The Wrong Drip

Victoria “Tori” Langley knew something was wrong with the IV because the nurse said, “Oh, shit.” Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just two words spoken under her breath as she looked at the nearly empty bag hanging above Tori’s bed.

               Tori opened her eyes. “What?” The nurse did not answer. “What did you just say?”

               “Nothing.”

               “You said ‘oh, shit.’” The nurse reached for the IV pump. Tori grabbed her wrist. “What is wrong?”

               “Mrs. Langley, let go of me.”

               “What did you give me?”

               Another nurse entered the room carrying a plastic cup of ice. “What’s going on?” The first nurse pointed at the bag. The second nurse looked at the label. Her face changed. Tori saw it.

               “What did you give me?”

               The second nurse stepped into the hallway. “Get Dr. Merritt.”

               The first nurse disconnected the IV. Tori’s heart began pounding. “What the fuck did you put in me?”

               “Mrs. Langley, I need you to stay calm.”

               “Then stop telling me to stay calm and tell me what you did.”

               The nurse looked at the bag again. That was enough. Tori screamed. “Get my husband!”

               Four hours earlier, Tori had been exactly the kind of patient hospitals loved. Healthy. Insured. Cooperative. She was 44, lived in Scottsdale, Arizona, and had spent most of her adult life being described by other people as fortunate. Her husband, Craig, was an orthopedic surgeon. They lived in a six-bedroom house near Troon North that Tori privately thought was about two bedrooms too large.      Their son, Blake, was 17. Their daughter, Emma, was 15. Tori volunteered at their schools, chaired things she did not particularly care about, played tennis three mornings a week, and knew more about fundraising dinners than any human being should. The surgery itself was elective. A hysterectomy after years of increasingly miserable periods and several failed attempts at less invasive treatment. Everything had gone perfectly.

               Until the drip.

               Craig arrived while two physicians and a pharmacist were standing around Tori’s bed. He took one look at their faces. “What happened?”

               Tori pointed at the IV bag on the counter. “They gave me somebody else’s medication.”

               Craig looked at the pharmacist. “What medication?” Nobody answered quickly enough. Craig's voice changed. “What medication?”

               The pharmacist spoke. “Ketamine.”

               Tori looked at Craig. She knew the name. She did not know enough about it to know whether she should be terrified. “How much?” The pharmacist swallowed. Craig repeated himself. “How much?”

               “Approximately forty milligrams.”

               Craig stared at him. “That entire bag was supposed to be administered to another patient over several hours.”

               “Yes.”

               “And my wife received it in under 40 minutes?”

               “Yes.”

               Tori looked between them. “Am I going to die?”

               Craig immediately turned toward her. “No.”

               “You don’t know that.”

               “I do.”

               “You just screamed at him.”

               “I didn’t scream.”

               “You used your doctor voice.” Despite everything, she almost laughed.

               Craig took her hand. “They’re going to monitor you.”

               “For how long?”

               “Overnight.”

               “I was already staying overnight.”

               “Then longer.”

               Tori looked at the nurse. “Get that woman out of here.”

               “Tori.”

               “She almost killed me.”

               “It was a medication error.”

               “That’s a very professional way of saying she fucked up.” The nurse left. Tori watched the door close. That was when she saw the burned woman standing behind Craig. She did not scream. Later, she would wonder why. The woman stood six feet behind her husband near the bathroom door. Her clothes had burned into her skin. Most of her hair was gone. One eye was closed beneath blackened flesh. The other stared directly at Tori. “Craig.”

               He squeezed her hand. “I’m here.”

               “Who is that?”

               He turned. The woman was gone. “Who?”

               Tori stared at the empty doorway. “Nobody.”

               “Tori?”

               “I’m tired.”

               Craig studied her. “That’s the ketamine.”

               “Then let me sleep.” She did.

               When Tori woke, Blake was sitting beside her bed looking at his phone. “Hey, Mom.”

