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“Thank you so much,” I say to him. “I hope you have a lovely day.”
“And same to you, miss. It’s been my pleasure,” he replies, closing the door and returning to the driver’s seat and pulling away.
I sigh and make my way to the door.
I fish through my purse for my house key. I know it’s in here somewhere. I fumble past loose change and three tubes of chapstick before finally pulling out my small ring of keys.
“Aha!” I say out loud to myself.
God. I haven’t been this animated in ages. From all the stress of Mom and Dad’s business and Anders’s antics, it’s been hard to remember how to care for myself and decompress.
For once, I’m relieved for Anders to not be home when I walk through the door. Even while the auction went well and put money into our pockets, just knowing he didn’t give me a choice leaves me just slightly unsure of my feelings about his hand in it.
And I couldn’t imagine what I’d even say if he asked how my night went. It’s just not something I want to talk about with him.
I sigh and slide the key into the lock and turn it to unlock the door. I turn the door handle and step through the doorway to see Anders lying in the middle of the entryway floor.
My heart drops instantly, and tears rush to the surface of my eyes and involuntarily start flowing down my cheeks. Countless thoughts run through my head as I grab my phone and dial our doctor’s personal phone, Mr. Pembroke.
How long has he been like this? What time might he have passed out? What the fuck did he even take?
It sickens me that this is such a regular occurrence with Anders that I don’t bother with calling an ambulance anymore. It’s always some stupid fucking cocktail of scripts, and Dr. Pembroke is always able to do a flush on him at home, discreetly.
I sit on the floor, Anders’s head resting in my lap. I stroke his hair and just study his quiet face until Dr. Pembroke arrives.
We go through our usual screening process.
“Any needles?” he asks.
“Nope.”
“Injection sites?”
“No.”
“Opiate bottles anywhere?”
Shit. I forgot to check. I stand and walk over to the kitchen table and see a prescription for Michael Suddeth.
“Oxycodone,” I announce from the other room.
“Oh, good. I’m well-equipped then,” he explains.
I take a deep breath, followed by a sigh of relief. I always have this lingering fear that Dr. Pembroke can’t fix him. But his words and his tone have my nerves at ease.
Now that Anders is getting attended to, I shake my head and shift my focus to what I wanted to do when I got home. Settling the business accounts.
His treatment usually takes about an hour, and I might as well be productive. If anything happens, I’m literally a room away from Anders and Dr. Pembroke.
Besides, I need to take a step back from him and the situation. I trust my brother’s and my own life with Dr. Pembroke, and I know he’ll do right by us.
I pop open my laptop and sign on to our various past due accounts and do some bank transfers from my now fat personal checking account, getting us in good standing and current. I take a gigantic sigh of relief as I grab the top of my laptop and close it.
Just after, Dr. Pembroke peeks his head into the kitchen.
“He needs help, Aurora,” he says to me, trying to deliver the reality of it all in a gentle but serious way.
“I know that, Doc. He knows it, too. But I can’t force him to go if he doesn’t want the help. He’ll just check himself out again,” I explain.
“Well, promise me you’ll have the conversation with him again. I’ve treated your family’s ailments for years, and he’s worse off than ever. I don’t want him to break my heart, too, you know. I love you both dearly,” he pleads.
“I promise. Thank you so much for getting here so quickly and getting him stable,” I reply.
“I’ll always come to you as quickly as you holler,” he says. “Now, he needs to get in his bed if we want him to rest properly. Can you assist me, Ms. Aurora?”
“Absolutely,” I answer.
I walk with Dr. Pembroke out to the hallway, and we lift him as best we can and bring him to his room, laying him on his bed.
I grab a pillow, fluff it, and place it behind his head. I push his bangs out of his face and kiss his forehead before turning and departing the room.
“About how long before he wakes up?” I ask.
“Oh, an hour or so. If it’s longer than two hours, smack his face a bit to jostle him. And if he still doesn’t respond, call me again. I’ll be around the area for the afternoon to be sure I can help. As a matter of fact, send me a quick text message when he wakes so I know not to worry about him,” he instructs.
