Page 48 of Drake Eternal

Michael laughed out loud at that. “Speak for yourself!”

He reached out and took the martini. “Miranda will take it, won’t you?”

“I’d love it. Never had one with an olive before.”

“Cheers to grumpy old men,” Michael said. “May we all be so lucky as to get old and grumpy. I know quite a few of my contemporaries who haven’t gotten this far. I’m happy to be one.”

Everyone held up their glass and toasted grumpy old men. Across from me, Sam was not at all happy, although she raised her glass as well.

I really wanted to be upstairs in a few moments so I could enjoy a Skype goodnight with Kate and Sophie, so I let my mind wander while others were speaking of something.

I couldn’t wait to get up to my hotel room so I could speak with her.

I had glanced at my watch, hoping I could finally excuse myself when I heard a cough, and beside me, saw that Miranda was holding her throat. Her mouth was moving but then, no sound was coming out. She knew enough as a nurse to make the universal sign that she was choking, and I knew right away what the problem was.

She had accidentally inhaled the olive.

I jumped up and went behind her, sliding my arms around her to lift her up and away from the table, then I pounded her five times on the back, followed by putting one of my fists above her belly, performing the Heimlich maneuver five times in a row to dislodge the olive that was blocking her airway.

When she was still unable to speak and was still motioning to her throat, I repeated the five strikes in the middle of her back followed by five more Heimlich maneuvers. I struggled with her as she was a bit wide around the middle and made a few bigger thrusting motions with my fist and arm, but the obstruction had not yet cleared. This went on for several moments — I lost count and then she seemed to go limp in my arms.

She had passed out because of lack of oxygen…

This made me more determined. One, two and then three more thrusts and finally, the olive came flying out of her mouth and onto the table in front of her.

She coughed and gagged, and I heard the deep intake of her breath and knew she was able to breathe once more. Her eyelids flickered. She was still gasping for breath. She held her chest, her hands over her heart.

I laid her on the floor in the recovery position, on her side in case she had to vomit.

“What’s wrong, Miranda, love?” Michael asked, kneeling beside her. He leaned over her, his face near hers. “Can you speak?”

“My chest…” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

I felt her pulse which was fast and thready. Every third beat was an extra beat called premature ventricular contractions, or PVCs. She was in her fifties and was at risk of a heart attack because of the stress from the choking.

“Call 9-1-1,” I said. “Let’s get an ambulance. She needs to go to the hospital.”

One of the nurses held up her hand and showed me she was online with 9-1-1 operators. “An ambulance is on its way.”

“Good,” I said and knelt beside Miranda and Michael. “Help is on its way.” I glanced around and saw one of the waiters. “Do you have a portable defibrillator in the hotel?”

“I’ll go check,” the man said and pointed out to the main lobby.

“Thanks.”

I turned back to Michael. “Depending on how long it takes, we may need to use it.”

“Oh, God.”

Luckily, in a few moments, the ambulance came before the waiter returned with the portable defibrillator and checked Miranda out. Then, they loaded her onto a gurney and wheeled her out of the hotel into the back of a waiting ambulance.

I had already asked my limo driver to wait so he could take Michael home when we were finished.

“Do you want me to have my driver take you there?” I asked Michael.

“Yes, please,” he said, his arm on my shoulder.

“I’ll come with you,” I said together, we went out to the waiting limo. We piled in and I directed the driver to take us to the hospital, following the ambulance.

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