               “What time is it?”

               “Like eight.”

               “Like eight?”

               “8:12.”

               “Thank you.”

               He smiled. “You look terrible.”

               “You inherited your bedside manner from your father.”

               Blake laughed. Tori reached for her water. Then she saw the boy. He stood directly behind her son. Twelve, maybe 13. Soaking wet. Water streamed from his hair and clothes onto the hospital floor, but no puddle formed beneath him. His skin was blue. His eyes were open. Tori dropped the cup.

               “Mom?”

               The boy opened his mouth. Water poured out. Tori screamed. Blake jumped up. “What?”

               “Get away from him!”

               “Who?”

               “Move!”

               Blake backed toward the wall. The drowned boy moved with him. Tori pressed the call button repeatedly.

               “Mom, what the hell?” The boy stared at her. Then disappeared. The doctors blamed the ketamine. Craig agreed. Tori wanted to.

               “Hallucinations can happen,” he told her.

               “I know what hallucinations are.”

               “You received a medication you weren’t supposed to receive.”

               “I saw a burned woman behind you.” Craig paused. “And a dead boy behind Blake.”

               “Okay.”

               “Don’t say okay like that.”

               “Like what?”

               “Like I’m one of your patients.”

               “You are a patient.”

               “I’m your wife.”

               “I know.”

               “Then believe me.”

               Craig sat beside her. “I believe you saw them.”

               “That isn’t the same thing.”

               “No.”

               Emma visited the next morning. Tori dreaded it. Nothing appeared. For almost 10 minutes, nothing happened. Tori began to relax. Then an old man walked into the room. Half his skull was missing. He stopped behind Emma. Tori closed her eyes. “Mom?” She opened them. Still there. “Mom, are you okay?”

               Tori looked at her daughter. “Come here.” Emma approached. The old man followed. Tori hugged her. Over Emma’s shoulder, the dead man smiled.

               The visions continued after Tori went home. Always the same three. Burned woman. Drowned boy. Old man. Always behind Craig, Blake, and Emma. Never anyone else. Tori began documenting them.

               Craig noticed. “What are you writing?”

               “Nothing.”

               “You’ve filled 12 pages.”

               Tori closed the notebook. “I’m trying to understand.”

               “There’s nothing to understand.”

               “They’re always the same.”

               “Hallucinations can repeat.”

               “They move with you.”

               “Tori.”

               “The woman behind you is burned. The boy behind Blake drowned. The man behind Emma has half his head missing.”

               Craig stared at her. “You need to see someone.”

               “There it is.”

               “What?”

               “The psychiatric referral.”

               “I didn’t say psychiatric.”

               “You didn’t have to.”

               “I’m worried about you.”

               “And I’m worried about all of you.”

               The first clue came two weeks later. Blake asked to borrow Craig’s SUV. “Why?”

               “Caleb’s parents have a place at Lake Pleasant. We’re going Saturday.”

               Tori stopped cutting vegetables. “Lake?”

               Blake looked at her. “Yeah.”

               “No.”

               “What?”

               “You’re not going.”

               “Why?”

               “Because I said so.” Blake laughed. Tori slammed the knife onto the counter. “I said no.”

               Craig entered the kitchen. “What’s going on?”

               “She says I can’t go to Caleb’s.”

               Craig looked at Tori. “Why?”

               Tori looked behind Blake. The drowned boy stood there. Closer than before. “No lake.”

               Craig sighed. “Tori.”

               “No.”

               “You cannot keep doing this.”

               “Doing what?”

               “Building our lives around hallucinations.”

               The drowned boy smiled. Tori pointed at him. “He dies.”

               Blake stared at her. “What?”

               “That boy behind you. He’s dead because of you.”

               Silence. Craig sent Blake upstairs. Then he turned on Tori. “You need help.”

               “I am trying to help.”

               “You just told our son he kills a child.”

