“You’re lying.”
“I don’t know anything for sure.”
“Yeah, Conor, that’s sort of the theme of this conversation. Maybe my whole life, if we want to get existential about it.”
“I mean, there are just whispers about it.” He dropped his voice so Landon had to strain to hear. “The side effects.”
“Of the pill?” Landon asked, like an idiot.
Conor didn’t waste breath affirming. “Some people aren’t tolerating it.”
“You think that Rose—”
“I don’t know what I think, and this is not me diagnosing her. But I’ve seen a few cases now here in Boston, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Especially Rose. Not any version of her.”
“That would be all over the news by now, wouldn’t it?”
He could almost hear Conor shaking his head. “No one listens to doctors anymore, Landon. You know that.”
“Well, what happened to them?”
Conor paused, then evaded the question. “How has she been feeling? Have you noticed anything that seems off? I mean, as well as you can notice something off about a person you’ve just met.” Conor swore under his breath. “Sorry, that’s not exactly what I meant. You know what I mean, right?”
A sound startled him. It took his brain a beat too long to reconcile the animal scream with the conclusion that it had comefrom the woman he’d checked on compulsively all through the long night. He didn’t bother hanging up the phone—just let it drop to the floor.
“Rose?” he called, running toward the bedroom door and flinging it open.
She was lying in the bed, circled into herself like a cat. It would have been another moment he’d wished he had his old camera if it weren’t for all the blood.
There was so much blood.
“Oh my God, Rose.” He was going to be sick. Blood stained the stark white duvet and spilled over the bright white sheets, equal parts beautiful and haunting, like the half faces of their daughter at the drafting table. “Rose!” He cupped her cheek with his hand and slapped the side of her face lightly to see if he could wake her. “Wake up!” he yelled. “Oh God, please, wake up!”
This wasn’t happening. This could not be happening. He needed help. He needed help, now. Did he even know the UK equivalent of 911? Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He retrieved his phone and with shaking hands dialed the only number he had committed to memory that was not Rose’s. Poppy picked up on the first ring.
“What the hell do you want?” She was clearly groggy and not at all interested in whatever scheme she must have assumed he’d cooked up.
Landon found he could not speak. The words came out garbled.
“What?” she asked. “Landon, what the hell are you saying?”
“Help,” he managed. “Rose.” Fuck. “You have to help.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Please,” he cried, “call. Call an ambulance.”
“Where?” she yelled. “Call an ambulance where?”
He had one job to do, and he commanded his body to do it. “Her flat. Holyrood. 39 Holyrood. 5B.”
She muttered the address then swore, loudly. “Landon, what’s wrong with her? Please, tell me what’s wrong!” He didn’t know and wouldn’t have wasted time telling her if he did, so he hung up the phone.
The ambulance was coming. The ambulance would be here, and she would be okay. But the blood. Oh God, there was so much blood. Landon slid into the bed behind her and gathered her into his arms, holding her like a baby, thinking that maybe if he leaned her head back far enough, he could stop the blood from leaving her body at such an alarming rate. He pressed two fingers on her wrist to make sure he could still feel a pulse. It was faint, but it was there. This wasn’t happening again. This could not be happening again.
“Please,” he cried. “Please, don’t leave me.” Was he talking to his Rose or this Rose? “I’m sorry,” he said. “Rose, I am so, so sorry.” His Rose, or this Rose?
