Page 77 of A Theory of Dreaming
He tried the knob several more times, then knocked urgently on the door. “Effy? Effy?”
There came no reply.
Panic remained at the edges of his mind, but it was closing in faster and faster. There were no thoughts at all, only the shuddery adrenaline of fear. Preston rattled the doorknob with greater ferocity, and when that did not give, he thrust himself bodily against the wood, jamming his shoulder so hard that the door seemed to shake on its hinges.
He felt no pain. Again and again he thrust himself against it, and the sound brought Lotto, Maisie, and Rhia all bustling into the corridor. They were speaking, but the words just ran over and around him, like water, nothing penetrating.
At last, the wood cracked and the door gave way.
Preston could only take in bits and pieces of the scene before him: Effy’s hair spilling out across the tiles. Her fingers still clenchingweakly at the empty pill bottle. Her face drained of all color, her eyes closed, lashes not even fluttering.
Yet he could not have mistaken her as sleeping—it was nothing so peaceful as that.
He dropped to his knees. He shouted for Rhia as he gathered Effy’s cold body into his arms. He couldn’t even hear himself, and he was only vaguely aware of Rhia’s own cry of horror as she came into the room. Lotto was stammering something out, too, wordless sounds that again couldn’t pierce Preston’s mind, but had the same tenor of horror and panic.
It was Maisie who kept herself composed enough to race for the phone.
The next hour unfolded in flashes, one moment lurching unsteadily to the next. They were like scenes from a film with a damaged roll, fuzzy and skipping. The blue-and-red ambulance lights patterned against the exterior of the building, casting the room in a neon glow. The rough, heavy footsteps of the paramedics as they moved in and around him, swarming the bathroom. One of them knelt and pried Effy out of his arms. Then her body vanished behind them, obscured by the brisk but shockingly detached motions that were employed to keep her heart beating.
Rhia, Maisie, and Lotto were removed from the bathroom with the same dispassionate maneuvering. A police officer parked himself in the corridor with his notepad and began taking down witness accounts. Rhia was sobbing; Lotto was doubled over, handson his knees, as if he might retch. Even Maisie looked rather ill as she explained what had happened.
Preston was then forced to his feet by two of the paramedics. They pressed in on him with questions:how much did she take, when, how—that still felt unnervingly impersonal. As if they were working with machinery rather than human beings and were simply trying to mend a malfunctioning part.
One question they did not ask waswhy. Preston was grateful for that, because he would not have been able to answer. It was not that he didn’t know—in truth; it was that there would have been far too many reasons and it would have delayed the paramedics by hours. It was that he knew Effy’s greatest fear was being declared mad, of being strapped into a straitjacket and forced into a windowless room with padded walls, locked away and forgotten. So already Preston was trying to come up with an alternative explanation.
If he could convince the rest of the world that it was an accident, perhaps he could convince himself, too.
The bright-white sterility of the hospital felt almost hostile. While Effy was wheeled through the double doors, Preston tried to follow, but a paramedic clapped him firmly on the shoulder and directed him toward the waiting room instead. “We’ll have the doctor come out and update you,” he said.
Preston sat. He was aware of almost nothing aside from his own breathing. If, for a moment, he allowed his mind to wander, the thoughts that occurred were too much to bear.You left her alone. You couldn’t give her enough. This is your fault.
“Preston Héloury?”
“Yes?”
A white-coated physician stood above him with a clipboard. He had slicked-back gray hair but otherwise a surprisingly young-looking appearance, no age spots on his skin or lines around his eyes. His gaze held the faintest suggestion of gentleness. Or perhaps it was pity.
“I’m Dr. Quinbern. I’ll be responsible for Miss Sayre’s care.”
Preston swallowed, his voice hoarse as he asked, “Is she going to be all right?”
“That remains to be seen. We were unable to rouse her, so she’s in a semicomatose state for now.”
Semicomatose.“She’s asleep?”
“It’s rather more than that,” Dr. Quinbern replied. “But I suppose you could say that she’s in a deep and—at least at the moment—imperturbable slumber.”
“But,” Preston started, and then had to swallow once more, around the lump in his throat, “you can wake her, can’t you?”
“We will do our very best,” Quinbern said. “Unfortunately, this is one of those situations where the patient must be relied upon to do most of the work herself. Our hope is that, as she remains in this semicomatose state, her body will begin to recover its functions and she will grow strong enough to wake.”
Preston looked at the doctor for several moments without speaking. This man was old enough to be his father—perhaps exactly the right age to be his father. He had kind-looking brown eyes, light brown, a similar shade to Preston’s own. His name even sounded vaguely Argantian.
“The best thing you can do for her is to remain positive,” the doctor said, when it was clear Preston was not going to reply. “She’s young. In all other respects, she appears physically healthy. It will just take time.” He paused and gave Preston a rather probing once-over. His gaze landed on Preston’s hands, clenched in his lap. “Did you hurt yourself? Let me have a look at those.”
Instinctively, Preston drew his arms up to his chest. His knuckles were stippled with small cuts that he hadn’t even noticed before.From breaking Aneurin’s coffin, he realized dimly. He felt almost ashamed of them. Pitiful wounds. For what he’d done, he deserved worse.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “I’m fine.”
