by Chie Alemán
He’s silent for a long time. Then he laughs hollowly, short and sharp. “They didn’t take the diagnosis well. My mom started yelling at the doctor in a combination of Spanish and English, insisting this wasn’t ‘her’ fault, and demanding they ‘fix’ me; I was their only son.”
With my thumb, I make slow circles on his stomach. “What about you?”
He rubs his eyes, drops his hand to the bed. “What do you mean?”
I reorient my body so I’m more on my side, pressed against him, my arm over his so I can stroke his cheek with the back of my hand. It’s damp, and my heart crumbles in my chest. I lean in to kiss his pec a few times, tenderly.
“It must have been hard for you.”
I sense a shift of his facial muscles under my hand as he laughs bitterly; it’s almost a cough. “Not any harder than the previous months, years had been. It fucking sucked knowing I wasn’t going to get better but worse. But in some ways, it was relieving. Because I kept thinking it was my fault somehow.” His voice cracks, and I definitely feel tears. “That I’d done something wrong, that I’d somehow failed my parents, my family.” He clasps his hand over his mouth to stifle a sob, and I shift so I’m hugging him, an arm over his chest, my head resting against his clavicle.
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t. I just hold him, hoping I’m as comforting to him as he has always been for me, feeling his silent sobs as jerks of his chest, until finally he’s still, and the room grows too quiet again. After a moment, he gently pushes me away, extracting his arm from my embrace, repositioning back onto his side, facing me. I shift to mirror his pose, enjoying the soft touch of his fingers as he smoothes my hair over and over.
His voice is a little stronger when he finally speaks again. “If I asked you to stay with me, not to go with Stephen, would you? Stay?”
I hold my breath. I can’t make out his face clearly enough to read his expression, and I’m hopeful mine is equally obscured by shadow. I kiss him; his mouth tastes salty and sticky from his tears, and I don’t want to say what I need to say, but I do anyway.
“I want to. I do. But I can’t. What about the baby? What if it’s his?”
Santiago shakes his head and pushes himself up with a slight grunt. I hear him grab his chair and reach out to stop him as I pull myself up as well.
“Don’t be angry. Please. You have to understand. I can’t just abandon Stephen if it’s his baby.”
“And what if it’s mine? Would you ‘abandon’ me?” he asks, brushing off my arm. He laughs bitterly, angrily. “Would Stephen even stay if you asked him to? Would he do that for you? For the baby?”
I stare at Santiago’s back in the semidarkness, unable to reply.
“That’s what I thought.” He transfers, and it seems like something’s off. More than the pain in his leg, but I can’t quite say what it is.
“Are you okay?” I ask reflexively.
“No!” he shouts, startling me. “I’m not, Di.” He finishes in a growl, then pushes into the bathroom.
How could the mood have shifted so dramatically, so quickly? I feel heavy, it hurts to breathe, and I just want to disintegrate. My instinct is to follow him, to apologize, but I decide to respect his space and wait, sitting on the edge of the bed, pointing my feet, touching the floor with my big toes, first one, then the other. I pinch my shirt, searching for the medal I’m forced to remember is around Santiago’s neck and not mine. Maybe he needs St. Anthony more than me right now.
For the past ten years, I’ve felt like stars scattered in the night sky, loosely held together in a makeshift constellation because Stephen created order in my life. And maybe I felt that if I released my grip, my hold on our marriage, that somehow I’d scatter, pieces of me coming crashing to the earth, and I’d never be able to find myself again. But lately, with Santiago, I’ve come to realize that maybe the past ten years have been a delusion, that the constellation I thought Stephen had molded me into was only a facade of what he saw in me rather than what I really am. I was still a fragmented being, and only now have I realized what being whole feels like.
Several minutes pass, and I worry that he’s either so angry at me he’s not coming out, or my intuition was right and something’s wrong. So I push off the bed, hopping down, and stop at the bathroom door.
Light peeks out from around its edges. My hand’s on the door, ready to open it, ready to speak, call out his name, to whisper an I’m sorry, when I hear him vomit. It catches me off guard and sends my blood racing. He definitely wasn’t drunk. Is he sick? He didn’t feel warm. I want to rip the door open, rush up to him—something—make sure he’s okay, but I’m frozen, my ears wide-open, listening.
