Castles on the Sand

Twenty-Two

I vault over Kailie's unconscious form, slip, and fall. My hand lands on a kitchen knife and I see in the dimness that she's slit her wrists. Blood covers her hands. I fumble my phone out of my pocket and try to dial 911. I manage on the third try.

“Emergency?” says the operator.

“My friend might have killed herself. She slit her wrists.”

But Kailie inhales sharply.

“She's alive!” I say.

“Where are you?”

I give the address. “It's the Pelican Bluffs Inn. The house attached to it.”

“And what condition is the patient in?”

“She slit her wrists. There's blood everywhere.”

“Are the wounds still open?”

“I don't know.”

“Is the blood pulsing out or just oozing out.”

“I don't see pulsing.”

“Did the patient submerse their wrists in hot water?”

“Huh? No.”

“All right, that's good. Apply direct pressure to the wounds. Try to bandage them with something. Help should be there any minute.” In the distance, I hear a siren start up. “Stay on the line,” the operator tells me.

I cast about for something to tie the wounds with and grab my gloves out of my pockets. It's tricky but I manage to tie one around each wrist. Much to my horror, blood soaks through them at once. I retrieve my phone from my pocket and press it to my ear. “She's still bleeding.”

“But she didn't put her wrists in water?”

“No. Why?”

“That's how you keep the blood from clotting. It's good that she didn't. Do you know where the pressure point is on the upper arm?”

“No.”

“Just under the bicep, in the inside of the arm, is an artery, press the artery against the bone and that'll slow down bloodflow.”

I try to make sense of this, but I don't really understand.

The sirens get closer and I hear the door that connects the house to the Inn open. Heavy footsteps clomp down the hall towards us and Mr. Beale pokes his head in. For a few seconds, that feel like hours, he takes in the scene, then looks at me. Anger wars with bewilderment in his expression.

“She's still bleeding,” I say.

“Is everything all right?” the operator asks.

“No, not really.”

“Can you send someone outside to guide the paramedics in?” she says.

“Yeah, I'll go downstairs.”

This means getting past Mr. Beale, though, who doesn't move when I get up and cross the room. He just stares at me.

“Get out of my way.” I go almost nose to nose with him.

His eyes narrow, but he does step back.

“Greg?” Kailie's mom calls out. “What's going on?”

I don't wait to see that confrontation. I run down the stairs and wait at the front door as Officer Li's car careens into the parking lot, an ambulance right behind it. Uniformed paramedics unload a stretcher and I motion to them to go up the stairs. Mrs. Beale's bloodcurdling scream guides them the rest of the way.