Precious Blood

  “Well, then, maybe you can get that officer outside to understand a little better what someone your age was doing passed out in the bathroom of a club?”

  Lucy refused to acknowledge the seriousness of her condition, medically or legally, and reached down for the pieces of her scattered outfit. A searing pain stopped her short, and she doubled over, clenching her stomach in agony.

  The nurse placed sticky-back electrodes on Lucy’s chest and wired her to the cardiac monitor at her bedside. The switch was flipped and instead of the expected beep . . . beep of Lucy’s heart rate, the sound was one long extended tone, indicating a flat line.

  Then . . . nothing.

  Lucy’s eyebrows perked up nervously as the nurse fiddled with the machinery.

  “Everyone says I’m heartless,” Lucy jibed.

  “Stop moving around,” the nurse ordered. “You’re messing with the monitor.”

  “Ugh, I think I’m getting my period.” Lucy dropped her head down on the tiny pillow beneath her head. “Get me some Vicodin.”

  Dr. Moss shook his head and left the curtained cubicle. He noticed the photographers and bloggers uploading and posting from their mobiles, calling sources, vigorously updating editors on the second-rate “it” girl’s breaking news. Suddenly, as if the fire alarm had gone off, the crowd dispersed, off to chase the next ambulance.

  The nurse poked her head into Lucy’s bay to let her know things had settled down.

  “Shit!” Lucy spat, her chance for a little cheap ink thwarted by someone else’s personal tragedy.

  Hours passed, lights dimmed, staff, shifts, and dressings changed, and fifteen-minute-interval checks on Agnes’s restraints took place—also mandatory procedure—but the sounds of the sick, the injured, and the dying persisted long past visiting hours, into the night. It was sobering and depressing. Patients came and went, some discharged, some admitted, others like Agnes, Cecilia, and Lucy left in limbo, waiting for a bed or further observation, forced to endure the suffering of others as well as their own.

  Agnes’s cell went off and she knew immediately by the Dynasty TV-theme ringtone that it was her mother. She hit the mute button and tossed the phone, limp-wristed, onto the monitor stand next to her gurney, ignoring the caller just as she had the digital cascade of text messages that now clogged her mailbox. She sighed and drifted off to sleep, like Lucy, whose lost photo op, and a first round of questioning by the NYPD, proved totally exhausting.

  It was practically silent. Still.

  13 An ER tech ripped open the curtain all at once, as if he were ripping off a Band-Aid, and wheeled in a computer on a mobile stand. “I need to ask you a few questions Cecilia . . . Trent.”

  Cecilia didn’t budge.

  “Address?”

  “Pass.”

  “Ah, okay.” He skimmed the screen for an easier question. “Religion?”

  “Currently, I’m practicing the ancient art of”—she paused as he typed—“I don’t give a fuck-ism.”

  He continued typing until the end and then pressed the delete button. “I can’t type that.”

  “Sure you can.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “And they say this is a free country,” Cecilia said. “Okay, I’m a practicing nihilist.”

  “Why don’t I come back later.” He pushed his computer cart out of the room as he closed the curtain.

  “Don’t be like that,” she called after him apologetically. “I’m just bored.”

  “Get some rest.”

  She should have been able to, with all that sedation flowing through her, but she couldn’t. She kept replaying the evening over and over in her head, the little she could remember of it. After a while, the ER went almost totally quiet except for the sound of hurried footsteps. They sounded heavy, not like the surgeons’ paper booties or the nurses’ rubber soles that had been scurrying through the ward until then. Cecilia, an experienced night owl by nature and profession, felt uneasy for the first time in a very long time.

  Cecilia looked up and noticed the shadow of a male figure on her curtain, passing by her bay. “Coming back for more? They always do.”

  She glanced down and saw the coolest pair of black biker boots she’d ever seen. Even in silhouette she could tell, whoever he was, he was hot. Definitely not the douche bag ER tech. She’d gotten really good at determining a guy’s “attributes” in the dark.

