No One Ever Asked

by Katie Ganshert

  She was shuffled to voice mail again.

  This time, she waited for the beep and left a heated message.

  “Where are you? Why aren’t you answering your phone? I’m at the hospital with our daughter. Her blood sugar is really high, and they’re running all these tests. I need you to answer, Neil. I need you to get over here. I…I need you, okay?”

  Camille hung up and squeezed the phone in her hand.

  A slow-moving earthquake rippled through her body. It started in her extremities and radiated inward until everything was quivering.

  Her phone buzzed.

  She quickly answered, pressing it to her ear.

  “Hey,” Neil said, his voice breathless, like he’d just run up a flight of stairs. Maybe she interrupted an evening CrossFit class. “I didn’t have my phone on me. I just got out of a meeting and saw all your missed calls. Is everything okay?”

  “I’m in the ER with Taylor.”

  “What?”

  Camille re-explained her previous message. “The school nurse called around lunchtime. She said Taylor’s vision was blurry, so she tested her blood sugar. It was really high, so I called Dr. Porter’s office, and he said to bring her straight here, to the hospital. There’s an endocrinologist with her right now.” Her voice broke.

  A flood of emotion rushed past the breach in a pathetic squeak. Camille cupped her mouth with her hand, as if this might keep everything—all the spiraling panic—inside.

  “I’m on my way right now.” Keys jangled in the background. “Everything’s going to be okay, all right? I’ll get someone to pick up Paige and Austin after school, and I’ll be right there.”

  Paige and Austin.

  She had completely forgotten about Paige and Austin.

  Camille turned in a circle in search of a clock. She had no idea what time it was. No idea if school was already dismissed for the day.

  “I’ll call Deb,” Neil said. “She can get Paige, and Kathleen—”

  “No, not Kathleen.” Kathleen was too preoccupied with Cody, and honestly, if Cody really said what Taylor said he said, Camille didn’t want Austin around him.

  “You don’t worry about Paige and Austin. I’ll get it taken care of, all right? You focus on Taylor, and I’ll be there.”

  “I’m really scared.”

  “I know. I’m on my way.”

  She hung up, and another squeak came. She tried to swallow it. She needed to get herself together. She needed to walk back into that curtained-off room and be strong for her daughter.

  The endocrinologist stepped out into the hallway.

  Camille grabbed his arm.

  He wore a light-blue oxford button-down beneath a white lab coat. His hair was sparse and silver, and he had a closely shaved, matching mustache. He looked kind and calm, a man accustomed to having answers.

  “I’m Camille Gray, Taylor’s mother. Can you please tell me what’s going on? Why is her blood sugar so high?”

  “Your daughter has diabetes.” He delivered the words so matter-of-factly. He didn’t hem or haw or provide any sort of qualifier. No “I think” or “it looks like” or “might.” He just said it as if stating a simple fact. The sun rises in the east. The grass is green. It rains a lot in Seattle. And your daughter has diabetes.

  “Are…are you sure? I mean, couldn’t it be a fluke? I made pancakes this morning for breakfast. Taylor practically uses half a bottle of syrup any time I make pancakes. Maybe if we wait a little bit and test her again, it will come back normal.”

  Compassion crinkled the corners of his eyes. “One of the nurses ran a test as soon as Taylor was admitted, Mrs. Gray. It gives us information on her average blood glucose levels over the past three months. The results are textbook diabetes. Honestly, I’m surprised she’s been able to function as normally as she has been for so long.

  “I know this is a lot to take in. The good news is, she’s in excellent hands here. We’re getting her the insulin she needs to get her glucose levels down. She’ll start to feel better soon, and we’ll get her admitted into a more comfortable room. Just sit tight and we’ll get you more answers shortly.”

  * * *

  Today had been a strange day. Jen couldn’t get the image of a frantic Camille picking up a frightened Taylor out of her head. All afternoon she couldn’t stop thinking about their life and what a giant curveball they’d been thrown. As she helped students with menstrual cramps and toothaches and asthma and gym injuries, an odd, foreign feeling grew inside of her. She couldn’t pin it down at first, until suddenly she could.

  She was antsy.

  Jen was antsy for the work day to end so she could see Jubilee.

  Now the two of them sat in the living room, waiting for Nick to come home, watching raindrops race down the picture window. Rain was in the forecast all week long. The Gray family would be at the hospital. Taylor’s blood sugar had been alarmingly high. For a long time, Jen assumed Camille’s life was perfect. She assumed she didn’t know the first thing about hardship. But then she learned of Camille’s separation. And now there was this.

  Proof that everyone had struggles. Significant struggles.

  Somehow the realization made her own feel less…isolating. Less…daunting.

  The rain fell harder outside.

  Jubilee stared out at the wet gloom, her arm resting over the back of the couch, her lips pressed against the crook of her elbow.

  “Do you like watching the rain?” Jen asked.

  Jubilee nodded. “I like when da clouds go boom.”

  “You do?”

  “And da whole sky lights up.”

  Most kids didn’t like thunderstorms. Jubilee did. Tonight there was no thunder or lightning. Tonight there was just a good, hard rain.

