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Carrie doesn’t call 9-1-1, because it was ingrained into her at a young age that Wilsons don’t trust anyone they haven’t personally vetted in times of crisis, but the accident still requires her to make some phone calls.
First, to the family pilot, because Trevor does have to get to the hospital somehow, and the helicopter’s the fastest way to get him there. Then, to Trevor’s PR manager, to make sure the media doesn’t have a field day with this rare show of celebrity vulnerability. Then, to his lawyer, because the PR manager has about a 50/50 shot of succeeding at her job.
A few years ago, Carrie could’ve taken care of all of that with one well-timed call to her dad’s expert assistant, but Katie’s been retired and living very comfortably in Australia ever since Trevor Wilson stopped making music. Carrie calls her anyway, leaves a voicemail. Katie deserves to hear it from her and not the gossip mags.
She calls Dr. Crystal, because as soon as her dad gets out of the hospital, she’s sure he’s going to want an appointment.
And then, once she’s curled up in an armchair much more comfortable than any hospital room furniture should be, her dad sedated in the bed next to her, Carrie calls Julie.
“Hey, Care!” she picks up after only a few rings. “What’s up?”
Carrie takes a deep breath. She hasn’t cried—she’s not sure she’s going to—but there’s still a weird lump in her throat that makes it hard to say, “Julie, are your ghosts there?”
“Uh.” Julie pauses. She must be doing that soul-searching thing she does to locate her bandmates. “Luke’s here, but Alex and Reggie are at the beach. Why? Is something wrong?”
“My dad…” Another steadying breath. “He had an accident, or something, his heart… Anyway, we’re at Cedars-Sinai, he’s got a private room. He’ll be okay, I just—”
She cuts herself off with a strangled scream as Julie’s three ghost boys pop into the room. Two of them are in swim trunks. The bassist is covered in sand.
At least Luke has the decency to look embarrassed. “Hi, Carrie. Sorry, I—went to get the boys as soon as you said ‘accident.’ Is he—?”
“Shit, Bobby,” Alex murmurs, leaning over the hospital bed. “Carrie, what happened?”
“I don’t really know,” she admits. “He said his chest was hurting and then he just… collapsed. They’re doing tests.”
Reggie’s voice is choked and wet: “Is he gonna die?”
“He can’t,” Luke insists, and he sounds angrier than Carrie’s ever heard him, his eyes shiny with tears. His fists are clenched at his sides. “We’re not gonna let him.”
It’s weird. Carrie knew these boys of Julie’s were her dad’s friends back in the day, but it didn’t really hit her until now how much they still care about him.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she says, and then feels stupid for saying it.
But the boys just nod. Alex says, “Of course. There’s nowhere we’d rather be.” And they come over to sit next to her, hold her hand, and wait for her dad to wake up.