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Closing my eyes, I hold fast to that memory, willing it to be true once more. Sending Ilya that same strength and vitality.Please, Ilya, just live.
And when the ambulance pulls up in front of the hospital minutes later, my brave, impulsive Russian is still clinging to life, the heart monitor confirming it with gentle, reassuring blips.
I’m all but invisible as the ambulance doors fly open and Annie and Ronnie leap from the back with newfound urgency that tells me Ilya is not out of the woods yet.
“Gunshot victim, multiple wounds to the back. He’s lost a lot of blood and flatlined on the way over, but we were able to bring him back,” Annie rapid fires at the nurses who rush out to meet them.
As soon as Ilya’s unloaded, I clamber off the bench seat and climb shakily down from the ambulance to follow him inside. I’m so weak, I can barely stand on my own two feet, but I can’t let him out of my sight. I’m scared that if I do, it will be the last time I see him. They transition his body from the EMT gurney to a more stable, cushioned hospital one.
“Take him straight to surgery,” a nurse dressed in aqua scrubs says as he takes charge, and Ilya’s life trades hands.
Several nurses surround the gurney as it bumps through the hospital lobby heading toward a set of automatic double doors.
“Miss, I need you to stay here,” someone says, their hand gripping my shoulder as they stop me in my tracks.
“But…” I watch frantically as Ilya vanishes behind the closing double doors.
“I’m sorry, but you can’t go in there,” the nurse says, and I meet her steady gaze. “He’s in good hands,” she assures me. “Why don’t you get checked in? We’ll stitch you up as soon as possible.”
Numb with anxiety and fear for Ilya’s life, I nod and let her guide me toward the front desk. My hand raises automatically toward my lips as I fall back on my old habit of chewing my nails. But when I catch sight of the dark crimson staining my skin, I stop short. I’m covered in it. Ilya’s blood. I stare in wonder at the dried fluid coating my hands and lower arms like some gruesome version of elbow-length gloves.
Revulsion rises up in me, and I make a sharp detour toward a small trash near the waiting room. Fortunately, Ilya and I hadn’t gotten around to eating tonight, so when my stomach heaves violently, nothing comes up.
38
WHITNEY
I clean myself up at the hospital as best I can while I wait to get patched up and hear news about Ilya. My fingers tremble as I stand in front of the bathroom sink, scrubbing and scrubbing the blood from my nails, my hands, my arms, my face. I’m covered in it, and it frightens me to think that what I’m wearing is only a small fraction of the blood he lost.
When I’ve done all I can do to remove the gore from my body, I head back out to the waiting room. And sit, my knees bouncing, my thoughts in turmoil. Though the temptation is nagging, I don’t dare chew my nails because I painted them a similar shade of red as the blood, and every time I look at them, it makes my stomach turn. I can’t believe it was just this morning that I was keeping my mind busy with menial tasks to avoid worrying too much about my conversation with Ilya.
It all seems so ridiculous now. My self-doubt, the anxiety, all that wasted time when I could have just faced my emotions and said something. Now, I would give anything to make sure Ilya is okay. Even if it meant we broke up rather than got together. Whatever it would take. Because I would rather know he’s alive and happy, even if I can’t have him, than to have seen a glimmer of happiness with him only to have it snatched away.
“Whitney Carlson?” a nurse calls a short time later and guides me back into a room to get stitched up.
“It’s not too bad,” she says as she pricks the tender skin with a needle. Tingling numbness quickly follows. “Five or six stitches ought to do the trick. You might have a scar, but I doubt it will be too noticeable.”
I remain silent as she gets to work, and I avoid looking at her progress, worried the sight of blood might make me want to throw up again. She’s efficient, and I can feel her tugging at my skin, though it doesn’t hurt.
“You came in with the male gunshot victim, didn’t you?” she asks, her voice gentle.
My eyes snap to her face as I search for answers. “Is he out of surgery yet? Is he alright?” I ask urgently. Though I was assured they would give me an update as soon as his surgery was over, I keep worrying that they might forget. It feels like it’s been far too long.How long can a person be under the knife? God, please don’t be dead.
The nurse shakes her head, making my heart stop. “I haven’t heard anything, but I believe he’s still in surgery.”
I press my eyes closed as I realize her head shake was in answer to whether he’s out of surgery. Fuck, my nerves are so frayed I feel like I’m about to fall off the deep end. Biting my lip, I try to keep my emotions in check. I can’t afford to lose it, not yet.
“Hon, is there someone you want us to call, let them know you’re here? A family member maybe?” The nurse rises from her stool and walks to the counter, disposing of the bloody gauze before picking up a bottle of something.
I swallow hard and look down at my arm as she returns to smear antiseptic across the freshly sewn stitches that make my arm resemble Frankenstein’s monster. She covers the ugly sight with a fresh strip of white gauze, then she tapes it down.
Is there someone I should call?I lost my phone in all the turmoil today, so if I want someone to come for me, I’ll have to take the nurse up on her offer. Normally, I might say my mom, but as my lips part to respond automatically, I recall her telling me she would be in Hawaii. My heart palpitates as I realize there’s a possibility she’s getting a proposal from her boyfriend. It feels too ironic that I might be losing the man I love on one of the happiest days of my mom’s life. I push the thought aside, trying to focus on the nurse’s simple question rather than dwelling on the dark observation.
Ilya is the only other person who comes to mind. In truth, he might have been my first thought if not for the fact that he’s already given me everything a man can give. He’s put his life on the line for mine and left me all alone to endure the unbearable pain of his mortality. Fresh tears sting the back of my eyes as I realize how alone I am, and I shake my head. “There’s no one.”
The nurse’s face grows sympathetic, and she gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Why don’t you wait in here for a bit, get your strength back? I’ll check on you again in a little while. You can let me know then if you think of anyone you want to call.”
I nod numbly as she removes her surgical gloves, disposing of them before she turns to leave.
