Invisibly Breathing

by Eileen Merriman

  ‘I think kidnapped is a bit of a strong—’ Coitus interjects, but I carry on, my voice echoing around the corridor.

  ‘And he might be doing something really terrible to him, he could be killing him, and it will be all our fault because no one wanted to say anything.’

  ‘I think we all need to calm down.’ Coitus’s head looks like it’s about to wobble off her shoulders.

  ‘That’s not fucking helping!’ I yell back, and if the mothers weren’t there I think Coitus would probably be yanking my ear off about now or giving me a triple detention. There are tears spilling down Bailey’s mum’s face and her nose is running, but all I want to do is shake her.

  ‘I called the police,’ she says. ‘They said they’d try their best, but I thought if anyone knew where he was, then it would be you.’

  And then someone’s phone starts ringing, and it’s not mine, and it’s not Mum’s, and it’s not Coitus’s. Blinking, Mrs Hunter fumbles her phone out of her bag and raises it to her ear.

  ‘Hello? Yes, it is. Oh.’ Her hand starts to shake. ‘Oh, is it — where is the ambulance taking him? Oh.’

  ‘Who is it?’ I ask, almost hysterical now. ‘Who’s hurt?’

  ‘Felix,’ Mum says, her hand on my arm. We’re all watching Bailey’s mum, but she’s not saying anything, just listening intently. After what seems like an age, she clutches the phone to her chest and looks up.

  ‘They’re taking Bailey to hospital. They said he’s — oh God.’ She puts her hand to her mouth. ‘They said I should come now.’

  ‘I’m coming too,’ I say quickly, and Mum says, ‘I’ll drive you.’

  Mrs Hunter is already running down the corridor.

  As soon as we pull into the hospital car park, I leap out of the car and run towards the front entrance, Mum calling after me, ‘Wait, Felix, slow down.’

  I can’t wait. I can’t slow down. Not when my boyfriend’s sick, maybe dying.

  The emergency department waiting room is crammed with people nursing bandaged limbs and vomit bowls and inhalers. I jog up to the front desk, where a curly-haired woman is frowning at a computer screen.

  ‘I’m looking for Bailey Hunter,’ I blurt.

  Curly Hair transfers her frown to me. ‘Resus Two,’ she says. ‘Are you family?’

  ‘Practically,’ I say, and she shakes her head.

  ‘We can only let immediate family into the resus areas.’

  ‘But I’m his—’ I break off, aware there’s a whole waiting room full of people listening behind me. But I’m his boyfriend, the person who cares most about him in the world, please. ‘I’m his best friend.’

  Curly Hair isn’t moved. ‘We can’t let everyone in.’

  ‘I’m not everyone,’ I say, ready to start crying or screaming or both.

  ‘Hon, come sit down for a minute.’ Mum slings an arm around my shoulders and steers me towards a pair of chairs in the corner. ‘The rules are there for a reason.’

  ‘The rules suck,’ I mumble, dropping my head into my hands. ‘What’s resus?’

  ‘It’s the resuscitation area.’

  ‘Resuscitation area?’ My voice cracks. ‘Does that mean they’re resuscitating him?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ she says, but from the way she’s rubbing my arm, I think she might be lying. I raise my head.

  ‘Did Bailey’s mum call you?’

  Mum sighs. ‘Yes, I asked the school to pass on my number to her.’

  ‘Oh.’ I can’t stop looking every time the door between the waiting room and the corridor to the emergency department swings open.

  ‘I thought it would be better if I talked to her first.’

  ‘Before what?’ I glance back at my mother. She twists her necklace between her fingers.

  ‘Marcus and I were — are — very concerned about Bailey’s injuries. We didn’t think it was something we could keep quiet about.’

  ‘Oh.’ I’m tracing prime numbers on my thigh, trying to slow the frantic thoughts tumbling through my head. ‘What did she say?’

  Mum sighs again. ‘Well, obviously she was quite distraught. As it turns out, she’d called the police already. She said she couldn’t stand by and let it happen anymore. I told her she’d done the right thing.’