               “He does.”

               “You don’t know that.”

               Tori looked at him. “What if I do?”

               Blake did not go to Lake Pleasant. Nothing happened. For three days, the drowned boy disappeared. Tori felt vindicated. Then he returned. She took Blake’s car keys. He remained. She tracked his phone. He remained. She contacted Caleb’s mother and ended the friendship. Still there. Every restriction made Blake angrier.

               Every argument pushed Craig further away. “You’re destroying this family,” Craig told her.

               “I’m keeping it alive.”

               “You don’t know that.”

               “I know what I see.”

               “And what happens when you see something behind me?”

               Tori looked over his shoulder. The burned woman stared back. “I already do.”

               Craig's face changed. “What happens to me?”

               “I don’t know.”

               “How does she die?”

               “I don’t know.”

               “Then maybe you don't know anything.”

               Tori learned the drowned boy’s name by accident. Owen Mercer. Twelve years old. His older sister attended Blake’s school. Tori saw him in the passenger seat of his mother’s car outside a grocery store. She nearly drove into a parked truck. Same face. Alive. Warm. Laughing. Tori followed them home. She hated herself for it. Then she did it again. And again. She learned Owen played baseball. She learned his mother worked at a dental office. She learned his father traveled frequently. Most importantly, she learned Owen did not know Blake. That should have relieved her. It did not. Because the dead version still stood behind her son.

               Three months after the hospital, Blake came home furious. “Are you following some kid?”

               Tori froze. Craig was sitting in the living room. “What?”

               “Owen Mercer.”

               Tori looked at Craig. He stood. “Tori.”

               “I can explain.”

               Blake laughed. “No, you can’t.”

               “Yes, I can.”

               “Owen’s mom called the school because some woman keeps driving past their house. They figured out it was you.”

               “I’m protecting him.”

               “From what?”

               Tori looked at Blake. “From you.”

               He stared at her. Something broke in his expression. Not anger. Worse. “Fuck you.” He walked upstairs.

               Craig looked at Tori. “You’re leaving.”

               “This is my house.”

               “Then I’ll take the kids.”

               “You can’t.”

               “Watch me.”

               The burned woman behind him smiled. Tori began crying. “I’m trying to save them.”

               Craig shook his head. “No. You’re terrifying them.” He walked away. Tori looked toward the staircase. The drowned boy stood at the top. Waiting.

               That night Tori made the decision. There was only one way to guarantee Blake never killed Owen Mercer. She drove to Owen’s house at 11:40pm. She sat outside for 20 minutes. She almost left twice. Then the porch light came on. Owen stepped outside carrying a garbage bag. Tori rolled down the window. “Owen?”

               He looked at her. “Yeah?”

               “I’m Blake Langley’s mom.”

               He approached cautiously. “Oh.”

               “I need to talk to you about Blake.”

               “What about him?”

               Tori unlocked the passenger door. “Get in.” He hesitated. “Please.” Owen got inside. Tori drove. She took him north. Past the expensive neighborhoods. Past the last dense stretches of Scottsdale. Into the desert.

               Owen became nervous. “Where are we going?”

               “Somewhere safe.”

               “My mom doesn’t know I left.”

               “I know.”

               “You should take me home.”

               Tori looked at him. The drowned version of Owen sat in the back seat. Watching. “I can’t.”

               Owen turned. “What?”

               Tori began crying. “I’m sorry.”

               “Take me home.”

               “I’m trying to save you.”

               “From what?”

               “My son.”

               Owen reached for the door handle. Tori locked it. “Let me out.”

               “I can’t.”

               “Let me out!”

               Tori accelerated. The dead boy in the back seat leaned forward between them. Water dripped from his mouth. Tori drove until she found what she had been looking for. An abandoned swimming pool behind a foreclosed house. Empty except for several feet of black rainwater. Owen screamed when she pulled him from the car. Tori hated every second. She hated his fear. She hated his small hands hitting her. She hated herself. But she had seen what happened if she failed. “There’s no going back now,” she whispered.

