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Fuck time.
I should have gone with my gut instinct and made him tell me about his ordeal so he could heal faster. This treading around like I’m on an icy lake thawing out is bullshit.
I take a deep breath and remind myself not to panic because my thoughts are mashing together, and it’s pointless looking for blame.
The sirens stop when the van pulls into the driveway. I greet two male paramedics and lead them up the stairs. They assess Samuel, asking questions and discussing his condition with his father.
The sight of him like this crushes me. He’s so pale he looks—I can’t say the word.
Don’t you dare leave me again.
Tears choke my throat.
Please, Samuel. Fight whatever it is because I need you.
They take his blood pressure, immediately place a mask over his face, and begin oxygen therapy.
One officer pulls out a silver foil blanket and wraps it over Samuel. The other inserts a cannula into his arm and sets up a fluid bag. They talk in medical terminology to Christopher, and although I can understand some, all I hear is my heartbeat thumping in my chest while watching them inject drugs into the cannula.
“Does Dr. McMahon suffer from anorexia nervosa?”
“No. His condition is unique,” I say in a low voice because I’ve heard unconscious people can hear, and I don’t want to talk about him as though he’s not in the room. “My fiancé was lost in the South American jungle for some time.” The paramedics and Christopher gape at me. “He was close to starvation and physically exhausted. He also suffers nightmares, and I assumed it was PTSD.”
One officer makes a note while continuing to monitor his blood pressure.
“He’ll require VPI,” Christopher says quietly. “And more blood tests considering his environment over the past several years. I wanted him to undergo more testing on his brief visit to Los Angeles, our home, in early August, only he was determined to travel to Australia only a couple of weeks after emerging from the jungle.”
The paramedics and Christopher continue talking in their own jargon. My vision blurs from tears. I never knew what happened when Samuel first arrived in LA and those vital few weeks after barely making it out alive.
Has he known all along he was unwell, and it’s why he rushed here to see us instead of seeking medical treatment?
“He should wake,” the taller paramedic tells me after administering drugs into the cannula.
Samuel moans and opens his eyes.
“Hey.” I sit beside him and run my hand over his cheek.
He blinks several times and looks around the room as though trying to comprehend his whereabouts. “What happened?” he murmurs.
I shake my head. “I don’t know.” I swipe tears from my eyes.
“Did I pass out?”
I shake my head.
“Dr. McMahon,” the tall officer begins. “You’re hypotensive. We’re unsure if it could be from an infection leading to sepsis. Although your temperature is dangerously low, so you may have suffered shock from a nightmare. Your partner informed us of your recent trip, and you may have suffered some trauma.”
Samuel’s gaze flicks to mine.
I’m not backing down this time.
Christopher speaks, and Samuel’s gaze shoots to his father. He still looks disorientated. “You need the tests I suggested you undertake back home, son.”
If I leave the room, he might talk to them.
I grab clothes and head to the bathroom to change. Leaning both hands on the basin, I inhale a few conscious breaths to clear my head. Then I quickly attend to my hair, wash my face, and spray under my arms. I change into a summer dress then go into Rose’s bedroom to check on her. Thankfully, she hasn’t woken and is curled up on her side. Tentatively, I place a hand on her head. She feels warm—normal warm. After creeping out, I return to our bedroom and gather a change of clothes for Samuel because he’ll not want to remain in his boxer briefs and T-shirt.
The paramedic is talking. “We need to stabilize your temperature and blood pressure in the hospital, and you might need to remain in for a series of tests, especially on your heart. We have detected an arrhythmia. Possibly a response to what happened tonight.”
