I called 911 while I checked for a pulse. There'd been one, but very faint and thready. He was on his way out. When the dispatcher had asked if I knew CPR, I told her about the Do Not Resuscitate order. She sent paramedics and a squad car, but it was too late by the time they arrived. The father's heart had stopped and he was gone.
I'd given the cops the father's paperwork, and they told me that they had to look into everything. I'd nodded but hadn't really paid much attention to anything. I'd been watching the paramedics wheel his body out of the house. They told me they'd be in contact if they had any questions, and then they left.
I was missing blocks of time after that. I was pretty sure I'd wandered around the house because I somehow managed to shower and put on clean clothes, as if any of that mattered. It wasn’t like the father's blood had been on me. The only blood was my own from where my skin had cracked. I didn't remember what I'd been doing when it happened, but I had enough sense to bandage myself up.
After a while, I found myself sitting on the dark second-floor landing with a bottle of alcohol in one hand and a bottle of pain meds in the other. I didn't know how long I'd been sitting there, only that the tequila was still unopened and my pill bottle was still mostly full. I hadn't taken them very often, especially when I preferred to drown my sorrows in booze. But I'd taken one now, as if it could touch more than the pain in my arm.
Now I wished I hadn't taken anything because I really wanted a drink. It wasn't a good idea to mix the two, I knew, but I was tempted. I'd thought my accident was the worst thing that'd happened to me since my mother and sister had been killed. That one would always be the worst. My accident was no longer number two though.
Doron O'Toole was the closest thing I'd ever had to a real father. He'd saved my life, given me hope and a purpose. He was the one constant in my adult life, the one person I could count on no matter what I did or where I was. He'd never given up on me, never treated me as anything less than a son. With my mom and sister gone, he was my family.
And now he was gone.
It wasn't just pain and grief I was feeling, but a loss so deep that I didn't even have the words to describe it. I loved Mom and Madison, but I'd grown used to their absence. This was still new and fresh.
I held up the pill bottle. Mostly full. They weren't the strongest narcotic out there, but they were still prescription strength. I looked over at the tequila. Definitely a bad idea to combine the two.
But the idea was appealing. I'd never down the whole bottle of pills and deliberately kill myself. Not when I knew how Father O'Toole would've felt about it. I couldn't disrespect his memory like that. But a second pill wasn't too much. Combine that with most of a bottle of alcohol, and there was a good chance I'd simply fall asleep and not wake up again. I'd never have to deal with the agony of being alone, of knowing that was all I had to look forward to.
The coroner might rule it a suicide, but it would most likely be called an accidental overdose. Neither one would be entirely accurate, but who would care that it was actually me being intentionally reckless? I wouldn't have to deal with it and since I hadn't done anything officially on purpose, I wouldn't be going against Father O'Toole's wishes.
Semantics, I know. But it was important to me.
Running a hand through my hair, I cursed under my breath. I wasn't sure why I cared about that anymore. I didn't believe in an afterlife, so it wasn't like the father would be looking down at me, disappointed. He was just gone. Whatever had made him the person he was an hour ago didn't exist anymore. I supposed there was always the possibility that he was right, but if that was the case, I was already screwed a dozen ways from Sunday. One more wouldn't make a difference.
Shit. I needed to call his parish and tell them what happened. I scowled into the darkness. I should've been grateful that I didn't have to worry about notifying family, but I wasn't. I didn't want to have to tell anyone the news, much less some strangers who'd probably insist on giving me some spiritual mumbo-jumbo shit about how he was in a better place.
I knew there were things I had to do, arrangements I needed to make. Father O'Toole wouldn't have wanted some big elaborate wake and funeral, but I wanted to make sure that his religious beliefs were represented. I might not believe the same, but it wasn't about me. I was sure someone at his church would be able to help with that.
I'd have to figure out a way to do it without having to go public though. I would do it for the father, but if I could put it off as much as possible, I would.
I heard the front door close and wondered if I should move from where I was sitting. I didn't want to. I didn't want to move at all. Ever. I just wanted the pain to stop. Wanted to never have to think about any of this. Not the present, and certainly not the future.