I̶n̶f̶a̶t̶u̶a̶t̶i̶o̶n

Chapter 15--Evan

 I was rather irritated when a knock at the door caused me to pause my music but I knew that if I didn't answer the person would continue knocking and it would, in turn, wake my dad. I shoved my phone in my pocket and crossed the short distance from my bedroom to the door, since we were currently living in a 2 bedroom apartment that belonged to an old family friend down the street from our old home. It was a police officer. My stomach turned over and I could feel the heat starting to flush my face from nerves. He was slightly overweight and had a thin mustache on his upper lip.

"Officer, what can I do for you?" I asked in the evenest tone I could muster.

He flipped a few pages over on the clipboard he was holding in his hand and freed a paper from the bunch. "Are you," he paused for a moment, reading my name from the top of a paper still attached to the clipboard, "Evan Chandler?"

"Depends," I said half-jokingly, "what did he do?"

"Nothing at all," the officer chuckled. "I just have something to deliver."

"Oh, alright," I replied, my body relaxing in relief. "What is it you have for me?"

The officer passed me the sheet of paper he had recently freed from the clip. It was folded neatly four times into a square. I passed the paper from the left hand to my right and back again, getting a feel for it. It was sturdy and slightly rough. Good sketch paper.

"I was told to give you that by a 'Mrs. Holland'."

My eyebrows raised in recognition at the name. She was Chanse's mom. A million questions started to form automatically in my mind, but the officer spoke again before I had the chance to voice them.

"Mrs. Holland's daughter, Chanse, is currently in the hospital. She OD'd yesterday and the note she left was addressed to you. Mrs. Holland thought it was fair to let you know and give you the note."

I didn't know what to say. All that came out was, "Thank you."

"Of course. Let us know if you need anything, Evan, and we'll get back to you as soon as we can," he replied, handing me his card before walking back to his car.

For a moment I just stood there processing everything that had just happened. My mind was racing, but I forced it to slow down by reminding myself of the facts. Chanse was in the hospital. She'd been there since yesterday. She'd OD'd. She'd left her note to me.

I carefully unfolded the paper as not to ruin the perfect creases. Reading every word slowly, I felt my eyes brim with tears by the time I reached the end. I had never known how bad she had gotten. But why was I crying over her? All of the times that I told her we weren't even friends, did I really mean it?

I went inside and grabbed my coat and wallet, not bothering to leave a note for my dad that I was leaving. For a reason that was unbeknownst to me, I had to go to the hospital to see Chanse. If only for the fact that I owed her something because of the note, I had to see her at least once.

It took almost 20 minutes to drive from the apartment to the hospital and another 10 just to find a parking spot. By the time I got inside and actually found her room, the whole process had taken 40 minutes and my anxiousness had doubled. Walking into her room, I passed a nurse on her way out.

"Excuse me," I began, lightly touching her arm to get her attention, "how is she?"

"She's stable," the woman replied, "but unconscious. You're welcome to go see her. Talking to her might help, too. They say that the patient can still hear you, even when they're unconscious."

"Chanse," I replied, proceeding into the room.

"Pardon?"

"Her name," I said, Chanse's sleeping body coming into view for the first time, "is Chanse."