  “Wanna go run in it?”

  Jubilee slowly lifted her chin off her arm and turned to look at Jen with big, wide eyes, like she couldn’t believe what she just heard.

  Jen couldn’t really believe it either. She wasn’t the type to play in the rain. And Jubilee’s hair would certainly be fuzzy when they were done, but she widened her eyes right back, her mouth tipping into a grin.

  And just like that, the two of them dashed outside, the rain soaking their clothes. Jubilee held out her arms and scrunched up her shoulders and looked up at Jen with squinty eyes and an ecstatic, wonder-filled smile as the rain turned into a downpour. With matching squeals, mother and daughter ran to the driveway and splashed in the puddles while the cat with the luminous eyes watched them suspiciously from beneath the boxwoods across the street. They splashed like Brandon and Jen splashed in the mud all those years ago, before her dad got angry and told them “never again.”

  That’s how Nick found them.

  He didn’t ask what they were doing. He didn’t yell that they were going to catch a cold. He got out of the car and joined them, because Nick was nothing like Jen’s father. He ran up behind Jubilee, and he stomped in the large puddle by the curb, and she shrieked so loud the cat across the street darted away.

  Jen stopped and watched them below the glow of the streetlight overhead as drops of rain sprayed all around. It was a moment worth capturing. The kind people would upload to social media. The kind that would have her Facebook friends clicking Like, because here was a family that made them feel happy. What had the elderly lady at church called them the other day?

  Inspiring.

  At the time, Jen wanted to laugh.

  She hadn’t seen them before church, or the way Jen reacted when she realized Jubilee had stolen her makeup and ruined it all on Baby and stuffed the mess in the bottom drawer of her dresser, where it got on all her clothes.

  People didn’t see those moments.

  To the watching world, the Covington family represented something. And a photograph of them now—in this particular wild and free moment—would enc
apsulate everything they represented. But it wouldn’t say anything about their struggles. The things Jubilee had stolen. The things that had been stolen from Jubilee. Jubilee’s big emotions, and Jen’s big emotions. The tears and the battles and the fits. All of them very, very real. As wrong as her dad was about so many things, he was right about this one—the hardship.

  Which was why Jen wouldn’t take a picture now.

  Because this was real too, and she didn’t want to give the memory away. She didn’t want to share it. This fleeting, perfect moment that was bound to pass, just like the rain.

  But the memory?

  That would remain.

  That would be theirs—just theirs—forever.

  * * *

  To Camille:

  Deb: I sent an email to the ladies in my Tuesday morning Bible study. They’re all praying. You know I’m happy to keep Austin and Paige for as long as you need. I’ll take good care of them. Jeremiah 29:11, Camille. He’s got you and Taylor.

  Rebecca: Patrick’s cousin has a son who was diagnosed with diabetes three years ago. She knows a lot. Let me know if you want her number.

  Rose: Don’t even think of worrying about the color run stuff. We have everything under control. And stay away from WebMD.

  Tamika Harris: Edison told me that Austin’s older sister is in the hospital. Let me know if there’s anything we can do.

  Mom: Your father just got Neil’s message. Please call us.

  Fifty-Seven

  Sometime around six in the morning, Taylor’s primary care nurse changed to a big-boned black woman named Liz. She had the magic touch, like Midas, only instead of turning Camille’s arm to gold whenever she squeezed it, she kept the fuzzy, disorienting abyss at bay. It would slowly creep closer, like wispy tentacles ready to grab on, but then Liz would touch Camille’s elbow or her wrist and the abyss would slink away.

  Neil had to remind Camille to eat.

  Camille was more focused on getting answers.

  But now that they were finally getting them, everything felt like a million-piece jigsaw puzzle in a box, impossible to put together.

  They hadn’t seen the endocrinologist since Taylor was moved to her own room. One without curtains for doors. But a pharmacist had come. And a social worker too. The pharmacist talked about things like carb counting and fast-acting insulin and long-acting insulin and when to inject which. Lantus would regulate her blood sugar when she wasn’t eating and Humalog would regulate her blood sugar when she was, and the Lantus might sting because it was acidic. The social worker talked about insurance coverage and glucose meters and how there was a Child Life specialist on hand in case Taylor’s younger siblings needed someone to help them cope.

  Now Camille sat with a heavy binder filled with information in her lap while Liz explained the signs of hypoglycemia and hyperglycemia and what to do in case of an emergency.

  “I know this is very overwhelming,” she said. “I want to keep things simple for now. You’ll have so many more questions for the diabetes educator on Monday. Until then, here’s an on-call number for you.”

  “Why do we need this?” Camille asked.

  “In case of an emergency.”

  “But won’t we be here?”

  “Taylor will most likely check out this afternoon, Mrs. Gray.”

  Camille blinked. She couldn’t seem to make sense of Liz’s words.

  “Isn’t that a little soon?” Neil asked.

  “She’ll heal much faster at home, where she won’t be poked and prodded by strangers at all hours of the night.” Liz gave Taylor’s arm the same comforting squeeze she’d given Camille.

  Camille wondered if it grounded her daughter as much as it grounded her.

