I sleep through my phone the next afternoon—through a bunch of texts from Hope, Kathy, and Marcus and three calls from Liam. When I finally wake up, the sun has started to set, and the rays of light between my curtains have softened to an evening glow. I bury my head deeper into my pillow and squint at the blinking messages on my cell.
Hope: Are you feeling better? Want me to come over?
Marcus: I made everybody sick. I’m really sorry. I read the recipe wrong. It was supposed to be a third of a bottle of whiskey. Not three bottles.
Kathy: I have to talk to someone.
And finally, a desperate text from Liam after the missed calls: Please call me. We need to talk about last night.
The thing is, I don’t want to talk about last night. I never want to talk about it. My memory of the party is blurred and patchy, but I remember enough to be absolutely mortified. I remember spying on my brother, I remember Liam’s shocked face, I remember falling on top of him in the truck, I remember kissing him, and then—what happened then?
I remember the word Please. Whispered over and over. Please, Liam, I want you. How could I have said that? It didn’t sound like something I would say. Not yet. We just started dating.
But I definitely remember I love you. Did Liam say that? Did I? Who says I love you to someone they’ve just started dating?
I should have stayed and waited until he woke up. But I’d run off and left him there lying in my vomit. He was probably freaking out. There was nothing I could say now to excuse myself, except possibly plead temporary drunken insanity. But we’d all had too much to drink, and I was the only one who’d acted like an idiot. I know I should call him, but I need a little more time to figure this out. It’s obvious we went too far; but I need to remember what exactly happened before I can decide what to say.
He deserves a reply though. Even if it’s just a stall until I get my thoughts together. I stare at my phone for a long time before finally touching the screen. I’m writing Liam a carefully worded answer when I hear a sudden shout outside my door and the soft thud of something hitting the landing.
“Rain! Wake up! Come quick!” It’s Ethan’s voice, but it rings out so loudly that I jump up from my bed. I’ve never heard him call out like that.
I drop my phone and rush out into the hall. Ethan is crouched over the prostrate form of our mother who’s fallen in the doorway of the bathroom. I stand frozen for a moment, and then I spring to action. “What happened?” I ask him as I turn her over. “What’s going on?”
He reaches out and shakes her roughly. “Are you all right, are you okay?” He glances up at me. “You call 911,” he orders flatly and hands me his phone. His tone and movements are robotic, like someone going through a rehearsed protocol. Then his hands are on her neck and his ear is by her mouth. I start to dial.
“Do you know CPR?” I ask him shakily. I learned the basics a while ago but my mind is a total blank now. I’m praying he remembers.
“I know CPR,” he replies calmly. “But she doesn’t need it. Her pulse is good, and she’s breathing. We have to put her in recovery position.”
I watch him quietly as he turns her on her side and gently smooths her hair back from her face. She’s breathing normally, but her closed eyes are sunk deep into their hollows, and her face is pale as a corpse.
“What’s the nature of your emergency?” the voice on the phone demands.
“I don’t know,” I gasp out. “Something’s happened to my mom. Just come quickly please.”