Page 115 of Mistaken Prejudice

I already scrolled down my contact list and pulled out Dr. Schwartz’s number as Elliot prepared a pot of jasmine tea. I flipped through the newspaper lying on the kitchen island while waiting for him to answer. Luckily, it didn’t take much time before he did.

“Hello, Dr. Schwartz, this is Daniel Williams Dufort,” I said as I watched Elliot place the glass pot on a tray with two cups and some cookies.

“Mr. Williams Dufort, hello. I’ve just returned to the country and am only now seeing the messages your husband left me.”

“Oh, that’s good,” I said as I winked at Elliot, who passed by me on his way to Miles’s room.

“I was quite surprised he contacted me, considering how Miles is no longer my patient.”

What?

“What do you mean Miles is no longer your patient?” I asked, feeling my temperature drop and my heart rate pick up.

“Well, he informed me a bit over a month ago that he’s decided to go to a different therapist. One that will focus more on his sport, among other things.”

What kind of nonsense is that?

“And you didn’t think to tell us about it?” My irritation was evident in my voice.

“Miles is eighteen. Therefore, due to medical confidentiality, I can no longer confirm or deny that he is my patient unless I am given his permission, which I was not. Miles clearly said he’s not interested in his parents knowing.”

Is this guy a professional? My son who despite being eighteen was still very much a child and who was living with mental health disorders, decided on his own to quit essential meetings. And his therapist didn’t inform us, his parents, about it?

“Listen to me now—” I was about to give him and his medical confidentiality a piece of my mind when I heard Elliot screaming my name in a way I knew I’d never forget. My heart dropped, and I met Cole’s terrified eyes a moment before we both ran toward where Elliot’s screams were coming from—Miles’s room.

A part of me already knew what to expect, only that I didn’t. I froze at the image of Miles’s limp body in Elliot’s trembling hands, and for a split second, I couldn’t move a single muscle to help them.

“Miles. Baby, open your eyes. It’s Papa,” Elliot begged desperately while trying to wake our son by shaking his body. They were on the floor. Beside them was a blanket, half thrown on the bed, with an empty bottle of pills.

“Miles!” he screamed again. “Daniel, do something, Daniel. Call nine-one-one. Do something!”

His screaming snapped me out of my shock and drove me into action. I was on the floor beside them, checking for a pulse and signs of breathing that weren’t there. Without thinking twice, I pushed Elliot aside, placed Miles on his back, positioned my hands on the center of his chest, and started CPR.

“Miles, baby. Open your eyes, please,” Elliot begged desperately from where he was. “Miles!” he screamed again. “Daniel, please, Daniel.” He was panicking, but I had to block it away as I focused on pumping life back into my son’s body. I heard Cole on the phone, ordering an ambulance, but other than that, everything became white noise. The only thing that mattered was Miles. I had no idea if he was still alive, but there was no room for that question. Until the paramedics arrived, I had to do my best.

One, two, three, four—every compression mattered—five, six, seven.

“Oh my God, Daniel. Please. Daniel.”

“Get him out of here!” I yelled at Cole. Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen.

Once I reached thirty, I tilted his head back, opened his mouth, sealed it with my own, and gave the first breath. Luckily, his chest rose. I allowed the air to exit before I repeated the action.

My world zeroed down to counting to thirty and then two and again until the paramedics arrived.

Only once they were crouched beside me did I let go of my child and moved away.

I was scared. So scared as I watched the paramedics do their best job in keeping my son alive, or in bringing him back to life? I didn’t know.

“CLEAR!” one of the EMTs called.

I was helpless and incapable of doing anything to help him, so I closed my eyes. And even though I wasn’t a religious man—

“CLEAR!”

Please God. Keep him alive.

“CLEAR!”