  ‘Too late,’ I say in a low voice, but it’s not like Bailey’s mum is the only one to blame. If I’d said something sooner then he wouldn’t be in resus. Jesus, what’s happening in there? The door swings open again and a couple of policemen walk through the waiting room, and outside. I’m thinking about how police always hang out in pairs, while outlining a two on my thigh, when a voice says, ‘Felix?’ A woman in blue scrubs is standing in front of me. The pink stitching on her left breast pocket says Emergency Nurse.

  My heart skips a beat. ‘That’s me.’

  ‘I thought so,’ she says, smiling. ‘I was told to look out for the spiky black hair.’

  ‘Is Bailey OK?’ I blurt.

  ‘He’s just arrived back from CT,’ the nurse says. ‘His mother wondered if you’d like to come through.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, looking at Mum. She squeezes my knee.

  ‘You go, hon,’ she says. ‘I’ll wait here.’

  I’ve never been in an Emergency Department before. I follow the nurse, who tells me her name is Ellen, down the corridor and into a large room lined with cubicles. In the centre is a row of benches with doctors and nurses buzzing around it, writing in files and talking on phones and tapping on keyboards. I swivel my head, looking for Bailey, but he’s not in any of the beds we pass.

  ‘This way,’ Ellen says, turning down another corridor. We pass an empty, much larger cubicle containing a bed surrounded by monitors and shelves lined with medical equipment. Ellen stops at the next cubicle and parts the curtains.

  ‘Are we OK to come in?’ She glances over her shoulder and beckons me in. And oh God, there’s Bailey on the bed with wires all over his bruised chest and a mask on his face and tubes running into his arms. I’m no doctor, but even I can see he’s breathing way faster than he should be.

  When I move closer, I’m relieved to see his left eye is open, and focused on me. It’s a shock all over again, seeing how swollen the right side of his face is.

  ‘Jesus, Bailey,’ I say, feeling shaky all over. He lifts his hand, pulls his mask to one side.

  ‘Five,’ he croaks, and the monitor above his head starts beeping. Ellen steps in front of me and repositions the mask on his face.

  ‘You need to keep that on, mister,’ she says. Bailey doesn’t reply, his good eye still locked on mine. I can see his mum out of the periphery of my vision, but I’m past caring who sees us now. Taking care not to disturb the IV needle in his arm, I curl my fingers around his and raise my other hand to his cheek.

  ‘You’re OK now,’ I say, even though I’ve got a horrible feeling that’s not true. Bailey turns his hand over and laces his fingers through mine. I can’t hear what he’s saying, because of the mask, but I think he’s mouthing I love you.

  ‘You’re a fucking idiot,’ I whisper. I wish I could stop swearing. I wish I weren’t crying in front of my critically ill boyfriend. The monitor above his head is beeping again. I don’t know what the flashing red ‘86’ means but it must be bad because Ellen is pulling me aside and I just have time to gulp, ‘I love you,’ before I’m shuffled into the back of the room.

  Suddenly there are lots of people in the room, all of them in scrubs, and they’re using words like ‘massive PE’ and ‘thrombolysis’. I wish they’d stop talking about Bailey like he’s not even there. If only I knew what the hell was going on, what that prick Chris Hunter did to him this afternoon.

  I gave him a piece of my mind.

  A woman with a stethoscope around her neck turns around, and asks, ‘Are you the family?’

  ‘I’m his mother,’ Mrs Hunter says. I don’t say anything. I don’t want to get sent out of the room.

  ‘I’m Katy Redgrave, one of the intensive-care doctors,’ the wo
man says, her speech rapid. ‘The CT scan shows that your son has multiple clots in his lungs.’

  Clots, what? My head is whirling. What has that got to do with Bailey’s dad trying to kill him?

  ‘That’s why he collapsed earlier, because his heart is trying very hard to pump against the obstruction. That’s why his blood pressure is still low. We need to give him extra-strong blood thinners to dissolve the clots. There’s a risk of bleeding but if we don’t do it … well, it could be fatal.’

  ‘Just do it,’ Mrs Hunter whispers, her hand over her mouth. ‘Please.’

  The doctor nods, and walks back towards the bed. Red words fly around the room, high-flow oxygen and hypotensive and echo. If only I could hold Bailey’s hand. If only I could see if he’s still conscious. I wish the monitors would stop beeping. I wish I weren’t on the verge of a freak-out.

  Please, please let him be OK.

