Page 38 of Damon
“The hospital? Why?” I ask as my stomach falls. Who is hurt now? What disaster have I caused?
“It’s Emma, she’s…” He pauses, obviously collecting his thoughts. It’s a trait he has when there is difficult news to impart. “She is in the trauma unit. There was an incident. I’ll tell you more when I see you.”
“Is she going to be all right?” My voice cracks as the panic sets in at the thought of her lying in a hospital bed. Has she been hurt because of me? Is she going to be another casualty in my path of destruction?
“It’s looking promising,” he says evasively. “Just get here.”
The line goes dead, and I lower the phone from my ear. My eyes move to the closed door of the lounge. After glancing at my watch, I realize I’ve only been here for thirty minutes and now, I need to make my excuses to leave. That will go down well, not. With a sigh, I return to face Connie's parents.
***
As I pull into the parking area at King’s College Trauma Unit, a familiar dread of loss fills my chest. The last time I was here, Connie was lying in the morgue after they failed to save her. She had been dead on arrival at the hospital, though they had worked to restart her heart.
Outside the front of the building, there’s a television crew. A man stands with a camera perched on his shoulder, the lens pointed at a young woman in a hospital gown being interviewed by a gentleman dressed in scrubs. It’s a strange scenario to witness; the whole situation looks disjointed, wrong.
After parking my car, I lift my sleeping daughter in her car seat and make my way to the entrance of the accident and emergency department. Harrison stands at the sliding doors on the opposite side from the TV crew. His expression is grim as I approach him. He looks unusually casual in jeans and a plain red-hooded top. The only obvious sign of his wealth is the silver Rolex watch which glints below the cuff.
“What are they doing here?” I ask, nodding in the direction of the collection of filmmakers.
“Channel 4,” he replies, “one of those twenty-four hours in hospital shows. You know, the ones that show you all the things you don’t want to see. I had to tell them to fuck off earlier.” An elderly woman walking between us gasps audibly at his language.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he mumbles. She glares at him, shakes her head, and keeps walking. As I stop in front of him, his focus moves to the car seat in my hand. “Hello, Annie Dannie,” he whispers. She ignores him, still asleep. A soft look washes over his face, making me smile.
“Where is Emma?” I question. He signals over his shoulder with his head then turns, and I follow him into the hospital.
The building was previously a red-brick workhouse built in the 1800s. Over the years, it’s been modernized as demand increased and technology boomed, but there’s no disguising the place is hundreds of years old. My skin prickles when I think of the people who were exploited here in an era long gone.
The A&E Department is a hive of activity. Harrison strides straight through the melee and between double swinging doors sign posted TRAUMA UNIT. As I follow him along the long white corridors and up the stairs, my nerves rise. After a few minutes, we come to a stop outside a room with the name Emma Becker written on a small whiteboard attached to it.
“She’s in here,” he says, signaling to a rectangular window beside the door. I step toward the glass. Emma lies in the hospital bed, her long blonde hair twisted high on her head. She’s sleeping, and her arms lie either side of her tied with fabric to the bedrails. An oxygen mask is placed over her nose and mouth. I notice at that point, there are bandages wrapped around both her wrists. A pipe runs from a drip beside her; clear liquid descends and tracks its way down to the cannula in her hand.
“What happened?” I stammer, shocked by the sight.
“Suspected suicide attempt,” Harrison says bluntly. “Mrs. D found her in the bathtub. She was lucky not to slip below the water level.”
“Why?” My head snaps around to my friend. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I, but we sure as hell are going to find out.”
Just then, Emma starts pulling at the restraints on her wrists. I place Annie and her car seat on the floor. “Watch her,” I tell Harrison. He places a hand on my arm.
“No, I’ll call a nurse. You wait here.” He walks off to the nurses’ station, and I turn back to watch a now-panicked Emma wrestling on the bed. After a few moments, a nurse runs past us and enters the room. She goes to her patient’s side and lays a hand on her arm. Emma visibly relaxes as the woman soothes her then removes the bindings. My friend appears back at my side.
“Can I see her?”
“Give them a little time to reassure her of where she is. We don’t know what happened.”
“Attempted suicide you said.”
“I didn’t say I believed it. I persuaded them to run a blood test.”
“Based on what?”
“Gut feel,” he says with a shrug. “And my guts don’t normally lead me wrong.” We both turn back to the window. “She’s talking. I think you would be all right to go in now. I’ll watch Annie.” Accepting my friend's offer, I make my way through the door.
Emma glances at me as I enter, and her face, which was void of color, pales further on seeing me. She stares as I cross the room to her side. The nurse turns in my direction, following Emma’s focus.
“What are you doing in here?” the nurse says curtly. “No visitors.”