Two hours later, armed with a list of colors I have to get swatches of from the local hardware store, I lock the doors, a grin playing on my lips.
Life is finally on an upward swing for the first time in a long time, and I can’t wait to see what happens.
CHAPTER TWO
Phoebe
“God, I hate long days,” I mumble as I make my way to my front door.
As I walk along the pathway, I once again admire the eclectic cottage style house I managed to find and purchase almost six years ago. In addition to the house, which sits on five acres, I have a detached garage that has an enclosed breezeway so that during the winter months, I can be protected from the elements. Most of the time, however, after I pull into my garage, I get out of my vehicle, close the garage door, walk down to get my mail, then come in through the front door.
Part of the reason I do something that’s probably silly to other people is so that I can check my flower beds to see if any of them need any work. But the other reason? I’m proud of what I’ve been able to build on my own. Well, mostly by myself, anyhow. My maternal grandparents left me a sizable inheritance, which completely paid for my education, with a nice chunk left over to float me until I got a job. Because the house had been on themarket for such a long time, I got it for a song, and was able to put a sizable down payment on it. My mortgage is beyond manageable, and with no student loans, I’ve been able to build a nice nest egg.
I’m an ICU nurse, but I often pick up shifts in the emergency room. My education, coupled with my experience, means that I’m definitely making bank every payday, something I’m tickled about because I have some renovations I’m going to do in the kitchen, and I almost have enough saved to pay for it outright.
Stepping through the door, I close and lock it, then hang up my keys. It’s then that I realize the house is almost unnaturally still. I slip my shoes off and put them on the mat that’s off to the side by the door, then make my way further into the house. The foyer itself opens up into a large living room that has a massive stone fireplace, with hallways that branch off from there. If I go straight back, I’ll end up in the kitchen, which has a small family room, a sunroom, a laundry room, and a pantry that shoots out in each direction. The laundry and mud room are the first rooms after coming through the covered breezeway from the garage, while the pantry, which is humongous, is another walk-in room with shelves, a subzero freezer, and a wine fridge. The sunroom is reached through French doors that are to the left of the breakfast nook. All in all, it’s very cozy and inviting, with a homey feel.
Peering through the archway into the family room, I note that the television is switched off, and the blinds are drawn. “Weird,” I muse out loud. Rosa’s car was in the garage, so she’s home, which makes it even stranger that nothing’s cooking in the kitchen, and there’s no activity in the family room. A small whimper has me turning around to head down the hallway that bisects the house to Rosa’s room.
As I get closer, the hair stands up on the back of my neck and I find myself moving faster, not stopping to knock as I breach the doorway. Spotting Cami in her crib, I look around to see Rosa crumpled on the floor, an empty pill bottle by her side.
“Oh, Jesus,” I whimper as I drop to my knees, my phone already in my hand as I dial 911 before checking for a pulse. Finding none, I begin chest compressions as the dispatcher answers and I give her all the information I know, which admittedly, is not very much, just as the first rib breaks. “I have a thirty-two-year-old female, unresponsive, with an empty pill bottle laying next to her,” I advise as I continue pushing on Rosa’s chest. “I don’t know how long she’s been this way, I just got home. I’m doing CPR now. I have a code to access my home, is it on file?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m dispatching EMS now, do you need me to stay on the line?” the responder asks.
“No, I don’t believe so. I can’t give her rescue breaths because I’m doing CPR, but that’s the priority.” Looking at the bottle, I see she took whatever was left in her prescription for her muscle relaxers. “She took Zanaflex, four milligram tablets, but I don’t know when they were filled or how many were left and I don’t want to stop what I’m doing to look at the bottle,” I admit.
“They’ll get that information once they get there,” she says. I can hear her typing away but my focus, my goal, is to get Rosa breathing again. “They should be there in the next five minutes.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, as I feel another rib break. The call disconnects just as Cami starts to wail. “Sorry, sweet pea, but Auntie Fee can’t help you right now.”
I think that’s the worst thing about doing CPR. Television makes it look so damn easy, but in reality, it’s not. I can already feel thesweat as it pours down my face and my arms are burning with the exertion I’m expending. “Come on, Rosa, dammit, don’t do this to your daughter!” I mutter. “What were you thinking?”
Rosa has been living with me for the past year and a half, ever since she and her boyfriend broke up. When she found out she was pregnant, I begged her to tell him, but she refused and since I didn’t know who he was, I wasn’t able to go behind her back to inform him he was going to be a father. According to her, he didn’t deserve to know that she was expecting, and after a while, I got tired of arguing with her.
I get a notification on my phone that the front door has been opened and yell, “I’m back here,” but never stop what I’m doing until one of the paramedics moves me and takes over while the second one uses an ambu bag to push air into her lungs.
Sitting back on my haunches, I grab the pill bottle and look to see when it was filled and how many pills she was given. “It was filled two weeks ago,” I state, “and there were ninety pills initially. But I honestly don’t know how many she might have taken.” Cami’s wails grow louder so I stand, my arms aching and heavy even though my legs are shaking and walk to the crib. “Shhh, sweet girl, I’ve got you,” I coo as I pick her up.
The first thing I notice is that she’s completely soaked through her onesie, which tells me she’s been in a wet diaper for a bit since Rosa typically changes her right away. I relay that information as I walk over to the changing table and strip Cami down before I clean her up, put a fresh diaper on her then get her dressed once again.
“Got a rhythm,” the male paramedic says.
“Do you need me to get anything?” I ask. I’m unsure how to help them, quite honestly, since nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I may be a nurse, but outside of the times I cover in the ER, most of the information about a patient is already known to me before I get to their bedside.
“No, I’m going to grab the gurney now,” he says as the female paramedic bags the prescription bottle.
“Do you have her license or insurance information?” the female paramedic asks.
“It should be in her wallet,” I state. Looking around, I see her purse and pull out the wallet so I can get the information they need. “Here,” I say, handing her both cards. “I’ll be right behind you. I need to pack a bag for the baby.”
“Is it hers?” the female asks, her voice softening.
“Yeah, her name is Camille, but we call her Cami,” I reply, my hands automatically filling the diaper bag. I need to grab a couple of clean bottles from the kitchen, as well as some water and the canister of formula so I can mix them as needed since I have no clue how long I’ll be at the hospital.
In no time at all, they’ve got Rosa loaded into the back of the ambulance and are on their way to the hospital I work at, the one I just left after working a double shift.
“Your cousin suffered an anoxic brain injury,” Dr. Patel, the neurologist, says. “Right now, we show minimal brain stem activity, and not knowing how long she was unresponsive before you got home, I have to advise that the situation is dire.”