Page 23 of What You left in Me

“Move back!” someone shouts. EMTs.

They descend on us like angels made real, uniforms dark against the string lights, kits already open. One kneels at Richard’s head; another pushes me aside gently but firmly.

“No… please, I’m his…” The word sticks to the roof of my mouth.Daughter.Do I get to claim that tonight? Do I deserve to?

“He’s my family,” I manage.

Strong hands tug at me, and I struggle against them till realize it’s Julian. His grip is firm, his jaw tight, his perfect suit unrumpled even in the chaos. “Ari, sweetheart, let them work,” he says, soothing, the same way I’ve heard him calm a jittery donor before. “They know what to do.”

I can’t breathe.

My knees ache from being on the ground, my fingers still reaching toward Richard even as the EMTs press pads to his chest, fit an oxygen mask, call out numbers I don’t understand.

The crowd blurs and all I hear is the rush of blood in my ears. My mother’s sobs like glass grinding together, the steady, terrifying rhythm of the EMT’s voice: “Pulse weak, BP dropping, prep for transport.”

Transport. That means ambulance. That means hospital. That means he’s still alive.

I surge up, grabbing for my mom’s arm, but she’s locked in place, her nails digging into the grass like she can root herself here. “Mom, we have to go…”

“I can’t…” Her voice cracks. She looks at the crowd, at the guests with their horrified faces and their perfect dresses, and I realize she’s not frozen by fear. She’s frozen by shame.

“Forget the guests!” The word edges skewed and hot, and for once I don’t care if it stings. “He’s dying, Mom. I’m going.”

Julian’s hand tightens at my elbow, steadying me. “She’s right. Eleanor, let the staff manage this.” His voice is calm and commanding.

My mother looks at him like he’s the only solid thing on the lawn. She nods, stiff, her lipstick smudged at the corner.

And just like that, I’m free.

I climb into the ambulance without thinking, pushing past the EMTs as they load Richard onto the stretcher. His hand dangles, cold. I catch it, squeezing hard, whispering into his ear even though I don’t know if he hears me: “Stay with me. Please, Richard, you have to stay.”

The doors slam, the siren blares, and the world outside becomes a blur of lights and shadows.

Inside, it’s all antiseptic smell and clipped voices. I hunch forward on the bench, his hand pressed to my lips, whispering every prayer I half-remember, every poem I’ve ever taught my students, fragments spilling out because silence feels like giving up.

“Do not go gentle into that good night,” I whisper, voice cracking. “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” I almost laugh. Trust me to drag Dylan Thomas into an ambulance. My voice breaks on a sob.

The EMT checks vitals, calls updates into a radio, and I can’t stop staring at Richard’s chest rising under the mask, shallow but still moving. His tie is crooked; his shirt soaked with sweat. He looks so small. How did he get small? He’s supposedto be the one making dumb jokes about raccoons in the garden, not the one lying here fighting for each breath.

I press my forehead to his knuckles, whispering, “You still owe me pancakes on Sunday, remember? You promised.” My voice trembles. “Don’t you dare bail on me now.”

The ambulance lurches, siren wailing. My stomach twists. My head spins.

Through the small back window, headlights follow at a steady distance. A sleek black car.

Finn.

The evidence of his presence is a comfort I can’t articulate. Just now, I don’t even bother. I’ll take what I can get.

###

The hospital waiting room is the ugliest place I’ve ever seen. Fluorescent lights that hum like insects. Beige linoleum with scuff marks no amount of bleach can hide. Plastic chairs that cling to your clothes if you sit too long. The air smells like antiseptic and burnt coffee, like they’re trying to scrub away the fact that people bleed and die here every single day.

I hate it instantly.

Mom paces the length of the row of chairs like she’s walking a stage, pearls glinting in the flat light, heels ticking on the floor. She’s muttering to herself, not prayers, or pleas, but lines. Rehearsed sentences.We appreciate your concern but ask for privacy… Richard is strong and stable… the family is grateful for your thoughts and prayers.

Her voice grates against me. She sounds more furious than devastated. Furious that this happened here, at herglittering party, with senators and photographers watching. Furious at the optics. I want to scream at her:He’s not a headline. He’s not a statement. He’s my stepfather and he might not wake up.