Delaney James seems to have it all-a successful husband, a stylish Manhattan townhouse, and a thriving career in fashion journalism-until it all falls apart. Her husband leaves her, shattering the perfect life she once knew. Heartbroken and desperat...
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"Wake up!" I hear someone shout frantically, though it sounds like they're a million miles away. "Henry, why isn't she waking up? What's wrong with her?"
It's my mother, but why does she sound so upset? And who does she mean by her?
"I don't know." My father's voice echoes in my ears. It's long and slow – like someone recorded his voice and is playing it back in slow motion. "Delaney. Open your eyes. Just open your eyes and let us know you're okay."
I'm groggy, and when I try to do as they ask, I can barely keep my eyes open for more than a few seconds. It's hard to breathe – the air coming out slow and shallow. I have horrible cottonmouth, and I desperately need some water, but when I reach for the glass on my nightstand, I feel like something is weighing me down, and I can't move my arms or legs. I open my mouth and tell them I'm fine – that I'm coherent and right here – but no one is listening. They're just staring at me, concern fixed on their faces.
"Delaney, wake up!" my mother shouts again. "Oh my, God. Is she dying?"
What is going on? What's happening?
I lift my head when I hear my mother begin to cry, and I see trails as my eyes follow her while she paces across the room. Her face has a look of pure terror. Tears are soaking her cheeks, and her hands shake as she brings them to her mouth.
My father takes my face in his hands and gently shakes me. "What is it, sweetie? What are you trying to say?"
I open my mouth to tell my father I'm scared, but all that comes out is a whimper.
"Folks! We need you to move out of the way so we can get to your daughter."
Several paramedics charge into the room and throw their equipment on the floor. One of them throws my comforter off of me and begins to poke and prod my body. He checks my pulse, then wraps a blood pressure cuff around my arm, and when he lifts my lids and shines a flashlight into my eyes to check my pupils, I barely flinch.
"What did she take?" one of them asks.
"Um...we don't – we don't know," I hear my mother say. "She went out last night. To a nightclub, I think. Is it drugs? Did she overdose? She's been having a rough time, and we think she might be depressed. Oh, my God! Did she try to hurt herself?"
"I need 0.2 milligrams of Flumazenil," the paramedic states. My arm droops limply over the bed as he tightens the band around my arm and sticks the needle into my vein. I pick up my head to see what they're doing, but it feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, and I drop it back onto my pillow. After a few minutes the paramedic shouts again, "She's not responding. Increase to 0.3 milligrams."
"Oh, Delaney. Please wake up!" my mother shouts.
"Let's get her on the gurney." One paramedic gets behind me and sits me up – my head falling against his shoulder – while the other grabs my ankles as they lift me off the bed and place me on the gurney. "Strap her in."
