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The cab doesn’t come to a full stop in front of the Emergency Room when I toss a hundred-dollar bill in the front and push the door open. I race through the sliding doors.
The place is packed with people. Some old, some young, babies sitting on their mother’s laps. I spot the desk in the far corner and push past a woman escorting an elderly lady with a walker. I startle the nurse when I come to an abrupt stop in front of the desk, and she narrows her eyes.
“I’m looking for Lilah Robbie. She was brought in here by ambulance,” I say, panting from a mixture of rushing here and stress increasing my heart rate.
She purses her lips. “Are you related to her?”
“No, but I…”
The corners of her lips tip up, and instead of judgment, her eyes now hold disbelief. She’s figured out who I am.
“Oh my God!” she screams, then leans forward as if we’re sharing a secret. “Are you James Crawford?”
It’s clear I’m going to get further with this woman if I play to my celebrity status, so I smack on my most charismatic smile and do what I love—act. “Can you keep a secret?”
She nods with vigor.
“I am.”
The nurse, whose name tag reads Leslie, bounces off her seat. “I knew it. Oh, I loved your last movie—where you played that soldier? You were so good in it. I can’t believe you’re standing here in front of me right now. James Crawford!”
I glance behind me to see if anyone is paying attention or has their cell phone out for a picture, but everyone here appears too deep into their own misery to be concerned. “Thank you, that’s very nice of you. Now do you think you could tell me where my friend Lilah Robbie is? She was brought in by ambulance.”
“Anything for you,” she says and turns her attention to the computer, typing away on the keys. “Yes, she’s here. I don’t know her status, but she’s still in this unit. She hasn’t been moved yet.”
“Is she going to be all right?” I lean over the desk, my hands splayed in front of me.
“I have no idea. Why don’t I slip back and see if I can get an update for you?”
Relief worms through me. “I’d really appreciate that.”
“Okay, give me a second.” She heads farther into the unit behind her until she turns down a hall and I can’t see her anymore.
I push up off the desk and undo my bow tie. Unable to stand still with all this nervous energy and anxiety rolling through me, I pace with one hand gripping my hair and the other on my waist.She has to be okay. She has to be okay. She has to be okay.
The false assurances I give myself do nothing to make me feel as if she will.
A couple minutes later, Leslie returns with a grim look on her face. I stand in front of the desk, not moving, barely breathing, afraid to ask.
“She’s still alive,” she says with a matter-of-fact tone. “If you want, I can bring you back so the doctors can talk to you.”
“Thank you, thank you!”
Leslie points at the large set of swinging doors to the right of her desk. “Head through those. I’ll buzz you in.”
Wasting no time, I move to the door.
The energy back here is completely different. While outside in the waiting room, the feeling was morose and stagnant, behind these doors, there’s a not-quite-frantic feeling permeating the air.
Leslie approaches, smiling, and I return it with an awkward one of my own.
“Follow me.”
I wish she’d pick up the pace. It’s as if she’s out for a Sunday stroll, and it’s all I can do not to put my hands on her shoulders and push her to move faster.
She brings me to the very end of the row and stops outside a curtained-off space. “Nurse Rangefield?” she calls through the blue fabric.
An older woman with shoulder-length, curly brown hair appears around the curtain. She’s all business and glances at Leslie reproachfully before setting her gaze on me.