I hear a flush, the creak of the toilet paper roll, the sound of paper against skin indicating he’s wiping his mouth. I think he’s going to come out, but instead of the squeak of hinges, I hear a slight groan as he shifts in his chair, followed by high-pitched dialing noises. He’s calling someone. Whom? His sister?
I know I should go back and sit on the bed, wait for him, but I’m both nervous and curious. I hold my breath, trying to be as quiet as possible, listening, my heart thumping hard, my blood hot in my neck.
A couple beeps, like he’s choosing from a menu. Then silence, except a slight creak from his chair. The sudden sound of porcelain rattling, and he’s vomiting again. My stomach flips. He groans, spits. Wipes his mouth. He’s switched to speakerphone; I hear the on-hold music, some sort of jazz.
I’m confused and worried, so I finally find my voice. “Santiago? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he replies, not terribly convincingly. “Get me a bottle of water from the fridge? I’ll be right out.”
I hesitate, still concerned despite his assurances, but decide to obey, tiptoeing out, through the bedroom and into the kitchen, my eyes adjusting to the light of the windows as I make my way to the fridge, calling to me with its soft hum.
I open it, grab a water, press it to my face. I don’t know if it’s nerves, the pregnancy, or what, but I feel really hot, flushed, stuffy. I shut the fridge and rush back to the bathroom door. Pushing it open, I hope I’ll find him washing his hands or something, anything, just so I know he’s really okay. I feel extra bad about our argument. He bares his soul to me, and I betray him. That’s exactly what I’ve done.
I’m such a jerk. I don’t deserve him.
Oh God, please give me time to change that.
But he’s still behind the half wall, and I can hear him talking, obviously on the phone. His voice is weary, scratchy. He’s explaining something about tea-colored urine. That can’t be good. About being dizzy and nauseated. There’s a pause.
“Yes. Twice so far.” Another pause. “I don’t know. Less than normal, but…” Another pause. Then he sighs. “Yes, my girlfriend.” Suddenly, the water feels too cold, so I shift it to my other hand, trying to keep quiet to hear him. “Okay. Okay. Thanks.” Some creaks, another flush, and then he rolls himself out wearily.
Santiago looks like he’s just been run over by a train. I honestly now know where that expression came from. He’s pale, sweaty, obviously completely drained. I hurry to hand him the bottle of water, which he accepts, trying to smile. He drinks some, swishes it in his mouth, then spits it into the sink before drinking some more. He drains the bottle, then sets it on the counter and pushes back so he’s facing me, looking apologetic.
“I’m really sorry,” he says, shifting the necklace, which he must have thrown back so that it dangled between his shoulders to keep it out of the way while he retched. The medal bobbles as he teases it between his fingers absently.
I’m confused. Shouldn’t I be the one apologizing? “For what?”
“I…need a favor,” he says, “but if it’s too much…” He pauses, covers his mouth, leans forward, obscuring his eyes. “Especially with what’s going on with Stephen…”
Fuck Stephen, I think, starting to panic, pulse racing, loud in my ears.
Santiago uncovers his mo
uth, but he’s bracing himself on his knees. He looks up at me. “I need you to take me to the ER.”
My stomach does a triple back flip. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“I can’t explain right now. But I need to go. Now.” He closes his eyes, supports his head with his hand as if he’s dizzy. “If you can’t…I can call Genie.”
I can hardly breathe. I’ve only been to the hospital (other than when I was born) for routine tests like the amnio. And never to the ER. But it only takes me seconds to respond. “No. Of course I’ll take you. Let’s get you dressed, and we’ll leave right now.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Although Santiago doesn’t live far (thank God) from the Medical District, I’m still nervous the entire drive over. He has the seat partially reclined, a small trash bin in his lap, which he’s already thrown up into a couple times since we left the apartment.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I glance over at him quickly. “It’s okay. You don’t need to apologize. We’re almost there.”
“I hoped the fall wasn’t this bad.”
