NOW
When she woke up on the tweedy, musty sofa, the apartment was dark, silent. At first, she wasn’t sure if it was morning or night, but the hum of activity outside the heavy curtains—commuters, buses, delivery trucks—informed her it was early a.m. The November sun liked to sleep late. She couldn’t blame it.
She lifted her head, painfully, from the cushioned arm of the sofa. Her neck was stiff and there was a dull ache between her eyebrows. A hangover. How many drinks had she had? She remembered having a couple, but there must have been more, if the pounding in her head was any indication. The events of the previous night were foggy and unfocused. She recalled arriving, sitting next to David on the couch. He had bought her the coolers she liked—make that used to like. The very thought of them made her stomach roil.
Throwing the blanket off her, she sat up, her brain sloshing painfully in her skull. When she tried to stand, the room spun around her. She sat back down, dropping her head into her hands. Oh, god. Everything was moving and swirling and tilting. She was going to be sick. She couldn’t throw up on David’s carpet. She had to get to the bathroom.
With her mouth watering menacingly, she staggered to the hallway. There were two closed doors: one would be the bedroom, the other the bathroom. If she made the wrong choice, she would burst into David’s room and puke on the floor, right in front of him. And then she would die of embarrassment. She chose the door on her right. Luck was on her side.
She fell to her knees in front of the toilet just as a stream of hot, pink liquid shot out of her. She coughed and retched, her stomach forcing out more of the bitter fluid. Tears poured from her eyes as she heaved again and again. She felt poisoned, her body trying to detox itself from last night’s indulgences. Her nerves had precluded her eating dinner yesterday . . . possibly even lunch, come to think of it. There was nothing left in her stomach, but still it convulsed, over and over. Daisy worried she was doing some serious damage to her esophagus.
David would hear her and he would be disgusted, but she was too sick to be ashamed. She needed to go to the hospital. She needed an ambulance. Something was very wrong with her.
“David,” she called, lifting her head out of the bowl. “Help me.”
That slight movement of her head made the room sway again and she puked some more. Soon David would come, bring her a cool facecloth, and maybe a pillow so she could lie down on the floor between bouts of vomiting. Through the fog in her brain, she remembered his strong hands placing the blanket on her, how safe she had felt.
But he didn’t come. Even when she called him again, louder this time . . . nothing. His room was directly across the hall. There was no way he couldn’t hear her. On hands and knees, Daisy crept out of the bathroom and across the carpeted hallway. With her head down, eyes on the floor, the nausea was less overwhelming. She pushed open the bedroom door and crawled across the threshold. If David was there, sitting in bed, she would look like a lunatic . . . a repulsive, puking lunatic. But even before she lifted her head, she knew. The double bed was unmade but empty.
She lay down on the floor for a moment, regaining her equilibrium. Where was he? When had he left? Was he coming back? She suddenly realized how vulnerable she was—sick, lost, and alone. She could die here, in a stranger’s apartment. David might not return for hours, and by then it would be too late. What would he do when he found her lifeless body? Who would he call? Her heart raced and her chest tightened. She struggled to breathe. She didn’t want it all to end this way.
With serious effort, she half crawled, half dragged herself into the living room. Her phone was on a side table, resting next to a generically ugly lamp. She climbed onto the sofa, and reached for the device. Resting her head against the cushioned arm (last night’s pillow), she scrolled through her contacts with trembling hands.
Her peers were of no use to her. Even if they cared about her—which they didn’t—they were too young to drive. Her dad was away. And her mom . . . Daisy couldn’t call her mom. No. No way. And then she saw the name, so recently added to her contacts. Frances Metcalfe. The woman had promised to be there for her. Rescuing Daisy from alcohol poisoning in some random guy’s apartment was likely not what Frances had in mind, but Daisy was already dialing the number.
“Hello?” Frances’s voice was cool and leery. She clearly didn’t recognize Daisy’s number.
“It’s Daisy,” she said, her voice hoarse from all the barfing. “I need help.”
“What’s wrong, Daisy?” The woman’s voice was shrill and panicked. “Where are you?”
“I don’t know.” Daisy was crying now. “I’m in an apartment near the university. I’m really sick and I’m alone and I need help.”
“Are you on something? Should I call 9-1-1? Should I call your mom?”
“No!” Daisy cried. “I had some drinks. And some pot . . . Please. Don’t. Just . . . come.”
“I will.” Frances’s voice was calmer. “Is there anything around you with an address on it? A bill, maybe, or a magazine subscription.”
Daisy’s eyes surveyed the sterile space. “I don’t see anything.”
“Do you have an iPhone?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll use the Find My Friends app. You’ll need to go into the app and allow me to track you.”
“Okay.” Daisy sniveled.
“It will get me close to you, but you need to find the address and text it to me.”
“I’ll try.” She sniveled again.
“Go outside and check the street name and number if you have to. I’m on my way.”
“Thank you.”
Daisy hung up and crawled back to the bathroom.