by Kody Boye
That’s the thing, my conscience offers. You don’t know.
And that’s what scares me—because in the end, if our mother won’t be fine, what’s the point of even having her go to the hospital? To ease her suffering? To make her passing more—
I close my eyes.
No. I can’t think about that. Not when we’re so close to getting her the help she finally needs.
With that in mind, I take a few steps forward and knock on the bedroom door. “Mom?” I ask, leaning forward. “Are you awake?”
“What’s going on?” my mother asks weakly from the other side of the door.
“I called the hospital. They’re going to send someone to take you.”
“Sophia,” she says when I open the door. “I’m not…”
“Not… what?” I ask.
“Changed. Showered. Clean.”
“You’re sick. They’ll know that.”
“I know, but… still—” My mother sighs and lifts her head in the faint white light pooling in through the windows flanking her bed. “Did they say when they would come?”
“No. Just that they were coming.”
“And you’re going to follow?”
“I am.”
She breathes, though shallowly at that. “All right. Will you help me out of bed?”
“I don’t know if you’re strong enough,” I say.
“I’m strong enough, Sophia.”
I go to her side even though her foolhardy determination to prove herself is unnecessary. Here, I reach forward to take hold of her hands; and after a moment’s hesitation, I haul her upright. Her back creaks. She lets out a whimper. But still, she rises, and in moments she is standing of her own accord, without my assistance.
“You really don’t think I should change?” she asks.
“No, Mom,” I say. “Just… come into the living room. You can sit on Diego’s bed. Right, D?”
“Right!” my little brother calls from outside the room.
A hint of a smile graces my mother’s lips.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t remain.
As she begins to move, her pained expression returns.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Are you all right?”
“I haven’t been moving enough,” she replies through gritted teeth. “My legs, they… they burn.”
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
“Don’t be sorry. You’ve done so much for us, Sophia. You should be proud.”
“I’m trying to be.”
Thankfully, my mother doesn’t press the issue. Instead, she remains silent as we make our way into the living room.
Diego is instantly bounding ahead of us and preparing his bed for our mother to sit upon.
“Thank you, honey,” my mother says, then lifts her hand to cough.
I struggle to keep from quivering as I help lower her to the bed.
I hadn’t realized, until this moment, just how sick she really was.
She’s been in bed for so long, my conscience offers. How could you have known?
I guess I couldn’t. Yet, at the same time, I’m the one who has been taking care of her. I’m the one who should’ve realized.
I’m the one who should’ve made more of an effort.
An effort to what? my conscience asks. Do more? Get a hold of yourself. What could you have done?
I don’t know; and that, in the end, is what leaves me stricken with grief.
It doesn’t last long, however.
When a knock comes at the door, one set of problems seem to end, while another feels ready to begin.
“Is that,” my mother asks, “them?”
I peer through the peephole, only to find that they have indeed arrived. “Yes, Mom. It is.”
I open the door.
The men and women in bright yellow hazmat suits greet us. “Sophia Garza?” a man asks.
“Yes?”
“We’re here because you called about a patient infected with AID-38?”
“Yes sir. She’s right here.”
I step aside to allow the individuals to come inside. With them they carry a stretcher, which they lift over the lip of the door before setting it down on the hardwood floor below.
“What is your name?” the EMT asks.
“Blanca,” my mother replies. “Blanca Garza.”
“How long have you been sick?”
“About six months.”
“Are you able to stand?”
“Yes. I am.”
The men unfold the stretcher and assist my mother in climbing atop it, the sound of their wheezing breaths haunting in that they sound primeval and less than human.
Nearby, Diego appears ready to cry.
“Hey. Hey!” I say, turning my attention toward him. “Everything’s going to be all right. These people are here to help take care of Mama.”
“They’re taking her to the hospital?” he asks.
“Yes, D. They’re taking her to the hospital.”
“You’ll have to arrive in an alternate vehicle,” the EMT says. “We can’t afford to risk further contamination to the two of you.”
“But we’ve been around here for months and haven’t gotten sick,” I argue.
I can see the man’s frown through the fog of his visor as he shakes his head. “I’m sorry. It’s protocol.”
“All right. I’ll figure something out.”
“Mama?” Diego asks, stepping forward.
“It’ll be all right, sweetheart,” our mother says. “Just listen to your sister and do what she says. Okay?”
“Okay,” he replies as they begin to wheel her out the doorway, sniffling the as he watches.
I take a moment to compose myself before stepping into the cold outside. “How long will it take you to admit her?”
“You’ll have time to find alternate transportation,” the man replies. “They’ll process her into the emergency room and then wait for you to arrive before admitting her into the hospital.”
“All right.”
“Your mother’s in good hands, Miss Garza. Everything will be fine.”
With a nod, I cross my arms over my chest and watch as they load her into the ambulance—feeling both relieved and terrified at the same time.
