Chapter 5 - THE CHAMPAGNE TOAST
The hardwood floor rushed up to meet me as my knees buckled.
I hit the ground hard, my hands clutching my throat.
The sensation was terrifying. It felt as though a heavy iron band was wrapping tighter and tighter around my windpipe. Every desperate attempt to pull air into my lungs resulted in a horrible, high-pitched wheeze.
“Dad! Dad, look at me!” Lily shrieked, dropping to the floor beside me.
She grabbed my face, her small hands shaking violently.
Through my blurring vision, I saw Greg checking his silver watch. He looked completely bored, as if he were waiting for a delayed train.
Vanessa stepped around my gasping body, carefully avoiding the smashed cake.
“How long?” Vanessa asked casually.
“Usually takes about four minutes for total respiratory failure,” Greg replied, slipping his hands back into his pockets. “The ambulance is at least ten minutes away. Even if the kid calls 911 right now, he’s gone before they turn onto the street.”
I tried to speak, tried to tell Lily to run, but no sound came out.
My lips were going numb. The edges of my vision were turning black.
“I’m calling the police!” Lily screamed, scrambling to her feet. She lunged toward the living room side table where my cell phone was resting.
But Vanessa was faster.
She snatched the phone off the table and slipped it into her coat pocket.
“No phones today, sweetie,” Vanessa said coldly.
Lily didn’t hesitate. She didn’t stand there and cry.
My incredible daughter spun around and sprinted toward the kitchen. We still had a hardwired landline mounted on the wall near the refrigerator.
“Get her!” Greg barked.
Vanessa cursed and ran after Lily, her high heels clicking rapidly across the hardwood floor.
I was left alone in the entryway with the man who had been my best friend for fifteen years.
“I’m sorry it had to be this way, Mark,” Greg said, looking down at me as I writhed on the floor, my face turning a deep shade of purple. “But business is business.”
I needed an EpiPen.
I had one in the master bathroom upstairs, but I couldn’t even stand, let alone climb a flight of stairs.
But there was another one.
Answer One. After my wife died, I had become paranoid about my allergy. I had hidden a backup epinephrine auto-injector somewhere closer.
Somewhere on the main floor.
My fading eyes locked onto the heavy mahogany fireplace mantel across the living room.
Resting in the center of the mantel was a framed photograph of my late wife, holding a baby Lily.
Behind that picture frame was a small, hollow wooden box. And inside that box was the EpiPen.
I had to get to it.
I dug my fingernails into the rug and pulled myself forward. My body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. The lack of oxygen was making my muscles fail, misfire, tremble.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Greg sighed, stepping into my path.
He didn’t pull a weapon. He didn’t need to. He just planted his heavy leather shoe directly down on my right hand, pinning me to the floor.
Pain shot up my arm, but it was nothing compared to the fire in my lungs.
I looked up at him.
I gathered every single ounce of strength left in my dying body.
I didn’t try to free my hand.
Instead, I used my free left arm to grab the heavy brass leg of the coffee table beside me.
With a violent, adrenaline-fueled yank, I pulled the entire table down.
The heavy wood crashed directly into Greg’s shins.
Greg shouted in pain, stumbling backward and grabbing his knee. His foot slipped off my hand.
I didn’t wait. I scrambled forward on my hands and knees, dragging myself toward the fireplace.
The world was spinning wildly. The darkness was closing in, leaving only a tiny tunnel of vision.
I reached the brick hearth. I threw my hand up, blindly grasping for the wooden mantel.
My fingers knocked the framed photograph of my wife over. The glass shattered on the brick.
But my hand found the small wooden box.
I ripped the lid off and pulled out the yellow plastic tube of the EpiPen.
Greg was recovering behind me. “No!” he shouted, lunging forward.
I pulled the blue safety cap off with my teeth.
I slammed the orange tip directly into my outer thigh, pressing hard until I heard the mechanical CLICK.
I held it there, counting the agonizing seconds as the heavy dose of adrenaline shot directly into my muscle.
Greg hit me from behind, tackling me into the brick fireplace.
But he was three seconds too late.
The medicine was already in my blood.
My airway violently spasmed. And then, like a rusted door being kicked open, my throat expanded.
I sucked in a massive, ragged, agonizing breath of air.
It burned like fire, but it meant I was alive.
Then, a terrifying sound echoed from the kitchen.
The sound of shattering glass, followed by a high-pitched, desperate scream.
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“Lily!” I roared, the adrenaline giving me sudden, explosive strength.
I kicked Greg directly in the chest, sending him sprawling backward onto the rug, and sprinted toward the kitchen.