I have no idea what he means, and I’m worried he might not be making sense. Maybe he’s sicker than I thought. The idea makes my stomach churn, but I bite back my unease and concentrate on the road for his sake.
He has his eyes closed, but he turns his head toward me; I can just see him in my peripheral vision. “Even though it’s been over twenty fucking years, my parents still like to pretend there’s nothing wrong with me.”
My stomach aches to hear him say that, but I’m relieved he’s talking, coherent. “What hospital?” I ask as the Medical Center’s tall buildings come into view.
“St. Luke’s,” he says without opening his eyes. “I went to dinner Sunday, like I told you. It didn’t go so well. I got into a fight with my parents before I was hardly in the door over my crutches, over leaving the firm, over not being the perfect fucking son I’m supposed to be.” He groans, covers his mouth.
I turn my head just enough to get a good look at him, but he continues talking, so I focus on weaving through the unfamiliar route toward St. Luke’s ER.
“Heaven forbid I look ‘weak’ in comparison to the sons-in-law.”
What do you say to something like that? Santiago has never seemed weak to me. In fact, though I’ve never felt strong, being with him gives me strength.
“After I sat down, my parents had Amélia take my crutches. I figured, put them in the coat closet, something, so they’re out of the way. But no. They fucking have her put them upstairs. Who the fuck does that?”
I dart my eyes toward him, lay a hand on his thigh. “So I said, fine. If I don’t need them, I’ll fucking leave without them. And I walked out. Almost made it to my fucking car too.” He sighs, lets his head roll back to neutral. I’m pulling into the garage now, wishing I had Santiago’s handicapped plates so we’d be closer to the door.
“But there’s this slight slope in the driveway, and it tricked my stance-control hinge, so my knee unlocked when it shouldn’t have, and I fell. Hard. Fuck.” I hear him throwing up again, but I can’t look because I’m rounding the bend in the garage.
“It’s okay; it’s okay,” I say, wanting to cry but knowing I need to be brave for him. I can do this. “I love you, okay? You’ll be fine. None of this is your fault.”
I cringe as I realize I said the L word. It was sneaked in with all the rest, and a quick glance says he’s pretty out of it, so I’m half hoping he didn’t hear. I swallow hard and pull into the first end space I can, so I can make sure I have room to help Santiago out of the car and into his chair. Adrenaline courses through my body. I just have to get him to a doctor, and he’ll be fine. I have no idea what’s wrong, but it’s okay; he’ll be fine. The words race in my head as fast as my heart, and I’m worried that Santiago hasn’t said anything else, but it’ll be okay.
It’ll be okay.
It’ll be okay.
* * * *
Although it’s only been a couple hours since I stormed out on Stephen, that feels like another lifetime as I stand beside Santiago in the ER. He’s checking in, trying to explain to the nurse his situation. Something about how he has muscular dystrophy and he has rhabdomyolysis with myoglobinuria, dizziness, vomiting. That he was admitted three years ago for the same thing and ARF. That he spoke to his doctor, who told him to come to the ER to have his electrolytes stabilized. I feel like he’s speaking another language, and apparently the nurse does too, because she’s barely listening, bored, even, instructing him to wait his turn like everyone else. I glance over at the waiting room; it’s full, and it makes the acid bubble up in my stomach.
I do catch the reference to this happening before—three years ago. Is this what he and his sister were talking about that day she showed up? Did something like this happen before, and that’s why he decided to leave the law?
We finally get things as settled as possible and find a place to wait. Santiago throws up again, although he doesn’t have much left in his stomach, mostly sticky mucus that clings to his chin. I don’t have anything to clean his mouth, so I just use his shirt, figuring they’ll probably have him change anyway. As the minutes pass, I try to keep him talking, but he’s becoming more and more listless. Although I make him take a few sips of water, he’s looking paler than ever, his eyes sunken, and he’s barely said more than a word or two since we checked in.
Trying not to be nervous, I take out my phone. No messages or missed calls. I’m both relieved and annoyed. I kiss Santiago’s forehead. “Everything’ll be okay; they’re going to call us soon. You’ll see,” I say, because I’m hoping if I say it, it’ll be true.
