Emmett drove toward the mainland like a madman. A few times he registered a caught breath from the teacher, but he paid no heed. As they crossed the bridge the ambulance came screaming toward them. Emmett flashed headlights and waved as they rushed by. The ambulance slowed and made a U-turn. Emmett made it into The Pub’s parking lot and opened the back door to check on Ainslie.
“Here! Here!” he yelled and motioned as the ambulance pulled up beside him. “She’s in here.”
Emmett knew all three EMS guys who jumped from the vehicle.
“She’s not breathing right,” he said. They quickly placed Ainslie on a stretcher, strapped her down and positioned an oxygen mask over her nose. Locals from The Pub gathered at a respectable distance. One EMT, who had played ball with Emmett in high school, fired questions as he loaded Ainslie into the ambulance.
Ainslie became more conscious, and she tried to scratch the mask away from her face. When her eyes registered on her father she clawed frantically for him.
“I want to ride with her,” Emmett said.
His friend hesitated, then nodded.
Emmett climbed in the back.
“Hey.” Larry stuck his head in before they closed the doors. “Give me your truck keys. I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
“Here, take my phone, too,” Emmett said as he tossed his keys and phone. “Call Lauren.”
Through the small back window Emmett glimpsed his worried friends as the ambulance plunged onto the highway, its siren scattering traffic.
By the time they arrived at the Waccamaw County Hospital’s ER, Ainslie was talking.
“Ow, my neck hurts,” she complained from behind the oxygen mask as she was rushed to the ER. Emmett was left with a pale doctor who asked questions he couldn’t answer. She asked if Ainslie had ever had a seizure before. Had she complained of headaches? Had she been vomiting?
“She’s been vomiting on and off for a couple of weeks, but I thought that was because of the chemo,” Lauren said from behind him. She’d gotten to the hospital quickly and Emmett had never been so relieved to see her.
The doctor turned her attention to Lauren. “What time of the day would this happen?”
“Usually at night.”
The doctor peppered her with questions. They threw around words Emmett didn’t understand, names of procedures and medicines like electrolyte imbalance and CT scan and meningitis. He felt faint when the doctor said, “Spinal tap.” Lauren understood her and answered with certainty.
“Once she’s stable we’ll do an EEG and blood work,” the doctor said. She didn’t look old enough to be out of college, but she was confident and in control.
Lauren nodded.
“EEG?” Emmett asked.
“Electroencephalogram. It measures electrical activity in the brain,” the doctor said. “It tests for epilepsy.”
Epilepsy? How in the world could Ainslie have epilepsy?
“She’s awake now, so there was no sustained loss of consciousness, which is good. Your husband said there was some respiratory distress, but she seems to be breathing fine right now. Was there a fall of any sort? Anything that could cause brain injury?”
Emmett shrugged helplessly.
“No. She was just sitting at the table doing homework.”
The doctor continued. “Had she been experiencing headaches?”
“Yes,” Lauren answered.
“Considering her history, we’ll need to do a CT on her, just to rule out a brain tumor.”
Lauren’s hand flew to her mouth.
“Brain tumor?” Emmett whispered.
The doctor nodded. “It is a possibility, but we’re not going there just yet. We’re stabilizing her and then we’re moving her to the Children’s Hospital at MUSC. They’ll do the CT there.”
Emmett had expected Ainslie to be transported to the Medical University of South Carolina in Charleston by ambulance, so he was shocked when the doctor said, “You need to start driving soon. I’ve already called for the helicopter. It is specially equipped to handle pediatric cases like this. It’ll be here soon.”
“I need to see her,” Lauren said.
“Of course. Let me check on her.”
Helicopter blades whirled fiercely on the helipad. Emmett had been stunned when the young doctor sedated and paralyzed Ainslie. She was hooked up to a breathing machine and strapped down for the ride. Lauren was wide-eyed and frantic.
“I want my husband to go with her,” she cried.
“Ma’am, we don’t usually do that,” the doctor said.
“Never?”
“Well…there is room.”
“Please, please. Somebody has to be there with her when she gets to the hospital. I can’t do it,” she said. “Emmett, you have to go.”
“Let’s go!” someone yelled.
“Are you okay to drive down?” he asked.
“Larry can bring me. I’ll be fine. You go with Ainslie. Please, do this for me.”
They loaded Ainslie into the back of the transport vehicle through a drop-down door in the rear. Emmett took a tiny seat mounted behind the pilot. They were accompanied by two pediatric trauma specialists who constantly checked her blood pressure, heart rate, eye dilation, oxygen saturation. Emmett knew this because they explained to him what they were doing, apparently their way of reassuring him. He wasn’t sure if he was grateful to them for this or not.
The rescue transport lifted into the air and Emmett felt a flush of terror as the hospital dropped away below them. They skimmed the tops of long-leaf pines. Ainslie began to convulse.
“Don’t panic,” one said to him. “We’re giving her antiseizure medication. Sometimes this happens when they lie flat.”
For the second time Emmett felt terrified, and he fought to hold himself together as he watched his child struggle for life.
