It’s like being in the Twilight Zone, holding his hand as the chopper’s de facto medical officer starts an IV, and reassuring her that all the scars on his hands and in the crook of his elbows don’t mean he’s a drug addict. He just had a bad motorcycle wreck a while back.
This helicopter isn’t really equipped for landing at a hospital, but because of Cross’s last name, they make some special arrangements and I’m told we are landing on the roof in ten minutes.
I want to ask the agent who’s acting as a nurse questions about what happened after we left—what happened with the cartel—but I don’t dare.
The agent/nurse, named Lisa, reassures me that ‘my husband’ should be okay.
He wakes up only once, to insist no one give him any narcotics. I stroke his hair and tell him I’ve got it covered. With all the energy I have left, I’m trying to play the role of his wife. Now that I’m on the helicopter, I can’t afford to have any of these people doubting our story. When his eyes flutter, I can tell he wants to talk to me. I’m glad he’s too weak. For right now, I’m not allowing myself to think too much about the fact that he’s a Carlson. I just need to get him to the hospital.
As soon as we start to descend over the roof, Cross’s eyes flutter again. The nurse tells me it’s because his blood pressure is pretty low, but Cross is looking at me, trying to tell me something. Finally he grits, “Marchant,” followed by “Love…brothel.”
During the months I lived in Vegas, I met a few great women who worked at Love Inc. I happen to know Marchant Radcliffe is the brothel’s owner.
“You want me to call Marchant Radcliffe?” I ask, confused.
Cross coughs, and the nurse tells him to stop talking, but he’s stubborn. His eyes hold mine for just long enough to croak, “My…friend.”
It’s weird to think of ‘Evan’ as a real person to begin with, but it’s even weirder to think of him as Cross Carlson, friend of high-rolling Marchant Radcliffe. Luckily, we’re bumping down on the roof, so my thoughts are directed elsewhere.
As soon as Cross’s cot is hauled out of the helicopter, we are whisked down in an elevator to what I can only assume is an operating room. When the army of doctors and nurses leaves me in a pale blue plastic chair just outside the stainless steel doors, I take a deep breath and go in search of a free phone.
I find one, as well as a computer accessible only if you pay it quarters. A kind-looking nurse slips me four of them as I sit down. I mutter, “thank you” and look up the brothel’s phone number.
As I dial, I consider asking for an old friend, an escort named Geneese Loveless, but when the polite receptionist answers, I ask for Marchant and I tell her it’s an emergency. That his friend Cross Carlson is in one of the ORs at the University Medical Center in El Paso with a gunshot wound.
I hang up before she has time to go find the pimp himself.
29
Cross
I OPEN MY eyes to a blaze of white light, and within seconds I’m choked by panic. I can see arms, torsos, and faces moving over me and I know where I am. In a hospital. I thought I was out of the hospital…but maybe I’m not. Oh God. Oh fuck. What happened?
The voices around me get harsher, more urgent. I can feel someone holding my legs down. Someone else tries to hold my head still, and I can hear a soothing voice telling me I’m okay, but I know I’m not.
I’m not okay.
“Sir, you need to try to calm down. We’re re-sewing your wound. You pulled the stitches out in recovery so we had to bring you back to the OR.”
My heart trips over itself. I open my mouth, and it’s hard to get words out. When I do, they sound thick and clumsy. “Did you give me…any sedatives?”
“We did,” says the disembodied voice. “You had general anesthesia.”
I attempt to shake my head, causing the hands on my temples to tighten. I shut my eyes and try to fight the tears building behind them. After several deep breaths, I remember something—someone. I remember red hair, and the memory makes me feel good.
Meredith.
I can feel myself trembling again. That’s how much I want her. With effort, I focus my eyes on the head above me and manage to rasp a question: “Where is Merri?”
“Mr. Carlson, please calm down. We’ll be finished with this soon and you’ll be settled in the ICU.”
The ICU. I shake my head. I can’t go to the ICU.
“I need Merri.” Some part of me, some lucid part, knows how pathetic it is that my voice is cracking, but most of me just doesn’t care. Using all my strength, I raise my right arm and grip the first white sleeve I find.