On one hand, this could be what saves her. On another…
I close my eyes and struggle to face the alternate reality.
Within moments, the ambulance is pulling away; and I, in the throes of the most terrible panic, struggle to hold everything together.
I feel a hand against mine.
My fingers tighten instinctively around it.
“Sophie?”
“Yeah?”
“Are we going to the hospital?”
“Yes. We are.”
A taxi that we could’ve never afforded in our previous life arrives to take us to the hospital. With our emergency cash in hand, I slide into the vehicle after I haul Diego inside and hold the bills steadily to show the driver that I will be able to pay him when we reach our destination.
“You’re not sick,” he asks, “are you?”
“No sir,” I say. “We’re not.”
He looks at us questioningly through the rear-view mirror for several long moments, but eventually nods before pulling out of the driveway.
I am quick to fasten my seatbelt. Diego, however, is not.
“Buckle up,” I say.
“But—” he starts.
I shake my head.
He pouts but does as I ask without further comment.
Soon, we are driving up the same road that took Leon and I to the Metropolis, leaving the slums behind.
We pass by the aging houses, up the battered road, into the glistening countenance where a very visible barrier between the classes can be seen. Silver buildings rise like titans to mock the peasants before them, and glistening vehicles far more pristine than those that exist in the slums can be seen making their way through the streets.
I struggle to keep my emotions in check.
Keep it together, my conscience offers. It’s not just you here.
No. It isn’t. Diego is with me—and for that reason, I must maintain as good a posture as possible, hold as decent a disposition as I can, and not worry for things that could or may happen.
Sighing, I turn my eyes to look out the backseat window, only to find a haunting visage before me.
The words Kingsman Online decorate the side of the building.
This time, I can’t control the emotions that assault me.
My hand balls into a fist. My lips curl into a snarl.
Diego asks, “Sophie? What’s wrong?”
But I ignore him, and instead focus on bringing the raging beast inside me down.
It takes several moments for this to occur, and even longer for the effects to begin to take place. But as it dissipates, slowly but surely leaving me in a state of apprehension and guilt, I find a tear breaking the surface of my right eye, then slowly feel it rolling down my face.
I am quick to wipe it away before I turn to face Diego. “Nothing’s wrong,” I say. “Don’t worry about me.”
“But—”
“But nothing. Everything’s okay.”
Unfortunately, I know Diego better than anyone. He can see through all my lies—even the smallest of ones.
Thankfully, he doesn’t comment. He merely looks down at his hands. “Is Mama gonna be okay?”
“I think so,” I say. “They’ve got really good treatments here in the city. Maybe they can even cure her.”
“You think so?”
“I do.”
He reaches out to take my hand.
I, in a moment of clarity, take his.
Though there’s no telling what might happen come time we make it to the hospital, I can’t allow my doubts to get the best of me.
No.
I have to take care of Diego, no matter the circumstance or outcome.
I made a promise.
I intend to keep it.
We arrive at the hospital in less than fifteen minutes. Cold, unsure, and desperate for answers, I pay the driver his fee and climb out of the cab with my little brother in tow and make my way toward the sweeping front entrance of the Metropolis Regional Hospital.
“Sophie?” Diego asks.
“Yeah?”
“I’m scared.”
“It’ll be okay,” I say, reaching down to take hold of his hand.
The truth of the matter is: I’m scared, too, but I can’t tell him that. If I did, it’d make him even more nervous—which, in this instance, won’t do either of us any good.
Just remain calm, my conscience offers. Everything will work out as it’s supposed to.
We enter the hospital’s front lobby to find it filled with people who are coughing, wheezing, and looking pale as sheets. A nurse immediately comes forward and offers us masks to put over our faces.
“We haven’t been sick,” I say as she approaches.
“You can never be too careful,” the woman replies.
I help Diego put his mask on first, then slide my own over my face with a trepidation I know is born from the fear of the unknown.
A nearby clerk smiles through her mask as we step forward. “Hello,” she says. “Are you here to admit yourself, or someone else?”
“My mother should have arrived by transport,” I reply.
“What’s her name?”
“Blanca. Blanca Garza.”
“Let me look her up.”
The woman types on her keyboard for several long moments, likely maneuvering through what I imagine to be dozens of admittance records. Her face scrunches into a frown as she considers something on her screen. She then turns to me and says, “We need to verify your ability to pay.”
“All right,” I reply.
I glance once to my right, then to my left to ensure that no one is around me, then pull the Continental Card from my grasp.
The clerk hesitates for a moment upon seeing it, but she takes it anyway. “You’re… Sophia Garza?”
“Yes.”
“Her daughter?”
“Yes ma’am.”
She considers me for several long moments, then frowns as she turns and begins to enter the Continental Card numbers into the computer.
It’s not hard to sense the unease, hesitation, and, from what I can tell, the disapproval that the woman feels toward me.