The airlift took twenty minutes pad to pad, but it seemed like both a second and an hour had elapsed when they touched down on the roof of the parking deck beside the Children’s Hospital. A waiting crew rushed to roll her out on a stretcher, the breathing machine trailing along. They took a wide elevator down, then transferred Ainslie to yet another ambulance for the short ride to the emergency entrance. They rolled her inside the hospital and brought her up to the eighth floor to the pediatric intensive care unit. All this was accomplished in swift order, with each medical professional along the way assuring him Ainslie was in good hands.
On the way, a doctor tried to take Ainslie’s history by firing questions at Emmett, but Emmett was unable to answer as Lauren had. “I don’t know,” he answered so many times he wanted to cry. He was so woefully inept at medical things. Why hadn’t he listened? Why hadn’t he researched and participated in her health decisions? Now all he wanted was to understand, to assist her, and yet he was helpless, useless.
A nurse laid a calming hand on his arm as he watched his daughter disappear down a corridor. “It’s okay,” she said. “Anyone in your situation would be stressed and a little flustered.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Emmett cried. “I can’t help her. I can’t help her at all.”
“You have to wait here,” a nurse said. “You can’t go in the PICU.”
Emmett sank into a waiting room chair, leaned over with his head in his hands, and for the first time since the start of his daughter’s medical nightmare he cried. He wept without shame or even a thought to the few people there with their own dramas unfolding. Emmett cried out of frustration and anger and fear and exhaustion. And when the adrenaline rush began to wear off, he slumped back into his seat, limp and confused. His heart leapt again when he saw his wife and Larry coming around the corner on a dead run.
“Good God, how fast did you drive?” he asked them.
“You don’t want to know,” Larry said. “How is she?”
Lauren peered through the windows of broad double doors back into the restricted area as if her daughter were waiting on the other side to wave at her.
“Ho
w was she when you left her?” Lauren asked.
“They still had her sedated. Everything’s going to be okay,” Emmett told her. He didn’t tell her Ainslie had experienced another seizure in the helicopter. He didn’t see how that would be a good thing to share right now.
One side of the door swished open and a serious doctor in a knee-length white coat approached them.
“Are you the Sullivans?” he asked.
“Yes,” they said together.
“I’m Dr. Hart. I’ve got some good news.”
“Good news, please,” Emmett said.
“Ainslie is stable now and she’s off the respirator. Her neuroexam and CT were clean.”
“What does that mean?” Emmett asked.
“It means she doesn’t have a brain tumor.”
“Thank God,” Lauren said, but she still stared at the doctor with dread-filled anticipation.
The physician continued. “We’ve called her oncologist and she’ll be here momentarily. We have some answers about Ainslie’s seizures. The reason she was vomiting at night is that when she’s in a reclined position, cerebrospinal fluid accumulates, causing increased intracranial pressure from a tumor on her spine.”
“Hydrocephalus,” Lauren said.
“Yes,” the doctor nodded.
“What?” Emmett was confused.
“Ainslie has a small tumor on her spine and it is causing fluid to collect in her brain. The first thing we have to do is put a shunt in to drain the fluid and relieve the pressure on her brain.”
“You’re going to do brain surgery on her?” Lauren whispered. His wife was so pale Emmett thought she was going to pass out. He put his arm around her shoulders.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds. Recovery time is quick. There are many people walking around with shunts and you never know. They lead very normal lives.”
“What about the tumor on her spine?” Lauren asked.
“We’re still assessing that. As I said, her oncologist is on the way. I will say it looks small. We’ll know more soon.”
“So she’ll have to have spinal surgery, too?” Larry said.
The doctor nodded. “I’m afraid so. Although that’s not our most immediate concern.”
CHAPTER 16
Homecoming
The plane was filled with sunburned, exhausted passengers. The flight home was subdued compared to the trip down to Cancún. Cal had slept through the last inflight drinks service, and Sloan watched him, his eyes moving with dreams. Cal’s hair had more blond streaks than before Mexico and his skin was tan and smooth. Sloan hummed with desire and smiled to herself. No more fumbling high school boys who couldn’t even roll on a condom. Cal made it all quite clear how sex should be.
Cancún had been a drunken sex fest, and Sloan had no regrets. Their chemistry was undeniable. They spent nights grinding against each other on the dance floor. Cal would pull Sloan against him and she would ride his leg until her whole body buzzed. But by early morning, when they got back to their room, they were too exhausted to make love, and they usually fell into bed in a drunken stupor.
Afternoons were another story. Sloan would be lying under an umbrella, reading a steamy novel one of the other girls had discarded. Cal would walk out of the surf, water trickling down his flat stomach, and she wouldn’t even have to voice her desire. He always sensed her cravings as if they were his own. So they would leave their friends on the beach and spend the next hour rolling in the cool white hotel sheets. Cal brought her to orgasm that first night and he continued to hit her high notes, leaving Sloan in a constant sexual stupor.
Back on the tarmac in Atlanta, the plane erupted with the click of opening cell phones. Sloan waited for her phone to boot and then called voice mail. Her mother’s voice came on, as she had expected, but what followed made panic carve a piece of her heart.
