to tell her, because I had no answers. Seated opposite me was a woman who was knitting, her movements hypnotic.

Saturday night—or technically, Sunday morning, I suppose—was a busy one at the emergency room. People continued to stream in and out every few minutes. When I had waited for what felt like an intolerable length of time, I approached the admissions window again and begged the nurse to tell me what was happening with my sister. In my mind’s eye, I imagined her intubated while the doctors performed dark magic to keep her alive. The nurse said she’d see what she could find out and would let me know as soon as she did.

I returned to my seat, frightened and angry, exhausted and tense. I felt like crying; in the next instant, I wanted to break something. I wanted to kick through a door or window, and then suddenly I felt like crying again. How, I wondered, was it possible for everything to have gone so wrong in such a short period of time? And why hadn’t I been told anything?

I wanted to be angry at Toby. He’d told me that my sister was at the hospital earlier, and because I’d believed him, I hadn’t sent him back to the house. By the time I realized that I needed him to do just that, he wasn’t answering his phone. Had he answered, he could have gotten Paige to the hospital sooner. Had he answered, he might have prevented the overdose in the first place.

But it wasn’t his fault. It was the nurses who’d been mistaken about seeing Paige earlier, but, honestly, I knew it wasn’t their fault, either. All of this was my fault. For going to Florida. For not calling every day, even though part of me knew I should have. And as my anger turned inward, I realized I hated myself, for had I been at home, my sister would be alive and well.

I continued to wait. Meanwhile, the rest of the world persisted in its ordinary routines, though nothing felt normal to me. Names were called, and one by one, patients vanished behind the doors. Often, family members or friends accompanied them; sometimes they didn’t. Some eventually emerged; others remained hidden in the bowels of the hospital. A child who wouldn’t stop crying was brought in and seen immediately. A man with a homemade sling had been waiting even longer than I had.

More hours passed. When there was still no word about Paige, I checked with the nurse again. Again, she said she’d let me know. I returned to my seat, aching with fatigue but knowing that sleep was impossible. An hour before dawn, a nurse finally came to fetch me, and I was led to the back. Because Paige had been admitted and transferred elsewhere, I couldn’t see her, but I was introduced to a harried physician who looked barely older than I was.

Her expression was serious, and she admitted it was still too early to know whether Paige was going to make it; she added that she’d had to request the help of another critical-care specialist to even ensure that Paige survived as long as she had. The next few hours would be crucial, she said; until then, there wasn’t much more she could tell me. At the end, surprising me, she placed a sympathetic hand on my shoulder before returning to her duties.





I checked into a nearby hotel. Not only was I too worn out to make the drive, but being surrounded by the chaos of the house would conjure up images of Paige’s activities during the past week, and I didn’t have the strength or energy to face them.

In the hotel room, I drew the shades and fell asleep immediately, only to jolt awake a few hours later.

Paige, I thought.

Aunt Angie.

I showered and dressed in clean clothes, then made the short drive to the hospital. In the emergency room, I asked about Paige, but the shifts had changed, and it took almost half an hour for me to learn the location of the room to which she’d been transferred. But the nurse could offer me no additional information.

At the main visitors’ desk, I learned where I could find my aunt, but I decided to check on my sister first. When I finally reached Paige’s room, I found her intubated and hooked to a slew of machines and IV bags, unconscious. I kissed her cheek, whispering in her ear that I’d be back, then wound my way to another wing and floor of the hospital.