  I can’t believe that only two hours ago, Bailey and I were holding each other in bed, coming down from the greatest high ever. This has been the most wonderful-terrible day of my whole life.

  ‘You might want to step out for a minute,’ Ellen suggests once more people arrive, pushing some kind of machine to scan Bailey’s heart.

  Reluctantly, I follow Bailey’s mum out into the corridor. And there we wait, one metre of cream-painted wall between us, as the doctors and nurses try to resuscitate the person who made me whole, the person without whom I am nothing.

  Nothing.

  CHAPTER 26

  BAILEY: AMORE NIHIL MOLLIUS, NIHIL VIOLENTIUS

  When I open my eyes, I’m lying in Dad’s arms, and he’s got the strangest look on his face.

  ‘Just breathe,’ he says. I try to tell him that’s the whole problem, that I can’t breathe, but you need air to talk and I don’t have any. I don’t understand why I can’t shift this mammoth off my chest, or how this mask got on my face.

  ‘Sharp prick,’ a man’s voice says, and I feel a pain in the back of my hand. ‘OK mate, let’s get you onto this stretcher, shall we?’

  As the paramedics push my bed into the ambulance, red light washing over my skin, I catch a last glimpse of my father. He’s standing by the ute, the wolf wind swirling around him. He’s not alone. Two men in uniform, their hands on their batons, are standing behind him.

  I don’t know if they handcuff him. I don’t know if they read him his rights, like in the American cop shows.

  I just know that as I’m being driven to hospital, my father is being arrested.

  Funny how usually you never think about breathing. Your lungs just do it for you; the air goes in, the air goes out, exchanging oxygen for carbon dioxide with your blood.

  Now I can’t breathe, or not very well, it’s all that I can think about. You need air to talk, too. It’s like one of those mathematical proofs Felix is so good at, and I suck at. I think I understand this one though: No air + stress-induced stutter talking.

  But I try. I try to answer questions from the paramedics, followed by the doctor in emergency. Do you or have you ever had asthma? No. Do you have any pain anywhere? My chest. My head. (My heart.) How soon after the beating did you start having trouble with your breathing?

  The beating. It takes me a moment to realise the doctor is referring to my father bashing me rather than the out-of-control pounding of my heart.

  ‘In the … car,’ I say. ‘When we — just b-b-b—’ I dig my fingers into the mattress. Bs, they’ll be the death of me, maybe literally if I can’t spit it out. ‘On the … m-motor … way,’ I amend, before sliding the oxygen mask back over my nose and mouth. It’s scary how much the oxygen helps. It’s scary how it’s still not enough.

  ‘Gradually or suddenly?’ The emergency doctor has a goatee and tiny round glasses. The name badge around his neck says Dr Joseph Wong.

  ‘Suddenly,’ I say, for the first time realising that Dad’s driving wasn’t what was causing the mammoth-on-chest sensation on the motorway.

  ‘Well,’ Dr Wong says, ‘your chest X-ray isn’t giving us too many clues. Two broken ribs don’t account for this.’ He gestures at the monitor above my head. ‘The oxygen level in your blood should be close to a hundred per cent, and yours is eighty-nine on room air. I’ve ordered a CT scan of your lungs. We’ll scan your head while we’re there too.’

  ‘What are you looking for?’ a voice asks, and the beeping on the monitor above my head speeds up. Apparently one hundred and forty beats a minute isn’t a normal heart rate for a sixteen-year-old either. Mum moves towards me, twisting her necklace between her fingers.

  ‘We’re worried about blood clots in the lungs,’ the doctor says.

  ‘Blood clots?’ My mother’s mouth is twisting the way it always does when she’s trying not to cry.

  ‘Sometimes blood clots can form in the legs and travel to the lungs after trauma,’ Dr Wong says, and I see her flinch at that word. Trauma. Beating. Broken ribs.

  Wong’s eyes swing back towards me. ‘Have you had any pain in your legs?’

  I shake my head, too breathless to tell him my legs are probably the only part of me that aren’t hurting right now.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ my mother whispers, once the doctor has walked out of the cubicle. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She reaches for my hand and squeezes it. I wish someone would tell me how I’m meant to feel. Sad-angry-desperate-bereft isn’t even half of what’s coursing through my arteries right now. It’d be a miracle if there were any room for blood clots in there.