  He stood still, as if he were intensely plotting, his back to her curtain divider, giving her time to wonder about him. Visiting hours were over, and from the almost chiaroscuro outline of his hair, jeans, and jacket, she wondered if this was the guy she’d hooked up with earlier. She could barely remember what he looked like, but maybe he’d snuck past the desk to see her. See if she was okay. Even if it was out of guilt.

  “Are you decent?” he asked. “Can I come in?”

  “No and yes. Two things about me—I never get on a plane with a country star and I tend to never say ‘no’ to a guy.”

  She felt a tingle in her stomach as he slid aside the curtain. He looked anxious, almost like a chain smoker who had given up cigarettes earlier that day. Tense. He ducked quickly into the space. He was tall and lean, olive-skinned, with thick, styled hair, long, slightly muscled arms, and a barrel chest that was barely enclosed by his jacket and a T-shirt of The Kills.

  A vision.

  “I didn’t think anyone was awake,” he said in a baritone whisper.

  “Here to give me last rites?”

  “You have a death wish?”

  “After last night, possibly.”

  “Do you always invite strangers into your room?”

  “I prefer the company of people I don’t know very well.”

  “Sounds lonely.”

  There was an awkward silence and Cecilia had to look away from him. The understanding and compassion in his voice was overwhelming. Her eyes welled unexpectedly with tears. “I’m not crying. I must still be high or something.”

  “I understand.” He stepped forward. Closer to her. Shrinking the space between them. He smelled like incense. Cecilia began to question the wisdom of confiding in this guy. Hot guys cruising clubs was one thing, but hot guys creeping hospitals was quite another. She tensed up. “Do I know you?”

  “Wouldn’t you know if you knew me?”

  The truth was she hung out with a lot of guys, and it was difficult to keep them straight. So running into one turned into a game of Twenty Questions with her. Something she was good at. “Were you at my gig tonight? Did you bring me here?”

  “No . . . ” he said slowly. “Cecilia.”

  “You know my name? You better be psychic or I’m screaming,” she said, backing away suddenly.

  He pointed to the foot of her bed. “Your name is on your clipboard.”

  “What do you want from me?” Cecilia asked, holding her punctured arms up as far as the vinyl tubes would stretch, like a medicated marionette. “I can take care of myself. Despite what it looks like.”

  “I can see that.” He nodded and tapped her hand gently.

  “Who are you?” she asked, immediately pulling away.

  “Sebastian,” he said, reaching for her again.

  She relaxed into his touch.

  He took notice of the hard-shell guitar case leaning upright against the wall beside her bed. It was stickered, stained, chipped, and battered. It had seen better days, but he had the sense it was protecting something precious. “You’re a musician?”

  “That’s what I told my parents when I ran away.”

  “Everyone’s either running from something or toward something.”

  “Well, then,” she said, feeling some camaraderie. “Which way are you headed?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  “At least one thing we have in common.”

  “At least.”

  “Seriously, I just always felt like there was something deep inside of me I needed to say,” CeCe tried to explain. “Something . . . ”

&nbs
p; “Trying to get out?” he asked.

  She looked up at him in surprise. He understood.

  “Yeah.”

  “Another thing we have in common,” he said.

  He moved in even closer. Into the light. Close enough for her to feel the warmth of his body and his breath. To see him. To smell him.

  “So, Sebastian . . . ” Even his name appealed to her. It fit him. She knew his type. Devastatingly good-looking guy, nice moves, but probably cheating on his night nurse girlfriend right under her nose. “What are you doing here?”

  “Visiting.”

  “A girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you don’t look like a blood farmer, organ broker, or bone thief . . . ,” she said. “Are you one of those dudes who cruises the hospital for sick chicks?”

  The loud clang of a tray dropping and some hallway chatter startled them. He’d looked edgy since he’d walked in, but she could sense he was ready to leave. Right then. “You looking for someone or is someone looking for you?”

  “I found what I was looking for,” he said, reaching down into his jeans pocket.

  “Whoa, what the hell are you doing?” Cecilia reached for the nurse call button. He beat her to it, snatching it away. She immediately extended her hand to grab it, then winced in pain, pulling back as the IV lines stretched to their limit and tugged at her veins. “Point blank, I will hurt you.”

