Page 9 of True Abandon

“That’s perfect,” I open the back door and am about to climb in when I see the man shivering behind me. With the taxi door still open, I skip over to him and hold out my umbrella. “Take this.”

He gives me a startled expression, clearly not expecting anyone to approach him in this weather, and then takes it from me with a nod.

“Stay safe tonight,” I say and then get into the cab as quickly as possible.

I talk myself out of going fifty times on the way uptown. Maybe it’s the good-Catholic girl in me, but knowing there is someone inside this hospital, alone, makes me feel sorry for him. And if he dies, well, I don’t know if I’ll be able to forgive myself. He already haunts my dreams—if he passes away, that could take haunting to a whole new level.

Before stepping out of the car, I pull my hood over my head and prepare to run through the rain pelting hard from the sky. The winds push me to the side, and I have to fight my way to the sliding, glass doors of the hospital entrance.

The ambulances line the street with sirens blaring. Cars are double parked, and people are rushing in from various directions. Gurneys race in and out of the emergency room exit as doctors wait under the awning to greet—and quickly work on—the next patient arriving in trauma.

I shoulder past a group of people and through the doors. The waiting room is packed. People are seated in chairs, on the floor, and standing in a mob—all rain-soaked and worried.

Sliding my hood off my head, I wipe the water from my face and shake my body to get the droplets off my clothes. The ends of my pants are soaked from traipsing through puddles.

Not knowing where to go or what to do, I search the room. There’s a group of people waiting to talk to a woman by a podium so I take a place in line.

Pulling out my phone, I see it’s twelve-thirty in the morning. A chill from my wet clothes in an air-conditioned room runs up my spine, so I jog in place to warm myself up.

An elderly woman behind me is audibly upset. She keeps shouting into the room that she needs to call home but she doesn’t have a phone. I spin around and offer her mine, telling her she can take as long as she needs. When she gives it back it’s with tears in her eyes and a series of thank-you’s.

The local news is playing on a TV in the corner. Lonnie Quinn gives continual updates on the storm, and the weather team stands by wearing tacky, yellow rain slickers while being blown around in various locations around the city. Staten Island has begun to flood, as have parts of lower Manhattan. Long Island’s beaches are destroyed, and people have evacuated their homes in the Rockaways.

I hope Kelli is okay. Not daring to tell her in person where I went, I sent her a text from the taxi. Her response was less than supportive.

Kelli: WHAT?! I’m coming up there to talk some sense into you!

Me: Already left. In a car. Brought a charger with me.

Kelli: Are you fucking kidding me? You should let that son of a bitch die!

Kelli: Turn around.

Kelli: He ruined your life.

Kelli: Pull the plug.

Kelli: Trish?

Kelli: Answer me!

That was followed by a series of voice texts I refuse to open. I’m already so screwed up in the head over being here, I don’t need her conscience to make me feel worse.

To be honest, I’m rather indifferent to the fact he could be alive or dead. While I don’t wish the latter on anyone, I wouldn’t shed a thousand tears at his passing, either. He was a prick. Of course, he would find a way to fuck with me one last time—leave me to confirm the body. But, still, I don’t want to have to tell his sister he’s dead.

It’s forty-five minutes before I reach the podium.

“Jackson Davis,” I tell the woman with a clipboard full of papers in front of her. I recite his birthdate, and she is able to find him in the system.

“Are you next of kin?” she asks.

I lie. “Yes. Ella Davis. His sister.”

She pulls out a bright-pink sticker with the word visitor written in sharpie. Waving an orderly over, she says to me, “He’s in the hospital, but it doesn’t say where. There aren’t enough rooms for the influx of patients.” She turns to the orderly and writes Jax’s name and a series of numbers on a post-it note. “Can you help her find this patient? The system indicates he’s in triage.”

The orderly reads the information and then tells me to follow him, so I do. I guess it’s safe to say Jax is not in the mortuary.

Now that I know he’s alive, I should leave. But, if he’s dying, as Ella claims, then I should do what I set here to do, and sit by his side.