I turn to Sandrine, who’s getting on my already frayed nerves. I’m not going to waste precious time explaining why I’m not going to call an ambulance for my sister unless it’s absolutely necessary.
Calm down, Rachel. You’re nother.You’re notthem.
“Just hold down the fort while I’m gone, okay?” I manage to say, my tone still clipped.
“Uh, okay.”
I wave a quick goodbye to Trey and the others before racing straight outside, ignoring the blast of icy air that stings the skin of my face. My mind scrambles to calculate the time it’s going to take me to get to Océane’s place.
I haven’t been in a long while because she always insists on coming to my place instead. Finally, I manage to recall that it takes about thirty minutes by metro from downtown to reach her neighborhood.
That’s thirty minutes too long.
My heart hammers against my chest in a frenzy while I sit idly on the metro, waiting to arrive at my destination.
Sandrine is right about the ambulance being the best choice in most cases. They’d certainly get to her faster.
But Océane is vulnerable.
My sister’s fibromyalgia is the least of her worries. In the past, every time she was dragged to the hospital by force by paramedics, the panic and trauma set her back formonths.
Thanks to the abuse from our parents, Océane’s mental state is a fragile tapestry of PTSD, anxiety, depression, and dissociative amnesia held together with duct tape and a dream. And that’s only what’s officially on her list of diagnoses.
I can’t count the number of times I’ve argued with a doctor who dismissed her symptoms, spent afternoons playing phone roulette to understand why her approval for disability was lagging behind, or screamed at her psychiatrist until tears ran down my face because he’d made rude remarks to her.
I know better than anyone what she’s going through.
And it’s none of my coworkers’ business.
I shudder to eventhinkof what would have happened to my sister if I didn’t have the medical authority that comes with holding a doctorate of pharmacy. Being ten years my junior, she never gets taken seriously for her issues.
Except when I’m there.
The metro ride doesn’t take that long, but to me, time crawls to a stop and chokes at me until I finally reach Crémazie Station and head back outside. Océane’s apartment is a two-minute walk from the station. I arrive in under a minute.
My trembling fingers make it impossible to unlock the front door of the basement triplex with my set of keys, and I fumble the keys a few times, biting my lip to hold back the curses threatening to spill out. Gritting my teeth until my jaw aches, I force the door open and stumble in, immediately gagging as the foul stench hits me.
The apartment isfilthy.
An oppressive heaviness hangs in the air, a mix of stale food and something else I can't quite place—something rotten, hidden beneath layers of neglect. My gaze sweeps across the single room, a chaotic blend of her life scattered haphazardly: dirty dishes piled high in the tiny sink, their contents congealed and unrecognizable, and dust motes dancing in the weak light filtering through grimy windows.
In the corner, the small couch sags under the weight of crumpled blankets and discarded clothes. I step further inside, and my foot crunches on the remnants of a broken picture frame, shards glinting like tiny, treacherous stars against the grimy wooden floor.
A double bed is pressed against the wall, unmade and tangled in a fortress of sheets. I can imagine her there, wrapped in that cocoon, battling demons that lurk beneath the surface of her consciousness. The tiny kitchen table holds a half-eaten takeout container and a scattering of old mail.
And then, my eyes land on the shelf. It lies sprawled across the floor, books and trinkets scattered like fallen leaves. Underneath the mess, I can only just make out her small body.
“Shit, Océane!” I rush to her aid, pushing past the mess of empty grocery bags and dirty clothes littering the floor as a pained groan sounds out from underneath the shelf.
Luckily, the shelf is not full size. I’m neither big nor tall, but I’m much stronger than Océane, and it takes me only a few seconds to push it back up against the wall. When I’m sure the shelf is secure and won’t fall back on us, I kneel to the ground and start shoving the books and trinkets away from Océane.
Océane utters a sob of relief, then struggles to sit up. I help her by supporting her back, then grab her heart-shaped face in my hands. A small gash sits underneath her left eye where either the corner of the shelf or a book hit her, and I can tell from several red spots on her forehead and cheeks that she’s going to have bruises.
I look into her green eyes, carefully stroking her cheek with my thumb. “Where does it hurt most? Did you break anything?”
“It hurts everywhere.” She winces and lets out another sob. “My… my collarbone is really bad.”
I carefully touch around her collarbone, feeling for a fracture, and let out a sigh of relief when I don’t find anything.
