Page 99 of The Love of My Next Life
When I push the door open, a soft blue light comes from a lava lamp in the corner. There’s someone lying on a bed and I run to it. It’s a girl. She’s fully clothed, which gives me a bit of relief for a breath. Sam shines the flashlight on her and she looks like she’s sleeping. The girl mumbles something, but I’m already turning away. I scan the room again and my eyes land on a heap on the floor on the far wall. Someone lying on their side with a beer can by their head.
My chest aches as I walk to him, my breath stuck in my throat as I drop to my knees.
“Macon,” I force out, dropping my hand to his shoulder. He’s warm, and I blow out a harsh breath. Warm is good, especially down here. I give him a shake. “Macon,” I say, louder, and shake him harder.
He doesn’t respond, and the relief I felt milliseconds before vanishes.
“Sam,” I yell as I push Macon onto his back. The flashlight shines over my shoulder onto his face, and I release a sob. His lips are tinted blue. He doesn’t even flinch at the light.
“No, no, no,” I say, and drop my head to his chest. “He’s not breathing,” I whisper. “He’s not breathing, Sam,” I yell.
Tears start to fall as my body moves on autopilot. I press my trembling fingers on his neck and feel for a pulse. I hold my breath to silence my cries and close my eyes, focusing on my fingers.
“No,” I cry, “I can’t...I can’t...”
I place one hand on top of the other and put them in the middle of Macon’s chest. I lock my elbows. I recite the steps for CPR in my head, hum the beat to “Staying Alive” as tears stream down my face, and try to count.
At least two inches in depth at 100 beats per minute. Am I even doing this right? Am I pushing hard enough? This isn’t some dummy at the YMCA. This isn’t a class. This is Macon. This is real. His chest feels familiar and wholly different under my hands. This is Macon. This isn’t my mom. This isn’t a nightmare.
This is Macon. This is real.
“I’m not strong enough,” I say on a sob.One-two-three. “I’m not strong enough.”Seven-eight-nine. “Please. Please don’t let this happen again.”Thirteen-fourteen-fifteen.“I’m not strong enough for this!”
On thirty, I stop compressions and bring my hands to his face. I lower my mouth to his to give two breaths, hiccupping on a sob the moment my lips touch his. My tears fall on his face, wetting his cheeks.
One-second breath.
“Please, Macon. Please, baby, please don’t do this.”
One-second breath.
Hands stacked. Elbows locked.One-two-three-four.
Ah, ah, ah, ah, staying alive. Staying alive.
I go through the motions with my eyes closed, a steady stream of tears falling on my hands, soaking Macon’s shirt. I count, and I hum, and I beg.
Please, no. Please, no.Not again. Not again.
For minutes or hours or days, I count, I hum, and I beg. I don’t stop. Not until hands lock on my shoulders, and I’m pulled off Macon. I trip as I’m pushed to the side. I rush forward, trying to shrug out of the arms that circle my body.
“No,” I shout. “No, I need to do this. He can’t die. He can’t.”
“He’s an EMT,” Sam says in my ear, her arms tightening around me. “He’s an EMT, Lennon.”
I stop struggling and watch.
Macon is strapped onto a stretcher and wheeled out of the house. Another ambulance arrives, and another stretcher is wheeled out. I try to see who is on it, but I hear Sam yelling at someone—her brother, maybe—and it brings my eyes back to Macon. The other stretcher, Sam and her brother are all forgotten. I follow Macon to the ambulance.
“You can’t get in here,” an EMT says.
“I can,” I demand. “I am.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m—” I swallow and say quickly, “I’m his sister. I’m coming.”
The ride to the hospital is a blur. Vitals and IVs and monitors. I want to weep with joy when I hear the heartbeat monitors’ rhythmic beeping. I can’t see his face, but I close my eyes and imagine him with pink cheeks and lips. Smirking, leaning on the doorjamb of my room.
