Even as a small child, there were years when I took the blame for my parents’ death. I even blamed myself for not holding my mother’s hand because I wouldn’t have had to shoulder the burden of their deaths if I had died along with them. The guilt doesn’t go away. It becomes silent in the far corners of the mind, but it’s always there, waiting to whisper haunting words when you’re not strong enough to handle the truth.
I didn’t have the option to deal with my pain the way August is. Although, I’m not sure how I would handle feeling responsible for someone’s death at my age now. I guess I’ll never really know how August feels.
As much as I tried to rest overnight, sleep didn’t come easy. I should not complain since I offered to stay, but the chair didn’t feel much better than a slab of bricks. I got a bit of shuteye, but the sun is now bleeding in through the blinds.
I stretch out, feeling the damp sensation of denim rubbing against my skin. My shirt feels like wet cement against my chest. I probably look and smell like a swamp right now.
She’s alive, though.
I’m curious as to how August will feel when she wakes up. They gave her an IV last night, so I’m hoping that flushed the whiskey out of her system at least. I’m not sure if there can be a lasting impact on the body after enduring oxygen deprivation.
The beams of light pouring into the room wake August up, as well. Her eyes clench, and she shifts around under the white sheets. She reaches for her head before opening her eyes and squeezes at her temples. I take it she isn’t feeling that great, plus she only got a few hours of sleep on top of it all.
“Dang,” she groans through a rasp. “I feel like a truck ran over me.”
“I can only imagine,” I tell her. “Can I get you anything?”
“Thank you, Chance. I mean it. You didn’t have to stick around. You’ve already done more than I’d ever ask of someone, especially someone I hardly know.” I feel like we’ve exchanged enough words at this point that I can say I know her more than just a little, but I don’t think she’s there yet. “All I did was sit in a seat all night,” I tell her. “It’s hardly worth mentioning.”
“You’re a good person, Chance Miller.”
“It’s better than being a jerk, right?”
A doctor walks in, interrupting our light chatter. “Good morning, August. The rest of your test results came back clear, so I’m submitting my discharge papers for you. How are you feeling?”
The doctor is an older man with a broad white mustache that curls at the ends, a matching mop on the top of his head, and squinty eyes, accented by a pair of narrow, red-framed rectangular glasses. He seems more interested in whatever is in his records than what August is saying, but I guess all that matters is that all her tests came back clear.
“I have a bit of a headache, and my stomach hurts,” she says.
“Drink at least sixty-four ounces of water a day, and quit drinkin’ like a fish.” His expression doesn’t falter. I wonder how many alcoholics he has treated or how many stomachs he has had to pump throughout his career. I’m sure he has experienced more than I can imagine.
“Oh, I’m not a drinker,” August tells him, waving her hand at him as if she’s shooing him away.
The doctor widens his eyes and peers over the top of his glasses. “Miss, with all due respect, non-drinkers don’t typically come in here with a blood-alcohol level as high as yours was last night.”
There isn’t much August can say. He has a point. “It was situational,” she says, clearly trying to defend her behavior.
“I see. Well, next time you’re looking for a nice night out, I might suggest drinking water in between your intake and lessening the number of alcoholic beverages altogether. It only takes one time to drown, Miss Taylor.”
“I slipped off the bridge,” she counters.
“In any case, give your liver a break after last night’s bender, okay?”
“Okay, doctor,” she says. Her voice sounds strong through her direct response, but her tell-all rosy cheeks give off a different impression.
When the doctor leaves the room, she calmly rolls her eyes and begins to scan the area. “Could you grab my bag of clothes over there?”
I stand up to reach for her bag, but at the same time realize she almost drowned with the only clothes she has here. Her shirt and pants are in a sopping wet ball within the plastic bag.
“You know what ... let me see if I can snag a pair of scrubs for you. There’s no way your clothes are dry enough to wear out of here.”
After a trip to the hospital gift shop on the first floor and a quick purchase of sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt, August will be able to go home in dry clothes. The staff didn’t have extra pairs of scrubs to give out like they did years ago.
I called an Uber and got us back to our vehicles still parked behind Kenny’s. We’re lucky we didn’t get ticketed. The sheriffs don’t appreciate overnight visitors in these back lots. After the Uber takes off, we make our way over to the side of her Jeep, and I grab her gently by the elbow. “Are you going to be okay?” My question is general, but I mean it in a broader sense. Nothing about her has pointed to a healthy mindset in the past week, and while I’m sure she’ll give me the good ole’ smile and nod, I know better than to believe her.
August’s fingertips curl along the ends of her long gray sleeves, seeming cold or just uncomfortable. I had no idea what size clothes to get her, but I guess I could have gotten something a few sizes smaller.
“I’ll be okay,” she says.
