The Drazen World: Unraveled (Kindle Worlds Novella) Read online

  Chapter Three

  Grace

  My dad built this house for my mom in Los Feliz nearly twelve years ago, just as I was starting med school. He made his living building houses, so he lived for architecture the way most people live for sunshine or a good glass of wine. It was his happy place. He loved being so close to breathtaking Frank Lloyd Wright designs, and Mom loved that it was close enough to everything without being in the middle of it all. She got to enjoy its gorgeous view of the Los Angeles hillside for eight healthy years before the cancer took her. Two years later, after my dad’s third heart attack, I left my apartment in Glendale and moved in with him. There are still traces of my mother in every room, from the floral window treatments to the inspirational artwork. Her cookbooks still lay on the countertops in the kitchen and her favorite novels still fill the shelves against the wall. Even though he rarely gets out of bed these days to see those memories for himself, my father wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Our lot sits in the back of the community, on the north side, against the hills. From my back patio, up on the hill amidst lush green trees and terra cotta rooftops, you can see the dome of the Griffith Observatory. There’s a peaceful serenity here that I’ve vowed not to take for granted. It’s not Brentwood or Holmby Hills, but it’s nothing like the more dangerous neighborhoods where I work. In a city where life moves at a pace of ninety miles per minute, Los Feliz is a diamond amongst stones. Nestled in its cozy perfection, I can walk out on the back patio in my pajamas and admire the view around me without worry of watchful eyes or step out my front door and greet my lifelong neighbors with a comfortable smile. Over the years, Annette, the widow next door, has been known to graciously cook my father dinner when I have to take a night shift. And she always seems to know just the right time to show up at our door with a plate full of homemade cookies and a hot cup of coffee. I glance at the digital clock on the stove. It’s 10:30 at night. She’s probably not awake.

  I cradle Lucas’ head against my stomach, rubbing his hair and doing my best to calm him. My body instinctively rocks side to side as I hum and shush him. His heaving sobs weaken to short hitches of breath, and I feel him relax in my care. Natalie. I have to check on my sister.

  “Why don’t we get you something to drink? Are you hungry?” I say after what seems like days of silence. He nods his head but doesn’t pull away from me. I take a step back and squat down, so we’re eye to eye. I pray my smile hides my fear. “Okay then. You sit here,” I nod my head, indicating the white slip-covered sofa behind us, “And I’ll go make you a sandwich.” He smiles back. It’s weak, but it beats the faraway look of hopelessness I was greeted with just minutes ago. “Peanut butter and jelly?” I don’t have to ask. I know PB&J is his favorite. I’ve made it for him a dozen times before. But I want him to engage, to feel safe. Familiar. Home. His smile grows, and he nods again. “Good. I’ll be right back,” I assure him, because right now the thing he needs most is something he can be sure of.

  I grab my phone from the charger and dial, praying Annette is still awake. The soft, rhythmic sound of my father breathing is a welcome relief when I peek my head in his room. At least I don’t have to worry about him for the time being. Five minutes later, I’m dressed in jeans and a shirt, and she’s at the front door with a book, a blanket, and a warm smile. “You’re an angel,” I tell her, as I wrap her in a hug.

  She tucks a stray hair behind my ear then looks over my shoulder at Lucas, who is engrossed in all things Disney as he chews his sandwich. His eyes never leave the television screen as he brings it up for another bite. Annette looks back at me, her eyes full of sympathy.

  “And you’re one of the strongest women I know,” she tells me, with the affection of a lifelong friend. “Go. Do what you have to do. I’ll hold down the fort.” Her dark brown eyes sparkle as she shoos me away with her hands.

  I grab my keys and purse, then give Lucas a kiss on the forehead. “Annette is going to sit with you and Gramps for a few while I go take care of something, okay?”

  His big blue eyes find mine, full of pain and wonder. “You’re going to check on my mom, aren’t you?”

  It’s not like I thought by not saying where I was going, he wouldn’t be able to guess. Kids are intuitive. I’d hoped to get out of here without bringing back visions of his unconscious mother, but I guess when you see something like that, it’s kind of hard to forget.