  ‘I felt so helpless.’ A tear slips down her cheek. ‘I’ve been trying to keep our family together, trying to get through this. I didn’t know he’d take it this far.’

  There are times where it’s best to tell the truth, and times when it’s best to lie. Sometimes you need to lie to survive, and sometimes you need to lie to protect others.

  Right then, I know if I don’t tell my mother what she needs to hear, it’ll destroy her. So I pull my mask to one side, and say, ‘It wasn’t … your … fault.’ Which is and isn’t the truth, I guess. Her face crumpling, Mum leans forward to hug me. I won’t tell her that hurts either.

  Amore nihil mollius, nihil violentius.

  ‘He c-caught me,’ I whisper, but I’m not sure if she hears that.

  Nothing is more tender, nothing is more violent than love.

  ‘I can’t do this anymore,’ she says in my ear. I could ask her exactly what she means by that. I could, but I don’t, because that’s when the orderly comes to take me for my scan.

  Every time I think I’ve hit rock bottom, I feel the ground falling away beneath my feet.

  I haven’t been back from the scanner for very long when I start to have that sensation again, the sense that something terrible is about to happen. My nurse, Ellen, isn’t helping. She keeps looking at the monitor above my head and tutting — at my blood pressure (too low), my oxygen level (still falling), my pulse rate (not slowing).

  Dr Wong walks in, looks at the monitor and says, ‘I don’t want to worry you, but I think it would be a good idea to have the intensive-care doctors come down and review you.’

  I’m freaking out and trying not to show it when I hear Ellen say, ‘Are we OK to come in?’

  And there’s Felix, who also looks like he’s freaking out and trying not to show it. I want to make a joke out of it, something related to exponential numbers or mass hysteria, but you need words to tell a joke, and you need air to make words.

  ‘Jesus, Bailey,’ he says, his voice cracking.

  I pull my mask to one side. ‘Five,’ I say. There’s so much else I want to tell him — Dad caught me, I was falling and he caught me — but the monitor above my head is beeping and my vision is starting to blur.

  I’m so fucking scared.

  ‘You need to keep that on, mister,’ Ellen says, repositioning the mask on my face. I’m sure she’s frowning at the monitor again, but my eyes are on Felix, drinking in the divot between his eyebrows, his mercury eyes, the lips I was kissing only hours before.
>
  Felix puts his hand over mine, layers his fingers against my cheek.

  ‘You’re OK now,’ he says. I guess even Felix has learned how to lie, and I love him for that. I love you, I mouth through my mask.

  ‘You’re a fucking idiot,’ he whispers back, his eyes river-shiny. I don’t know who’s shaking more, him or me. And that’s when I start feeling really terrible, and if I thought I couldn’t breathe before then I was wrong. Because. Now. I. Really. Can’t. Breathe.

  And as my vision starts to grey, I hear the last words Felix says to me. I clutch at them, but it’s no good, because they can’t follow me in here.

  There is no bottom. There is no end. There is just an abyss.

  CHAPTER 27

  LEARNING TO EXHALE

  April 9

  Dear Bailey

  It sucks you’re not here anymore. It sucks I have to face the haters all by myself, although to be honest they’re kind of leaving me alone. Even Zero. I still don’t know what you said to him, by the way, but whatever you said must have worked.

  It sucks I can’t kiss you. And all the other things too. You know what I mean.

  Lucy says I should write you a song, but I’m kind of stuck in a rut right now. I’m counting a lot. On the day I waited in the intensive care family room with your mum, I counted to 3581. That’s the 500th prime number, just in case you were wondering.

  I told Bindi about you and me. Coke too. Bindi said ‘cool’ and Coke said I wasn’t his type, and laughed. I think you find out who your real friends are when you come out.

  I’m not good at letters so I’m signing off now.

  Breathe infinitely, u.

  (Don’t forget to breathe, Two)

  Five

  April 14

  Dear Five

  I’m not so sure I’m good at writing letters either. This is the first letter I’ve ever written, can you believe it? I guess old people used to do that all the time before emailing and text messages. There’s a reason why I want us to do this, though — because I want to have something to hold onto, something to pull out and re-read when I’m missing you. I can’t say all I want to with messaging … but don’t stop that either, because it makes me feel like you’re not so far away.