  He pulled out a gorgeous bracelet made from what looked to be the oldest, most extraordinary rough ivory beads, and dangling from it, an antique gold sword with a slender cello bow fastened from the handle to the tip.

  “Holy shit.” Cecilia marveled at it and was both touched and spooked that a total stranger would give her such a stunning, obviously ridiculously expensive, personal, and unique gift. “Were you the one who brought me here?” she asked. “Were you the one who saved me?”

  Sebastian placed the bracelet in her hand and clasped his around it, gently but firmly, and backed away toward the curtain. “Later.”

  Something in his voice sounded to her like he meant it literally. She believed him. This was the most honest conversation she’d had with a guy maybe ever. And he was a total stranger. But an old soul. Like her.

  “Listen. I have a few gigs this week. Cecilia Trent. Google me. Maybe you’ll find me and come down and check me out minus the IVs.”

  “Maybe you’ll find me first,” he said.

  “Wait,” Cecilia whispered hoarsely after him, holding up her wrist adorned with the bracelet. “What is this?”

  “Something to hold on to.”

  7 Sunday morning.

  The day of rest. Regret. And cotton mouth.

  Lucy was lying on her side when she came to. She listened for a while before opening her eyes, holding on to that serene moment before what she had done the previous night revealed itself to her sober and fully conscious mind. The sliver of time before excuses of a sick grandmother or friend in turmoil emerged, all while performing an underwear scavenger hunt.

  Her first reflex was to feel beneath the pillow for her Hermès flask, half gray and half salmon-hued with black leather straps and a sterling silver lid, it resembled an oversize necklace rather than something camouflaging alcohol. The promoters at Sacrifice, an upscale DUMBO nightclub, gave it to her after they hosted an exclusive Hermès party for fashion week . . . along with free top-shelf refills for life, which always kept her coming back, because drink tickets were so last millennium. This morning, however, there was no comfort to be found, under her pillow or anywhere else; she didn’t feel a flask.

  The pillowcase had slid partially off and her mouth was in direct contact with the plastic blue cushion. It took an instant before she realized this and panicked, logging a mental inventory of who could have potentially died on it and then lay there for hours, leaking body fluids over it and inside it. Hospital pillows, like airline pillows, were reusable and no one had actually ever seen them changed, she was sure. The plastic cover didn’t fool her one bit—all of its infectious contents were now swirling around her mouth playing a game of tag with her immune system. Whatever it was, it was in her.

  Lucy opened her ghostly pale blue eyes—blood vessels creeping through the whites of them like a spiderweb—and knew she was in a hospital. She tried to go back to sleep, back to numb, but the whiz and buzz of medical equipment booting up along with the hallway chatter made it impossible as did the commingling vapors of ammonia, feces, drying blood, and puke that seemed to permeate the entire ER.

  “I need to get out of here,” Lucy said, peeling her face off of the plastic pillow.

  The nurse simply ignored her and began taking Lucy’s vitals before she retreated to paperwork. Lucy’s eyes were fixed on her Parisian weekender, the one that she got from her dad when they visited a flea market in France. It was made from an antique rug—hand-woven blooms of rich reds, bright magentas, royal blues, and peridots.

  He took her to Paris when she was ten, right before her mother left them, saying that he wanted her first trip to Paris to be with a man who would always love her. Lucy’s mother left when she was young. She decided that she didn’t want to be tied down with a husband and a kid. She up and moved to L.A. Later, Lucy realized that those, too, were her initials. Los Angeles, the city of angels, among other things. Whether the abrupt move was some previously unfulfilled ambition or just a fight-or-flight response to a traditional lifestyle, she never really knew. For Lucy, it was both formative and informative, coloring her views of life and love with a decidedly unsentimental palette.

  Whatever the reason, her dad was all that she had, and now she barely even talked to him. Unless there was a problem with her rent check. She held on to that bag and to what he said as it shifted from a sweet memory to a bitter lie. All that was left—baggage. When she did talk to him, she was always accused of being just like her mother, which to her father was unforgivable.