  “Yes, Pumpkin. I am. I’m a doctor, remember? So, if she needs care, I can help her.” I can’t. Deep down I know it. She needs more than I’m able to give.

  His eyes search mine for weakness, and I fight to keep it hidden. He has to believe I’m strong enough to fight for his mom when she’s not able to fight for herself. “Okay,” he says, finally. I breathe a smile, thankful I passed his unspoken test.

  “Dad’s had his meds and he should sleep through the night,” I inform Annette as I’m walking out the door. She nods and curls up in the oversized chair next to the sofa, pulling a fuzzy blanket over her lap. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  She waves her hands, dismissing the compliment as she opens the pages of her romance novel. The moment the door clicks behind me, the fear and dread I’ve been keeping at bay rushes over me like the winds of a hurricane. Emotions hold me hostage, nailing my feet to the ground. I don’t know if I can do this. A hundred visions of what I may walk in her house and find swim through my mind, and none of them are pleasant. Pull yourself together, Grace. Pick your feet up and move. Get in your car and drive. You have to do this. If not you, then who?

  No one. If not me, then no one.

  With eyes closed, I take in a deep breath and reclaim my emotions. Then, as her broken little boy sits on my sofa, eating peanut butter and watching innocent television shows, I head out toward Sunset Boulevard to Echo Park to find my sister.

  ***

  A man’s voice seeps through the crack in the half-open front door. I stop before moving further, straining to dissect the conversation, curious who Natalie could be talking to at this hour of the night. At the same time, I breathe a sigh of relief that she’s alive and awake. And not alone. His deep voice starts talking about discounts and safe driving, and I realize the voice is coming from her television.

  I place a palm flat against the door, slowly push it open and walk inside. I don’t know what I expected to find when I entered her home. A horrific display of overturned furniture and blood-spattered walls, I guess. Really, Grace? This isn’t a horror movie. It’s your sister for fuck sake. Other than the television being on with no audience, nothing is out of place. The burlap throw pillows are placed neatly in the corners of her Pottery Barn sectional sofa. Her kitchen sink is free of stacks of dirty dishes, and her white ceramic, owl shaped Scentsy warmer fills her home with the aroma of a freshly baked apple pie.

  On the outside, my sister is the perfect candidate for the PTA. She works for an established ophthalmologist, lives in a modern house in a decent neighborhood, and attends Lucas’ soccer games every Saturday morning. But behind the mask is an unhealthy addiction to antidepressants. After our mother died, I took on the responsibility of taking care of Dad, and Natalie completely disconnected from reality. She would sleep for days. When we did manage to get her out of bed, she was void, lifeless, and lethargic. A dim shade of gray, a soul trapped in the shadows. Her doctor started her on SSRIs. When Prozac didn’t do the trick, they moved her up to a tricyclic, which she quickly found worked much faster when she mixed it with Demerol. That’s when I knew she had a problem. Sometimes I think being a single mom and keeping up appearances in a city where appearances are everything is what fuels her need for an escape. When Natalie is on, she’s on like nobody’s business. But when her depression kicks in, and she falls off… Well, we end up here. With Lucas ringing our doorbell because she hasn’t bothered to come home, and me scouring the dark corners of night clubs until I find her.

  She’s right where I assume Lucas found her, sprawled acro
ss her bed on top of the dark gray comforter. Face down, arms flailing over one side, hair soaking wet from her son’s failed attempt at waking her, she’s like something straight off a tragic documentary. She didn’t even take her shoes off. Good God, Nat. What have you done to yourself? Don’t you even care what you’re doing to Lucas?

  I want to be angry with her. I am angry with her. She’s been given a precious gift most women fight their whole lives to receive and still end up without. And she treats it as an inconvenience, a reason to pity herself. I don’t even like to think about the countless arguments I’ve had with God over His poor judgement. The simple thought of it brings back a familiar pain in my stomach. A pain I’ll never forget as long as I live.

