Page 37 of Beneath Cherry Blossom Memories

“We just want to help you, sir,” one of the paramedics says. Jorge looks at the scene, eyes wet.

Eli winces, clearly in pain, as he bands an arm over his stomach. “It’s bad. It’s bad.” I watch in slow motion as his eyes roll in his skull, and he goes limp.

“Hurry!”

I don’t want to let go of his hand, but I’m in the way. While he’s lifted off the floor, I watch his chest to make sure he’s breathing. God, what did hedo?

LeonHeadHunter: What hospital is Elijah at?

Leon sent that message on Instagram an hour ago. I’ve been in this waiting room with Jorge, not wanting to cough up the name because he didn’t ask for Leon.

He asked forme.

I promised I’d stay with him, but these fucking people won’t let me see him. The triage nurse said they took him back to the X-ray first to find the source of the bleeding. Someone is supposed to get me when he’s in a bed.

I’m honestly freaking the fuck out. I keep having to piss because I’m nervous. This hospital ispacked. I mean, it’s standing room only at this point. The urge to puff my vape is nearly crippling, but I don’t leave my seat. Jorge told everyone what happened. Kelly texted me, asking if I wanted her to come. I don’t know what needs to happen. I don’t know what’sgoingto happen. Everything I’m reading on Google is scary as all hell. He could have something simple as a blown blood vessel from vomiting or fucking cancer.

“Phoenix Sawyer?”

I snap my head up and see a nurse. She looks exhausted. It’s like midnight. “That’s me.” I stand, then rush over to her, Jorge hot on my heels.

“And you are?” she asks him.

“His friend, too.”

“We aren’t supposed to let anyone but family in the rooms. However, Mr. Madden simply won’t cooperate.”

I swallow hard. “He’s afraid of doctors.”

She nods sympathetically, then says, “We need to do an endoscopy, but he is refusing to sign the hospital waiver. Legally, he has the right to decline treatment. It’d be unadvisable, though. Maybe if you spoke with him—”

“Yes. I’ll get him to do it,” I say with confidence I don’t feel.

“Alright, he’s back this way.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Jorge asks.

I shake my head. “No. It’s better if I go alone.”

“Okay. I’ll be here.”

Quickly hugging him because I need it, I linger for a few extra seconds, then tell him, “I’ll text you when I know what’s happening.”

When Oli overdosed, I came to the hospital. I followed a nurse much like I am now. My mom and dad weren’t there initially; they were an hour away at the specialist’s office. It was just me. There was anger, trepidation, fear, and heartbreak while I walked through the emergency room. I guess I felt betrayed, too. I didn’t know if they’d be able to save my brother.

And I hated myself for not figuring it out sooner.

Deep inside me is a wound I haven’t ever been able to address. It’s the kind that starts small, almost ignorable, but over time, it gets bigger, festers, and stinks. I was the last to know when my dad got injured on the job, which resulted in all his back problems. I was the last to know when Darien got his girlfriend pregnant. I often went to school hungry because my mom didn’t make sure I ate breakfast. She just assumed I grabbed something like my siblings did.

I had my first school band recital, but no one came because Veronica had sprained her ankle. No one called the school to let me know. I waited almost two hours in front of my elementary school with my stupid clarinet before Darien picked me up. People forget me. People leave me out of things. People think I don’twantto be included because I keep to myself. Maybe that’s why I clung to Jorge so hard when we were kids—why I still do. His family included me.

None of this matters right now, but I’m thinking about it and remembering how lonely I felt as a kid. I don’t blame my family. I don’t believe they ever did any of it on purpose. My place was to be the kid who could be counted on not to get in trouble or who could figure out stuff independently. No one ever stopped to wonder if that’s what I wanted, though. It just was.

Dejavu slams into me when we approach the beds in the back of the ER. The curtains pulled around each patient for minimal privacy. Machines beep, a few people cry, nurses talk, and phones ring. Doctors walk around in blue scrubs, and the smell of bleach and starch from the sheets is almost exactly like that day.

The main difference is that Oli didn’t want me there.

He’d been barely conscious, hooked up to IVs and machines. He told me to leave—no,yelledat me to go. I know now that it was the drugs talking and not my brother. It still hurts, though. But the closer we get to Eli’s bed, the more I forget about that day. And the sounds of the hospital dull down. Soft cries replace them, and my heart bursts.

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