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“Carnegie,” I rasp. “Are you ill? Or were you?”
His eyes close, and my heart pounds sickly. I move off his chest, where I’d been lying, and he sits up, staring blankly at the pond in front of him.
I watch him swallow. Then, so quietly, he says, “Yeah.”
I feel faint with alarm.
What’s the matter?
He breathes for a moment, still as a stone. His jaw hardens as his eyes move to mine. “Back in November,” he says evenly, “I overdosed.”
He offers nothing more, and I can’t seem to find my voice. My chest feels like it’s frozen solid.
“I was in the ICU.” I see his hand flex, making a fist in his lap. “On a ventilator for a little while.”
I drag air into my lungs. “All the tubing?”
“Yeah, that’s what that was.” His eyes find mine again for a brief moment. Then he’s stretching back out on his back, one arm behind his head. His blank gaze points at the sky. Conversation over, then?
I lie on my side, my cheek propped in my palm.
Is that really it? I’ve no clue what to say back. I didn’t know. Of course not. I’m so sorry. Is there anything more trite? What was it like? Quite prying.
I’ve no clue what to say, so I scoot closer. After a moment feeling like I’ve just swallowed a fly, I rest my cheek against his pec. I wrap my arm over his chest. When he doesn’t stiffen, I relax against him.
It’s okay. My fingers rub the softness of his jacket. It’s okay, Carnegie. You’re okay now.
I try not to think of it. I don’t want to think of him there, with his face red and his eyes taped shut, his lips around a tube because he can’t breathe for himself. I saw the image briefly, but his chest and face were covered with so many wires and tubes. I’ve seen nothing like it—ever.
I drape my leg over his, shut my eyes.
You’re where you should be now—with me.
I feel a breath move through his torso. “My uh…cousin had a flight to catch, a redeye…headed here. To Cape Town. He remembered that he had this box of balls. Baseballs. So he came by.” A cool breeze makes me shiver, and his hand rests on my shoulder. “He’s the one that found me.”
My throat knots up. I swallow hard and feel him inhale.
“It was pretty fucked up…but they got me back.” A tremor moves through him. Again, he inhales deeply.
“Got you back.” I dare a peek at his face, finding his eyes closed.
“They gave me Narcan. There was a defibrillator.”
Narcan. That’s the medicine that helps if someone’s given—or takes—too much opiate-based medication. We have some here, for dire emergencies.
“When I woke up—” I feel him shake his head.
“What?” I whisper.
“After I got out, I decided no more rehab.”
“No?” I’m stroking his jacket, smoothing the fleece fibers as if he can feel it.
He shakes his head, and I can feel his breaths quicken. He inhales, long and slow, and seems to steel himself.
“That shit doesn’t work.” Another big breath. “It’s not rocket science to get clean. Afterward—” He shakes his head. Locks his jaw. I feel him inhale deeply, and he says, “Sorry you saw that. I should have been more careful.”
“Please don’t be—sorry.” I shift my weight a bit and ease my hand into his jacket’s collar, stroke his warm neck. “I can handle anything. It’s what I do, that—caring for the ill. And there’s no pity,” I add softly.