  Her wrist is limp as I take it between my fingers, checking for a pulse. All I can see is Lucas’ little face when I opened the front door and pulled him into my arms. He was so scared, yet so hopeful. Like he was counting on me to fix his mother. I’m not a superhero, little man. But, I want to be. I want to be his superhero. Someone needs to be. I press gently on her wrist. Thank God. I throw my head back, eyes closed, and heave the burst of air I’d been holding captive in my lungs. The faint thwump swishes beneath my fingertips. It’s there. Barely. Now what? I have to get her to a hospital. I don’t know what all she took or how much of it she had. I don’t know how long she’s been like this. An hour at least. Probably longer. All kinds of things could be going on inside her body right now. The drugs could be messing with her central nervous system. Or worse. Shit. I pull my phone from the back pocket of my baggy boyfriend jeans and start to dial 911, but quickly hit the home button and go to my contacts instead. Having an ambulance show up at her front door would attract unwanted attention and leave questions Natalie would be stuck answering every time she stepped outside to check her mail. No. That wouldn’t be good.

  “St. Anthony’s Hospital,” the cheerful female voice says after the third ring.

  “Dr. McCallister, please. This is Dr. Matthews.” I whisper a chant under my breath as the admissions clerk puts me on hold. Please be on call. Please be on call.

  “Toxicology, this is Dr. McCallister.” Thank you.

  “Karen, hi. It’s Grace. Listen, I need a favor…”

  ***

  Chapter Four

  Grace

  I’ve been an attending physician at St. Anthony’s for three years. When I first decided to work with Angels of Charity, something about this hospital appealed to me. Perhaps it’s because I specialize in neonatal and this place is smack dab in the middle of one of the poorest areas of Los Angeles. Money should never decide if a newborn baby lives or dies, so I accepted the offer. So far, I’ve been fortunate enough to land mostly day shifts. But I’ve also learned that at night, this neighborhood could care less who you are or how many babies you’ve saved. I’ve seen things on my drive home that most people only witness on the six o’clock news from the comforts of their living room.

  So, here I am, flashers on, going 50 in a 30, stop signs be damned, because- A) I have an unconscious woman with too many drugs in her system in my back seat. And- B) I left my pepper spray at home. Twenty minutes seems like forty-five when I finally pull under the awning at emergency receiving. Karen has Albert, a burly male nurse, ready at the entrance with a stretcher. Thank God. My back is already screaming at me from hauling Natalie’s dead weight from her bedroom to my car. I don’t think I could lift her again if I needed to.

  I shoot a quick text to Annette, letting her know what’s going on then follow Albert past triage to one of the exam rooms where Karen is waiting for us. I catch the fear in her eyes when she sees Natalie, lifeless and unconscious. It’s a brief flicker that she hides well, but I don’t miss it.

  “Do you know her personal information?” she asks, making a feeble attempt to distract me.

  I interact with parents who are anxiously awaiting me to tell them whether or not their premature newborn will make it through the night. I meet with expectant mothers who have gone into labor months before their time, explaining to them why they still have to give birth, but we can’t even try to save their baby. I recognize all the tactics we’re trained to use to distract from the trauma at hand. I don’t need things sugar-coated for me. I was prepared for the worst the minute Lucas ran into my arms. But, I respect Karen as a physician, so I do as I’m expected.

  “I know enough to get her registered,” I reply, my tone telling her, I’ll let you do your job. She reaches for my hand, giving me a knowing smile, then pulls the curtain shut around them.

  I set the clipboard on my lap and start to fill out the paperwork. The lines all start to run together somewhere between “last name” and “emergency contact.” I look away, thinking a glance at the scenery will reset my brain, but it doesn’t. The gray porcelain tile runs right up into the boxy, commercial style gray chairs. Mothers hold their sleeping toddlers in their arms. Wives rub the backs of weary husbands. Once in a while, someone makes the journey across the cold, hard floor to the coke machine or the bathroom. On a television mounted to a wall somewhere behind me, a newscaster takes breaks in between celebrity gossip and stories of armed robbery to talk about tomorrow’s weather. It’s going to be another sunny day in September. It’s all irrelevant. Because the only thing I can think about is the fact that my sister is fighting for her life behind a set of double doors twenty feet from my chair. And I’m going to have to somehow break the news, one way or the other, to her terrified little boy that’s probably struggling to fall asleep on my sofa right now.

