“What about that chick he lives with?” Jake had asked after she told him what her mission was.
“She’s at work,” Laura said.
“So ... that makes this your problem?”
“I don’t mind,” Laura told him. “I like Eric. He’s like ... I don’t know ... a little brother or something.”
“He’s kind of weird,” Jake replied. “Not weirder than Charlie—that would be saying a lot—but weird all the same. And this panic attack thing. He is unable to cope with day-to-day life without going to the hospital. Are we sure he’s going to work out on a long tour?”
“He’ll be fine,” she said. “He just has breakthrough attacks every once in a while. It sounds like he had a bad one today.”
Jake had simply shaken his head. He did not understand the whole panic attack thing. How could you panic over nothing? And if you realized that you were, in fact, having a panic attack, shouldn’t that go a long way toward solving the problem?
The traffic was heavy as Laura made her way slowly to the west on Santa Monica Boulevard. Rain came down in a steady pour and the windshield wipers on her Lexus thumped rhythmically back and forth, barely keeping up. The defroster vents blew warm air, keeping the condensation from forming on her windshield and cutting the chilly air.
It was this winter storm, blown in from the Gulf of Alaska and moving inland earlier this morning, that was the reason she and Jake were still in LA at all. Rehearsal for the upcoming tour was now done. The road crew would begin practicing the roll-in/roll-out procedures the day after Christmas and would leave for the first show in Miami on December 28, but the band itself was free until New Year’s Day, when they would hop on a plane for the cross-country trek. Jake and Laura had planned to spend that time at their Oceano home on the cliff, but the storm and the winds it brought were a little more than Jake was comfortable flying in. And the snow on the mountain passes made the thought of driving home unpleasant as well—that and the fact that if they did drive home, they would have to drive back at some point to get the plane. And so, they were staying in their Granada Hills house until the weather cleared. And that was why Laura was in a position to pick up Eric when he called.
She had never been to Cedars-Sinai before but the facility was well marked with directional signs and she had no problem finding the emergency room. She parked in a small parking garage and then strolled across a hundred yards of open area, gripping her umbrella tightly to keep the wind from ripping it away, but getting fairly wet anyway. She went inside the building and found herself in a crowded waiting room full of people of all walks and stations in life, of all ages, of all races and creeds. There were businessmen in suits sitting next to homeless ragpickers. Some were holding bloody bandages to body parts. Some were holding green vomit bags to their faces. Many were in wheelchairs looking miserable. In one corner was a family of five that were eating fast food from the local McDonalds franchise. It was unclear at a glance which of the five was here to be seen in the ER.
She waited in a line for a few minutes until she was able to speak to a clerk behind a pane of bulletproof glass. The clerk directed her to another line where she was finally able to talk to a uniformed and armed security guard. He took her name and her driver’s license, gave her a large green sticker that read VISITOR for her to put on her jacket, and then made a phone call to the back. She was asked to step aside. A few minutes later, another armed guard came through a secure door and called her name. He then led her into the bowels of the emergency department until they reached a hallway lined on both sides with gurneys, most of which contained a human being having some sort of real or perceived emergency. One of these people was Eric, who was laying under a white blanket and snoring lightly.
“Are you here to pick up Mr. Eric?” a voice asked her.
She looked up to see a dark-skinned black woman of healthy proportions. She was in her mid-thirties or so and wearing dark blue scrubs. Her name badge declared that she was Barbara Jenkins, RN.
“Yes,” Laura told her. “I’m here to take him home.”
“Perfect,” Barbara said with a smile. “Are you family?”
“No, a friend and a colleague,” she said. “Eric and I are musicians.”
“He did mention something about being a musician,” she said. She then chuckled. “He tried to convince me that he plays violin for Celia Valdez.”
“Uh ... well, actually...”
“I’m assuming he has schizophrenia?” Barbara asked. “It wasn’t in his medical history, but he’s obviously having some delusions indicative of it. In addition to playing violin for Celia Valdez, he claims he flew on a helicopter to Jake Kingsley’s house on an ocean cliff and had Thanksgiving dinner with Kingsley and his wife and Kingsley’s parents.” She shook her head a little. “Where do they come up with this stuff?”
“That does sound rather fantastic, doesn’t it?” Laura asked lightly.
“It does,” Barbara agreed. “Is he supposed to be taking medication for this? Some Risperdal or Zyprexa maybe?”
“No,” Laura said. “He’s not schizophrenic.”
“Schizoaffective then?”
“No,” she said. “He has social anxiety disorder and that’s about it.”
“But what about the delusions?”
“They’re not delusions,” Laura said.
“Excuse me?”
She smiled. “Maybe I should introduce myself. I’m Laura. Laura Kingsley.”
Barbara’s eyes widened. “Laura ... Kingsley? You mean... the Laura Kingsley? Jake Kingsley’s wife?”
“That’s right,” she said, showing Barbara her left hand, upon which she wore her wedding ring, which—though Jake had never told her the price of it—undoubtedly had cost more than Barbara Jenkins RN made in a year. “I play saxophone for Celia Valdez and Eric is the violinist. We’re getting ready to go out on tour on New Year’s Day.”
“No kidding?” Barbara said.
“No kidding,” Laura assured her. “How is he doing?”
“Who?”
“Uh ... Eric?”
“Oh ... right, him,” Barbara said, chuckling again. “Sorry. I guess I’m a little star-struck just now. Who would’ve thought all that stuff he was telling me was true? Anyway, he’s doing fine. He had himself a good old panic attack with hyperventilation. The medics got him mostly talked down by the time he got here, then we gave him a little ride on the van and fixed him right up.”
“A ride on the van?”
“Ativan,” Barbara clarified. “We gave him two milligrams intramuscularly and then topped it off with a Xanax. He will panic no more, at least for the rest of the night. He is rather sleepy though, as you can see.”
“I see that,” Laura said.
“That’s why we had to have someone come pick him up, and why I had to verify someone was here for that.”
“Well ... I’m here now,” Laura said.
“You certainly are,” Barbara agreed. “Let me go get his paperwork and I’ll get you going.”
“Thank you,” Laura said.
Barbara disappeared for a few minutes, leaving Laura to watch the show in the ER hallway. It was a rather interesting show with an interesting cast of characters. Finally, she returned, a clipboard and a sheaf of papers with her. She walked over to Eric’s gurney and put the side rail down. She then gently shook him awake.
“Hey, love-muffin,” she said softly in her nurse voice. “Laura’s here to take you home.”
“Laura?” he said sleepily, his eyed creaking slightly open.
“That’s right, hon,” Barbara said. “Looking just as pretty as a flower too. And you know what? She tells me you really do play violin for Celia Valdez.”
“You ... you didn’t believe me?” Eric asked.
“Well ... let’s just say I hear a lot of stories in this place. I hope you forgive me. Now then, how about we get you on your feet and I’ll go over your discharge directions.”