At first, I’m not sure what might be causing it.
Then, slowly, it dawns on me.
Does this woman think I willingly let my mother go months on end without treatment? The muted scowl on her face seems to indicate that, but at the same time, I can’t speak for someone else, especially when I don’t know them or their background.
She could just be having a bad day, I think.
Or, my conscience offers, she could be judging you.
Either way, it doesn’t matter. What matters, in this instance, is that they accept my payment and my mother is admitted to receive treatment.
“Miss Garza?” the clerk asks.
“Yes?”
She slides the card back toward me. “Your payment has been validated. Your mother will be processed and assigned a room number. We will call you when they’re ready to see you.”
“All right,” I say, taking the card. “Thu… thank you.”
I take Diego’s hand and lead him toward the lobby.
As we sit down—as the gravity of the situation begins to settle upon me—I realize something.
We could be waiting for a very, very long time.
What feels like hours pass. During this time, people are called, people rise, people leave. Diego grows impatient, beginning to fidget in his seat, but he doesn’t attempt to leave. Rather, he squirms back and forth, left and right. It is only when he whines that I acknowledge the time that has passed.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know it would take this long.”
“My butt’s starting to hurt,” my little brother says.
“I know.” I set a hand on his back. “You want to see if we can find some snacks?”
“I guess,” he says, though judging by the tone in his voice, I can tell he is disappointed.
I have just risen when a young man in scrubs approaches. “Miss… Garza?” he asks, referring to a clipboard in his arms.
“Yes?” I ask, taking care to push my hand back to keep Diego in place.
“Your mother has just been admitted and is resting in her room. I’ll lead you there now.”
Thank God, I think, but keep from saying anything.
Rather, I take hold of Diego’s hand and escort him down the hall with the nurse. We walk first through a door marked Sick Bay, then down a hallway filled with many isolated rooms. Clipboards, whose information is blotted out by transparent plastic that holds them in place, rest upon them.
By the time we reach a room at the end of a long hall, I feel ready to collapse from the tension bundled along my shoulder blades.
“She is here,” he says. “I will warn you, though: she is heavily medicated and may not act as she normally would.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say.
“There’s two sectionals that you and your little brother can rest on, if you decide to spend the night. Our cafeteria is also open until six PM if you wish to get yourself some lunch and dinner.”
With a nod, I thank the man one last time, then turn toward the door and brace myself for the worst.
It’ll be fine, I think.
Even if my mother happens to react adversely to our presence, at least she is being cared for—and, most of all, medicated.
With that in mind, I knock, pushing the door open.
I expect something simple—a few cords, a wire or two, maybe an IV drip.
No. It is anything but.
There are multiple machines aligned around my mother’s bed, and from them, many cords run to her body. There are electrodes on her chest, breathing tubes running into her nose, a sensor on several of he
r fingers and even a few on her feet. What’s worse is that an IV drip equipped with multiple bags of fluids hangs at her side, delivering into her bloodstream who knows what.
To think this is what they do for people with the Bite is almost impossible.
How— I start to think.
I am cut off by the sound of my mother coughing. “Sophia?” she asks. “Diego?”
“We’re here,” I say, stepping up alongside the bed. I take a moment to wash my hands with an antiseptic gel and make Diego do the same before reaching out to press a hand over her palm. “How are you feeling?”
“Like… I’m with the stars,” she says.
“The stars?” I frown.
She lifts a hand and waves it above her head. “I’m very… dizzy,” she continues, her voice slurred and uneasy.
“But are you feeling better?”
“It’s too early to tell, I think.”
“Momma?” Diego asks, peering over the side of the bed. “Are you gonna be all right?”
“I’ll be fine, love. Don’t worry about me.” She strokes his hair with the hand that is not bound by IV or machine and smiles. “Sophia—why don’t you take your brother down to the cafeteria and get the two of you something to eat?”
“What about you?”
“Don’t worry about me, dear. They’ll bring me food if I’m hungry. Now go. Get yourselves something to eat.”
“Come on, D.”
“I wanna stay here!”
“Mom needs her rest. Come on. Let’s go.”
Though the pouting is starting to get on my nerves, I can’t blame him for being frustrated, or hurt, or scared. Because of that, I motion him along gently, taking hold of his hand and slowly guiding him from our mother’s side.
In the hallway, I spin to face him after the door has shut behind us, then crouch before saying, “Mom’s gonna be all right.”
“How do you know?”
“Because we’re in the hospital now, with doctors and nurses to take care of her.” I frown as I consider his features. “Diego… I’m… I’m so sorry I was gone for so long.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” the little boy says. “Someone came to the house while you were gone.”
“Who did?”
“A man in a black suit. He said you would be back in a few days and that there was nothing to worry about. But Sophie… I was scared. Really scared. I didn’t know what to do while you were gone, which is why I walked to Missus Gray’s house to ask for her help.”