               “What?”

               Tori dragged him toward the water. “I’m sorry.”

               It took longer than she expected. That was the part she would remember. Not the screaming. Not the struggling. How long it took. When Owen finally stopped moving, Tori sat beside the pool and sobbed. Then she looked up. The drowned boy was gone. Tori laughed. She laughed until she could barely breathe. “I was right.” She had done it. Horrible. Unforgivable. Necessary. She had changed the future. She had saved Blake.

               Tori drove home before sunrise. Craig and the children were gone. She did not care. Not yet. She went upstairs, stripped off her wet clothes, and stepped into the shower. For the first time in months, she felt peaceful. She had been right. The visions were warnings. The medication had shown her what nobody else could see. She had prevented it. Tori turned off the shower. She wiped steam from the mirror. Owen Mercer stood behind her. Tori stopped breathing. Not behind Blake. Behind her. Water poured from his mouth. “No.” Owen smiled. “No.” Tori backed away. “I saved you.” The dead boy tilted his head. “You were behind Blake.”

               Owen opened his mouth. A whisper came through the water. “You put me there.” Tori screamed.

               Police found Owen’s body the next afternoon. Craig called her. She did not answer. Blake called. She answered him. “Mom?” His voice was broken.

               Tori sat on the bathroom floor. “I’m sorry.”

               “Did you do this?”

               She closed her eyes. Behind the bathroom door stood the burned woman. Behind her stood the old man with half his skull missing. And beside them was Owen. All three watched her. “Mom?”

               Tori whispered, “I thought I was stopping it.”

               Blake began crying. “Stopping what?”

               Tori looked at the dead. Something had changed. The burned woman was no longer looking at Craig. The old man was no longer looking at Emma. They were looking at Tori. Then two more figures appeared behind them. A teenage girl with her throat crushed. A man with a kitchen knife buried in his chest. Tori recognized neither. Then another appeared. And another. The bathroom filled with the dead. Some burned. Some broken. Some bleeding. Some so badly damaged Tori could not tell whether they were men or women. All of them stared at her.

               “Mom?”

               Tori could barely speak. “They weren’t warnings.”

               “What?”

               “They weren’t showing me what you were going to do.”

               Owen stepped forward. Tori understood. The ketamine had never shown her the future. It had shown her something much worse. Possibility. Every death she had seen was a door. Every choice she made closed some and opened others. She had believed she was preventing one. Instead, she had chosen it. Behind the dead stood Blake. Not the living Blake speaking through her phone. Another Blake. Older. Blood covered his hands. Tori dropped the phone. “No.”

               The dead Blake looked at her. Then at the bathroom door. Someone knocked downstairs. Three times. Tori did not move. Another knock. Then Craig’s voice. “Tori?”

               She covered her mouth. The burned woman smiled. Tori finally understood why she had always stood behind him. Not because Craig would kill her. Because Tori would.

               “Tori, open the door.”

               The dead crowded closer. Owen stood directly in front of her. She whispered, “What do you want?”

               Owen pointed toward the bedroom. Tori followed his finger. A handgun sat inside Craig’s nightstand. She had forgotten about it. Downstairs, Craig called again. “Tori?” The burned woman stepped forward. Behind her, Craig appeared. Burned. Screaming. Waiting.

               Tori stood. “No.” The dead watched her. “I won’t.” Craig knocked again. Tori walked into the bedroom. She opened the nightstand. The gun was there. She stared at it. Then at the hallway. She understood now. She could leave it. She could pick it up. She could run. She could surrender. A thousand doors. A thousand endings. All waiting for her to choose.

               Behind her, Owen whispered: “Choose.”

               Tori reached into the drawer. Downstairs, the front door opened. And somewhere inside the house, a woman began to scream.