I dismiss the doctor and shut the front door.
Pneumonia? How the hell did Zahra go from making snow angels in Central Park less than a week ago to a nasty case of pneumonia? She went from the sniffles to bedridden faster than I’ve seen anyone decline.
Something thumping against the floor makes the ceiling vibrate.
“Zahra?” I bolt up the stairs and throw open the bedroom door at the end of the hall. The pulse point at my neck throbs to a wickedly fast beat as I walk into the empty bedroom. The sheets are nothing but a haphazard mess, empty of the severely ill woman who should be sleeping.
My eyes snap to the bathroom door.
“Shit!” I don’t think. I don’t breathe. I do nothing but run toward a set of tan legs peeking out from the doorframe. My knees slam into the marble beside a small puddle of blood.
“Zahra? Zahra! Are you okay?” My voice croaks.
I drag her useless body into my arms. With a shaky hand, I swipe her hair away from her face. She’s pale. Too pale. Like the life was drained out of her somehow within the five minutes I went to show the doctor out. I’m pretty sure a piece of my frozen heart shatters right off.
She doesn’t respond, and her eyes remain shut. Her chest rises and falls from her shallow breaths, and I exhale slowly, relieved she’s breathing. A trail of blood seeps from a nasty gash at the top of her forehead.
I’m careful not to jostle her as I fumble for my cellphone in my pocket and dial 911. They ask too many damn questions, and I’m at a loss for answers except to tell them to get here fast.
“Zahra.” I reach for a hand towel within arm’s distance and press it against her head wound.
She doesn’t wince. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t do anything but lay there in my arms, absent of everything that makes her so very her.
Her smile. Her laugh. Her constant flushed cheeks whenever I’m around.
My chest squeezes. “Zahra!” I squeeze her body against mine, hoping something snaps her awake, but I’m met with silence. Her soft exhales are the only thing keeping me from losing my shit.
“Zahra. Wake up!” A drop lands on her forehead. I look at the ceiling but don’t find anything leaking. Another drop splatters against her face, trickling down into the blood trail.
It takes me a second to realize the water is coming from me. My tears.
Always crying like a little girl. My father’s slur of a voice slithers into my ear.
“Come on, Zahra. Wake up.” I shake her body.
She moans as she reaches for her head, but I push it out of the way.
“Thank fucking Christ.” I can’t understand whatever gibberish comes out of her mouth. There’s a mix of incoherent words which only adds to my concern that she fucked up her head from the fall. Nothing makes sense, and I’m worried I might have further aggravated her head injury when I shook her.
“Fuck!” I drop the towel and grip her harder to my chest.
Did I harm her? In my desperation, I didn’t think. Didn’t consider the pros and cons of moving her body. I reacted and lost control, yet again.
Her blood seeps into my shirt, sticky and clinging. My entire body trembles as I hold on to her.
What the fuck was I thinking shaking her body like that? She already has a head injury.
Fuck. That’s the thing. I’m not thinking. I allowed my already useless emotions to get to me.
She wheezes, turning one cough into a whole coughing fit.
The sound of the sirens grows closer. Only then do the tears stop falling.
I’ve never ridden in an ambulance, but my skin remains permanently clammy during the entire trip while the paramedics work on stabilizing Zahra’s condition. Zahra is somewhat coherent, responding to a few questions with her eyes closed.
Zahra winces as they bandage up her forehead. The monitor’s beeps become more erratic, a staccato matching the beat of my heart.
Her pain makes me want to rage. To throw shit around and scream because I feel like it’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have left her alone while she was half lucid. Hell, if I had said no to half the shit we did in New York, we might not even be in this position.
Is this how my dad felt when my mother was rushed to the hospital time and time again? This burning desperation to do something yet the inability to fix anything?
The thought hits too close to home. How could I have been this much of an idiot? I willingly became like my father, giving in to a woman’s every whim until they took over all my thoughts and influenced my actions. I’ve rearranged my schedule, took nights off to attend mentorship events, and went on vacation when I should have been working. Fuck. I was even willing to give up my future as the CFO to stay with her at Dreamland.
What the hell is wrong with me?
The truth is I became soft and easily swayed by her. And for what? To willingly subject myself to this feeling of powerlessness?
Fuck that. I absolutely despise whatever is wreaking havoc on my head and heart. If I never feel it again, I’d consider myself forever grateful.
This is why I should’ve listened to my gut instinct when I first met Zahra. There was something about her that warned me away, but I didn’t pay enough attention.
A tremor runs through my body, but the adrenaline still coursing through me doesn’t let me give in to exhaustion.
The doors open and I’m pushed out of the way as they roll Zahra out and through the Emergency Room bay. I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience as I walk through the sliding doors. I’m hit with the offensive smell of antiseptic cleaner.
I’m running on autopilot, completely missing the nurse calling for my attention.
“Are you family?” She taps on my shoulder again, pulling me from wherever the hell my mind keeps drifting to.
“What?”
“Family or friend?” Her lips purse.
“Fiancé.” I’ve seen enough TV shows to know how it works around here.
She gives me a quick scan as if she can detect my lie, but she shockingly nods.
“Fine. Follow me.” She leads me into a waiting room. The peeling linoleum tile and the flickering fluorescent light in one corner add to the tightness in my chest. There are a few people seated at different corners of the room.
My hands shake. I haven’t been to a hospital since my grandpa’s accident. And before then, my mom’s death. Hospitals and I have a bad history and a low success rate. And now, it’s a place where my present and my past have collided.
The nurse moves to leave, but I call for her.
“I want my fiancée placed in a private room,” I blurt out.
She looks down at her clipboard. “Once she’s stabilized, that’s up to her insurance policy. Is she on your plan?”
My jaw clenches down. I have no idea what kind of insurance Zahra has, let alone if they allow for private rooms.
Knowing the insurance plans your employees have, do you really expect anything more?
My selfishness has a way of coming back to bite me in the ass. And the worst part is it’s only just begun.
