He needed me to be strong. Travis and Jacques had always been there for me. I needed to do the same for them.
Carina pulled into the emergency room parking lot and clutched the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip. Even grasping something tight, her hands were shaking.
She exhaled heavily. Tears sprang to her eyes. She dashed them away and forced a smile. “Let’s go find Trav,” she said with too much enthusiasm, the forced brightness in her tone not fooling either of us.
The wind on my face as we dashed across the parking lot woke me up, and I fought to keep my heart rate steady and my breathing even. But the moment we stepped into the lobby, it hit me again, and my chest tightened. The sharp smell of antiseptic, the low murmur of voices and pained groans, the mass of bodies waiting. There were people everywhere. Too many people.
Jacques ushered Carina closer to me with a whispered word and then bracketed my other side. With them on either side of me, my breathing eased, the overwhelm not so catastrophic. We waited, the line moving interminably slowly. I wanted to shout for him, to burst through the double doors people were being taken through and yell his name until I tracked him down. But my movements were slow, as if I were wading through molasses, and I was shaking.
I followed silently as Jacques stepped up to the counter and said, “We’re here to see Travis Taylor.”
“Are you his next of kin?” the receptionist asked politely.
“Yes, I’m Jacques Gauthier.”
He tapped a few keys and frowned. “I’m sorry Mr. Gauthier, but you aren’t listed as Mr. Taylor’s emergency contact.”
Carina slid her hand into mine and squeezed. It was like an injection of pure sunlight. Warmth infused me. I could breathe again.
But she was trembling.
My voice came back to me in a rush. “Shit, Carina, you’re freezing,” I stated and started to unbutton the shirt I’d been wearing since yesterday. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
She placed her hand on mine and shook her head. “No, not cold. Just… just need to see Trav.”
Jacques argued back at the man at the reception desk. “We’re his emergency contacts.”
“Are you married?” he asked.
“No,” Jacques shot back. “Look, I just need to know where he is. Please.”
The receptionist feigned a smile and said patiently, “I can’t give information out except to a person’s next of kin.”
“Are you allowed to tell us who his next of kin is?” Carina asked, her voice shaky.
Jacques shifted to stand behind us and wrapped his arm around her. He held her close. She was stiff, standing with her arms pinned to her sides, but after a beat, she relaxed and squeezed my hand, keeping me close to them.
“Yes, I can. It’s Lincoln Zimmerman.”
“That’s me,” I croaked and fumbled my ID before dropping it on the counter instead of handing it to him.
“Thank you, Mr. Zimmerman.”
He gave us directions on which waiting room to go to, and I blindly followed Carina. She raced ahead, walking along a corridor before we got in the elevator and went up a few levels. Back in among the maze of corridors, I was sure we were going around in circles.
“Excuse me, can I help you?” an orderly in blue scrubs asked.
Carina thrust the Post-it note the receptionist had given us toward the woman, who then gestured down the corridor.
“Come with me.” She led us into a waiting room.
The chief was there with another firefighter I recognized, but she wasn’t in uniform. They greeted us but went silent when the nurse asked who we were waiting for.
“Travis Taylor,” Carina answered. “Can we please get an update on his condition? The receptionist just sent us up here.”
“Let me find out some details for you.”
She disappeared out the door, and I looked around, still feeling detached from my body. I’d have a hangover later as well as a killer headache, and exhaustion would swamp me. I needed to sit down, but the hard plastic chairs didn’t look inviting.