  Maybe it’s lack of sleep and long hours at work followed by longer hours at home. Maybe it’s the fear of walking in that bedroom and not finding a pulse. Maybe it’s the frightened look on a nine-year old boy’s face as he walked through my door. But it’s suddenly all more than I can handle. I hang my head in defeat. Where’s the finish line? When is enough, enough? How much is one person supposed to take before they crash and burn? I need a break. A week on a deserted island with nothing but a cabana boy, the sun, and an unlimited supply of fruity adult beverages.

  “Grace?” A familiar voice snaps me out of my daze.

  I look up from counting the tiny black specks on the charcoal tile. Long red hair and curves that won’t quit. If Jessica Rabbit were a human, she’d be Deirdre Drazen. Only without the sparkly dress. Deirdre is about as down to earth as they come, in her yoga pants and Converse. You’d never know by looking at her that she’s one of the country’s wealthiest heiresses.

  “Deirdre. Hello,” I reply, trying to breathe some life back into my tone. She doesn’t buy it.

  “You’re on the wrong side of the waiting room,” she teases, as she takes the empty seat next to me.

  I force a chuckle. “I think I like it better on that side of the double doors.”

  “Is your dad okay?” She looks genuinely concerned. I admire that. I’ve only spoken to the woman a handful of times and only once about my father’s health.

  Deirdre spends half her time running from her money by giving it all away and the other half drinking until she forgets she has anything to run from. Overall, she’s a remarkable human being, though. Her soul is pure, regardless of what demons keep her awake at night. She must head at least a dozen non-profits, Angels of Charity included. I can relate to her desire to give back. It’s why I chose to work at this hospital rather than one on the west side of LA. So, when she approached me three weeks ago about doing some volunteer work for a children’s ward at a hospital in South Africa, I jumped at the opportunity.

  “He’s fine,” I tell her, after my stomach finally stops tying itself in knots. “My sister.” That’s all I say. It’s all I can manage. I can’t say the rest out loud. Saying it out loud makes it all too real. My sister overdosed and may not make it out of here. No. I can’t say those words. So, I leave it at that. She nods, an understanding that the gory details are mine to keep.

  “I’m so sorry. I wish her well,” she says, and I believe she sincerely means it.
“Holly needs to set your travel arrangements soon. The hospital is expecting you,” she adds, her words more a question than a statement. I knew her assistant would be needing a final answer soon. I just thought my main hiccup would be finding someone to care for my dad. She’s asking if I can still go. This is the chance of a lifetime. What real doctor wouldn’t want to travel the world to help the less fortunate? I owe her an answer. I’m sure there’s a waiting list a mile long and right now, I’m holding up traffic. I glance at the double doors that lead to my future and say a silent prayer. Help me.

  As if my words were swept up by the universe and carried straight to God’s ears, then scattered in tiny pieces of hope from this hard, gray chair to the bed behind closed curtains, the heavy wooden doors swing open. Karen looks stressed but not despondent. I stand.

  “She’s going to be fine.” She moves her eyes from me to Deirdre, as if asking permission to continue in her presence. I don’t care if the Pope was sitting in that chair, I want to know what happened to my sister.

  “Go ahead,” I encourage her.

  She takes in a deep breath and steadies herself. “I have her on two amps of sodium bicarbonate.”

  I nod.

  She continues, “We ran active charcoal on her before it got to her liver. She had a pretty intense tricyclic and opiate cocktail. She was hypotensive with myocardial dysfunction.” No wonder I thought she was nearly dead. She’s using medical terms for low blood pressure and irregular blood flow to the heart. I assume she’s hoping Deirdre won’t decipher the language. At this point, Deirdre’s opinion of my sister’s habits doesn’t matter. I just want to know if she’ll be okay. “She’s stable. We’re keeping her overnight to make sure.”