“Sloan, it’s Mom. Honey, I’m not sure if you’ll get this message or not, but Ainslie’s back in the hospital and it’s pretty bad. She’s really sick, but don’t freak out. Just come to the hospital as soon as you can. I’ll call you back if things change.”
“What hospital?” Sloan said. “Mom, what hospital?”
She checked and there were no other messages from her mother.
Sloan checked the time of her call and realized it had been placed only twenty minutes before. Whatever was happening with Ainslie was still in process. If Sloan called, she would only be adding to the tension her parents now faced. Sloan’s impulse was to dial her mother, or perhaps her father, since he tended to be more calm in these situations, but she didn’t. She needed to check to make sure her connecting flight was going to get her home on time. They had only a short amount of time to get from one terminal to the other before their flight left. The last thing she wanted was to make contact with her parents, find out things were terrible, and then end up getting stuck in the Atlanta airport all night. Sloan decided to wait before she called.
Everyone in their party was weary, and as they waited in the stuffy cabin to disembark Sloan felt a rise of emotion she knew was going to bring about a scene, but she couldn’t help it. She choked back tears as long as she could, but when Cal saw her face, he said, “Sloan, what’s the matter?”
She cried then, silently, as she hunched forward against the window. Other passengers watched her in silence, embarrassed by her grief. Sloan hunkered toward the tiny window to hide her face. Cal held her for several minutes. When the center aisle began to move, Cal gathered their things from the overhead compartment and motioned her out into the aisle ahead of him.
On their arrival into Charleston, Sloan checked, and her message indicator was blinking again.
“Sloan, it’s Dad. They’re airlifting Ainslie to MUSC’s Children’s Hospital. Where are you? I thought you would be back by now. If you get this message call me. You probably need to meet us at MUSC. I love you.”
Sloan snapped her phone shut.
“Can you take me to Children’s Hospital?”
“Sure. Anywhere you want to go.”
Thirty minutes later, Cal drove into the parking garage.
“What’re you doing? You can just let me off at the entrance.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I want to. Although I will say it usually takes longer than this for me to get on the parental shit list.”
They parked and walked through a small courtyard with shaggy palms that made Mexico flash to Sloan’s mind. The hospital was cold, much colder than outside and Sloan, in her flimsy tropical clothes, immediately wished for a wrap. She was familiar with the hospital. She knew where to find radiation and chemotherapy and emergency, but today MUSC seemed the most foreign place in the world.
Sloan found the information desk and learned that Ainslie had been moved to the pediatric intensive care unit, a new place for Sloan to find.
As they rounded the corner toward the PICU waiting room, Sloan stopped short and Cal nearly ran into her. Her mother and father sat on straight chairs. Her father stared up and out of Sloan’s line of vision at what was probably a television, but her mother stared at the floor. Makeup pooled under her mother’s swollen eyes and her hair was limp and unkept, but she had on a pretty dress as if she were getting ready to go to a luncheon party.
“Mom?”
Both her parents turned blank eyes on her as if they didn’t recognize her. Neither rose to greet her. They sat with their arms slack at their sides.
“Sloan,” her father finally said, and he reached toward her. To her surprise, her mother returned to her vacant expression without even acknowledging her presence.
“She’s out of surgery,” her father said. “She’s going to be okay.”
“What does that mean?” Sloan asked.
“I don’t know specifics,” he said. “It means she’s going to live and that’s what’s important.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“A tumor on her spine. That caused
fluid on her brain. They had to put in a shunt.”
“What’s a shunt?”
“A drain type of thing.”
“They did surgery on her brain?” Sloan felt sick.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” her mother said. “It’s not as bad as it sounds.”
Sloan felt the bottom drop out, a sinking like the zip-line without the thrill, only anxiety holding on at the bottom, the old dread creeping back into her stomach.
“Does she have a brain tumor?”
Her father stood there with his arms still limp at his sides. “No. She doesn’t have a brain tumor. It was fluid pressure. We’re waiting until they tell us we can see her. She’s been out of surgery for about an hour now. They say she woke right up. They say that’s a good thing.”
Her father’s eyes wandered up to Cal’s face.
“Son,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“Sir,” Cal said. “I’m sorry about Ainslie. If there’s anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
Her father studied Cal, and Sloan could see him summing up the situation—their clothes, the shiny new bracelet. Sloan so wanted to cover the bracelet with her other hand, but instead she followed a sudden need to feel her father’s reassuring pulse against her. She stepped forward and clung to him. He raised his arms to enclose her and they stood there, without moving for a long time while her heart ached beyond belief.
“Did you say she has a tumor?” Sloan whispered.
“On her spine,” her dad said into her hair. “We’re just waiting. That’s all we can do now. Just wait.”
CHAPTER 17
Collapse
Ainslie’s veins had collapsed.
“Honey, I just can’t find a good one. I’m sorry. I know it hurts,” the nurse said as she flicked the top of Ainslie’s hand to try and raise a pale blue path for her needle.
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