* * * *
Over two hours since we arrived, and Santiago is gowned, asleep in a bed in one of the ER exam rooms. An IV drips into his right hand. I’m sitting on his left side, holding his hand, smoothing my fingers over his skin, still feeling flushed and tense and afraid, although I’m doing my best not to show it. I cling to the St. Anthony medal; they wouldn’t let him keep it on, so I slipped it around my neck, feeling as if I need to find my way now more than ever.
We both do.
To try to steel myself, I’ve slipped on my earbuds and pumped up my music. Simple Plan’s “Save You” echoes in my ears as I grip Santiago’s hand tightly, willing him to be okay, to give me another chance to look in his eyes, to hear his voice, to see his one-dimpled smile. To tell him…to tell him…
I love him.
I suck in a breath to hold back tears. I need to be strong for him; if my will is the only thing that can save him, if it’s the only thing I can do for him right now, then I’ll do it.
The nurse who set Santiago up with the drip said a doctor would be in “shortly,” but after the wait in the ER, I’m certain that must be hospital speak for “some time this millennium.”
Everyone’s assumed I’m his wife, and I don’t let them think otherwise because there’s no way in hell I’m leaving him. Not now, not like this. Even if Stephen were on the Jetway waiting for me to board the plane to Timbuktu or wherever the hell we’re supposed to be moving in two weeks, I wouldn’t go. Not now. My other hand goes to my belly. I feel the faintest flutter in my stomach, like a bubble bursting. Is it the baby? Or is it my imagination again?
I remember how they gave me two copies of the ultrasound picture from the amnio. I took one and hid it so Stephen wouldn’t find it, and gave the other to Santiago. He was so happy about it, I began to wonder if I would be able to tell him the truth if it turned out he’s not the father.
But that doesn’t matter right now. What matters is him. I know I should probably call Genie, but then I realize I wouldn’t know what to say to her. I try to remember what Santiago said when we checked in. I remember “rhabdo-something.” I whip out my phone and open my Internet browser. I’m not sure how it’s spelled, so I do what usually fails with anything in the English language and try spelling it phonetically.
R-A-B-D-O, I type, and the suggestion o
f rabdomilolisis pops up. Apparently that’s Spanish, but the first search result is the Wikipedia entry for “rhabdomyolysis.” I hit it. That sounds like it could be right. I wait for it to load, sighing.
The curtains stir, and I sit up, but it’s not the doctor, just a nurse, who offers the meagerest of smiles as she proceeds to take several vials of blood from Santiago’s elbow. I can’t stand to look, so I concentrate on my phone, holding my breath as the mobile Wikipedia site finally appears on my screen.
Rhabdomyolysis is a condition in which damaged skeletal muscle tissue breaks down rapidly. Breakdown products of damaged muscle cells are released into the bloodstream; some of these, such as the protein myoglobin…
I pause. That word sounds vaguely familiar. Didn’t Santiago say something about that too? I keep reading.
…are harmful to the kidneys, and may lead to acute renal failure (ARF).
I gasp, drop the phone in my lap, and glance over at Santiago.
The nurse is finishing up, scowling at me, gathering her supplies and the finished test tubes before disappearing through the curtain again. My heart’s racing, but I force myself to take a few slow breaths and go back to reading, scanning the article quickly. The symptoms are exactly what Santiago experienced: pain, nausea, vomiting, and ultimately confusion and lethargy. I try to calm my mind. He’s been through this before, and he was fine; he’ll be okay this time too.
My hand’s shaking, but I manage to type muscular dystrophy rhabdomyolysis into the search. I sigh at the results; they’re all journal articles or other sites that are far too technical for my untrained brain, so I give up, staring at my phone, not sure what to do next.
Minutes, maybe even an hour, pass, and finally, the curtain parts and I see the telltale white coat that signals a doctor. I slip off my earbuds, even though I’m still tense, especially reading about how Santiago could be facing kidney failure. Don’t people die from that? I stand, still holding Santiago’s hand, trying to put on the calmest, bravest face I can.