  Lucy grabbed her clothing from the night before out of the bag. It was bad enough, she thought, that she’d wound up in the hospital, but without anything else to wear, a “walk of shame” was guaranteed. She wondered who might pay for such a shot and how much, and instantly reached for her cell phone, and as she did, something dropped to the floor.

  She looked down and saw a bracelet made up of the most exquisite off-white beads with a peculiar, double-eyed gold charm.

  Some Fifth Avenue version of the Kabbalah bracelet, Lucy thought, leaning over to pick it up. Probably some Holy Roller looking for a handout.

  Before it even made it up to her eyes, she decided to incorporate it into her look. Barney’s New York was doing a whole SACRED line for next fall, and this little number would give her a jump on the season. Definitely fake, but I can make it work.

  As she brought the piece closer to her face and studied it, she realized that it was anything but fake. The reflection from the fluorescent light above caused her to squint like a jeweler. She could usually tell cheap from a mile away, and this was the real thing. It was unbelievable. Looked as if it were antique. Heavy. Hand-carved. She fantasized for a moment that it had been passed down through the ages like estate jewelry or hidden like buried treasure only to be found centuries later.

  Unearthed.

  I’ll bet this cost a freakin’ fortune. Not like those gum-machine knockoffs for sale on the flying carpets along the sidewalks of Atlantic Avenue, she thought. She turned over onto her back and held it up in front of her face, fingering the golden charm. It was unlike anything she’d ever seen, not even at celebrity auctions, and it was certainly one of a kind. Strange and familiar to her all at the same time. Almost too much to look at. But she felt, in a way she could not describe even to herself, that it should belong to her. And now it did.

  “Was my father here?” Lucy asked the nurse, hope in her voice as if she were a little girl at Christmas again, fondling the rare find. “Did he leave this for me?”

  “No,” the nurse said, tamping down Lucy’s childlike eagerness.


  “Yeah, he would never step foot in a Brooklyn hospital. He rarely leaves Manhattan.”

  The nurse just rolled her eyes.

  “What time is checkout?” Lucy asked, still transfixed by the bauble.

  The nurse shrugged dismissively and returned to her business.

  “Bitch,” Lucy mumbled as the short and stubby nurse waddled away.

  Watching the nurse leave, she noticed a familiar face across the hall—not a friend or even much of an acquaintance, but a former classmate and a die-hard competitor for precious gossip-column space. The girl never had a bad thing printed about her, until recently when rumors of a pregnancy by an ex-boyfriend, now in college, began to circulate. Lucy knew all about it because she had started the rumor. And right next to her was the girl’s boyfriend.

  There was no curtain on their bay. They were totally exposed.

  “Hey, Sadie,” Lucy called out, getting the girl’s attention.

  Sadie was clenched over in pain, moaning, holding her stomach. She was too weak to respond or to defend herself.

  “Wow. Can’t believe how fantastic your postpregnancy bod looks,” Lucy said. “Hard to believe you were pregnant like . . . an hour ago.”

  The girl tucked her head inside her hoodie, knowing what was about to happen, much like a mobster who’d been taken away in the backseat of a rival crime family’s car. But the guy didn’t even try to hide his face. In fact, quite the opposite.

  Ratting Sadie out would surely impress Jesse and get her ER story better placement. In fact, it might even warrant a vlog post. All she could think was jackpot. In her circle, teen pregnancy was one thing, good for a few days of embarrassing coverage before it got turned into some noble endeavor, but termination, that was quite another. That could mean exile. And for Lucy, one less rival. She couldn’t count the number of times they had tried to humiliate her.

  Eye for an eye.

  Lucy took a picture with her cell and looked it over. It was a perfect snap, capturing all Sadie’s tears and torment. But the distraught look on Sadie’s face, her vulnerability, reached Lucy in a way she hadn’t expected. Even more moving to Lucy was Sadie’s boyfriend, Tim, hand in hand with her, right by her side. There was no one there for Lucy. Not even the man who should have cared the most, her dad.