  Liz unzipped the black kit she brought in with her and laid it open on Taylor’s bed. She started talking about the things inside. The meter and testing strips. Quality control solution. Alcohol swabs. A lancet device. Liz walked Taylor through this foreign thing that needed to become a part of her daily routine. Washing her hands with warm water. Loading the lancet and setting it to a three, because Taylor’s skin wasn’t overly thick or thin. Marking the test strips with an “open” date because they didn’t work after four months. How to put the strip into the monitor. How to clean her fingertip with the alcohol swab, making sure to massage it so the prick would produce enough blood. She showed Taylor where to place it on her finger, and then Taylor pressed the button.

  The swift, sharp sound made Camille flinch.

  She watched the blood bead up on Taylor’s fingertip.

  “You want to wipe the first drop away, so the alcohol doesn’t mess with the reading. Then squeeze some more out, just like that. Now you can put it up to the test strip. See how it sucks it right up?”

  They waited a few seconds, and the meter flashed.

  One hundred seventy-nine.

  When they arrived yesterday, it had been in the six hundreds.

  “There you go. You just checked your own blood sugar. This kit is yours. You’ll get another one to keep at school. You’ll want to test your blood sugar before every meal and two hours after, anytime you’re feeling off, and of course, upon waking.”

  Liz’s words grew muffled.

  Camille was sinking.

  Down, down, down into the deep, fuzzy abyss.

  “Is that good?” she heard Neil ask.

  “Eventually we’ll want her to be between eighty and one hundred twenty. One hundred seventy-nine isn’t bad. Remember, her glucose levels didn’t get sky high overnight. She’s been dealing with this for a long time. We don’t expect her body to jump down to normal right away.”

  Deeper and deeper.

  “You’ll want to record each reading in your log there. There’s also a pretty handy app you can download on your phone.”

  Each reading. Because Taylor would have to do this multiple times a day. Which meant she would have to prick herself multiple times a day. Inject insulin into her stomach with a needle, multiple times a day. And she needed to remember to rotate the injection sites so they didn’t get calcified with overuse.

  The abyss began to spin.

  Camille was forgetting to breathe.

  Someone squeezed her hand.

  She looked and saw that it was Neil.

  “If you get a reading above two hundred, you’ll have to check your urine for ketones. If there are ketones in the urine, that means your body is using fat cells for energy. You’ll have to forgo exercise until you get things regulated.”

  “So I can still run?”

  “Of course. Exercise is very good. We’ll have to set up a plan with the dietician first, and you’ll need to make sure to have your meter with you to see how your body is handling things. But ultimately, we encourage people with diabetes to get regular exercise. It helps channel that glucose into the cell, which is where we want it to go.”

  Taylor sat in the bed, her posture so straight it was almost regal. But tears gathered in her eyes. Taylor looked at Camille, sitting there at the bottom of the abyss, and her chin quivered in that way it did when she was five and had to miss the kindergarten carnival because she threw up in the van on the way to school. “What about the rest of track season?”

  Sectionals was this weekend.

  State was next.

  Taylor had been training so hard.

  Liz squeezed Taylor’s arm again. “How about we focus on getting you better, and then you can start talking about track next year.”

  * * *

  “Camille?”

  She kept walking.

  “Camille, where are you going?”

  But she didn’t turn around. She walked away like he walked away, down the long, white hallway, out through the front doors of the hospital, where she inhaled great gobs of air.

  How long had it been since she breathed?
/>   Did she stop when Taylor asked Liz her tremulous question?

  Or was it when Dr. Porter’s office told Camille to go straight to the ER?

  Or was it before that, when Neil left?

  Taylor had diabetes. This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t something she could fix. Not with more money. Not with the right game plan. Not with more volunteers or a little more ingenuity. She could not hold this together. There wasn’t a cure. It wasn’t something that would go away. From now until the time Taylor died, her life would revolve around needles and lancets and insulin and carbohydrates. Her daughter had been suffering for months. For months. And Camille hadn’t noticed.

  She dug inside her purse and pulled out her keys.

  Her phone had exploded with more text messages.

  They wouldn’t stop.

  And Camille couldn’t read them.

  She didn’t have any answers.

  She needed to get away.

  She dropped her phone in the grass and climbed in her car and drove as clouds thickened overhead and tiny raindrops began to blur the windshield. She drove as her wipers squeak-squeaked against the glass, smearing the raindrops dry. She drove as the abyss sucked her further and further away from the shore. She drove and she drove, sinking deeper into the void, until something rattled her awake.

  A giant boom followed by a loud hiss as her Highlander jerked suddenly toward oncoming traffic. An electric jolt seized Camille’s heart. She tightened her grip and wrestled the steering wheel right until her SUV was stopped on the side of the road and the rain turned into a downpour that pounded against the roof.

  Camille sat in the driver’s seat for a shocked moment, the wipers still squeaking.

  Then she squeezed the steering wheel and shook it violently. Shake, shake, shake, like she wanted to rip it right off. A scream tore up her throat. A guttural scream as she shook and shook and shook.

  She had a flat tire.

  Her daughter was sick in the hospital.

  Running would never be easy.