I vacillate between anger and fear. Part of me is still furious over all that’s happened, but another part of me is scared Mom might die. When she collapsed, I kept thinking I’d done something—that somehow it was my fault—but I can’t figure out a single way I could’ve caused her to have a seizure.
“Feeling better?” Nick asks her.
Mom nods. “Just ready to figure out what’s wrong with me and get out of here.”
No word about the fight we had in the kitchen, and not a single hint of the fact she was drunk. It’s like that never happened.
I’ve been sitting on a cold folding chair so long my butt is numb and they’ve forgotten I’m here. The curtain outside the sliding glass door ruffles to the side and Dr. Bates walks in. He’s so tall I expect him to duck his head as he steps through the doorway, but he clears it easily.
“How’re we feeling?” He smiles at Mom.
“Much better,” she says. “Still a little weak, though.”
Dr. Bates studies Mom’s chart then his eyes peek over the top at me. “Young lady, why don’t you step outside for a few minutes so I can talk with your mom and dad.”
And just like that, I’m dismissed. I’m the one who was with her when she fell. I’m the one who called 9-1-1 and stayed on the line until the paramedics came. And I’m the one being ejected from the room. Like I said, I’m forgotten. I grab my jacket off the back of the chair and make my way into the hall. My intention is to go somewhere quiet—somewhere I can be alone—but Dr. Bates’s voice reaches me in the hall and I realize nobody bothered to close the door behind me. I glance around and the hall is empty, so I slide down the wall until my butt reaches the tile floor. I’m not invisible, but I also think I look less conspicuous than I would be standing with my ear to the door. I close my eyes and tune everything out but the sound of the doctor’s voice.
“So your tests came back with good results,” Dr. Bates says, “But we need to talk about the seizure and what caused it. Your chart indicates you’ve been struggling with depression and anxiety?”
“Yes,” Mom says. “The last couple months have been really stressful. I was just in to see Dr. Heusman and he put me on an antidepressant that’s supposed to help.”
“Right. My notes show at your last visit…four weeks ago…he put you on Bupropion for anxiety.”
“That’s right,” Mom says.
“Has it helped?”
She pauses. “I think so. I’ve been under so much pressure lately it’s hard to tell.”
The doctor clears his throat. “Your seizure could be caused by a couple of things, but what I’m most concerned about is your toxicology report, which showed elevated levels of alcohol in your bloodstream.”
“I wasn’t drunk,” Mom interjects. “Or—I might’ve been a little buzzed, but I’m not a regular drinker. It was a one-off thing.”
“Mrs. Lunde, I’m not here to judge you. I’m only here to tell you what I believe happened. Mixing antidepressants with alcohol places a patient at a substantially high risk of seizure. Bupropion, especially, is known to cause seizures in patients who mix it with alcohol. Did Dr. Heusman caution you against using alcohol while taking this medication?”
“No, but I’m not a regular drinker.”
He ignores Mom’s comment and continues. “In any case, we’ll keep you here overnight for observation, but I can’t stress enough the dangers of mixing any drugs with alcohol, especially antidepressants. I’ll also want you to follow up with Dr. Heusman within a week for him to evaluate your medications and determine if there’s a better solution for you.”
I stand and step away from Mom’s room. Rage flows through me until I’m shaking. What the hell was she thinking? How many classes has she led on the dangers of mixing drugs and alcohol? How many times has she cautioned me about the hazards of drinking too much? She could’ve died, and why? Because, like sneaking around with Coach Hawkins, she didn’t give a damn about anyone but herself.
I don’t know where I’m going, but I have to get away. I find the front doors and I’m at a sprint before the automatic sensor has them fully opened. I’m not even a runner, but my legs carry me full throttle. I just can’t be here anymore.
I’M STILL SEATED outside Josh’s room when Wendy and Tera emerge with his mom. I stand and wipe away the wet tears covering my cheeks.
“Abby, you okay?” Wendy asks.
I force a smile. “I’m fine. I—hospitals are hard for me sometimes.”
Mrs. Bryant places an arm around my shoulders and offers a sympathetic smile. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Abby. Josh speaks highly of you. Thanks for coming.”
I nod and swallow a knot in my throat.
“Josh is sleeping,” Tera says. “We were headed to the waiting room to talk. Come with us?”
I nod again and follow them down a series of hallways to a waiting room with a television, reclining chairs, a bank of computers and phones, and a play area for children. I sit in the closest chair and Tera plops down beside me. Across from us are Mrs. Bryant and Wendy, their hands clasped together.
Mrs. Bryant clears her throat. “I appreciate you girls coming. I know Josh looks bad, but he’s much better than he was Thursday night when they admitted him.”
Tera cuts to the chase. “What happened? You said flu, but that doesn’t make any sense.”
“Not just flu, but flu combined with pneumonia,” Mrs. Bryant says. “With Josh’s medical history, it makes perfect sense.”
“How?” Wendy asks.
“You know Josh has asthma, right?”
Wendy nods. “Sorta—I mean, he used to have an inhaler but I haven’t seen it in a long time. He said he outgrew it.”
“We thought that—or maybe we just became complacent since it’s been under control for so long,” Mrs. Bryant says. “At any rate, asthmatics are at an increased risk of respiratory problems associated with the flu. That’s why we always get his flu shot early, but we haven’t done it yet this year. Getting the shot might not have prevented the flu, but it might’ve kept the symptoms minimal.”
“But it’s just the flu,” Wendy says.
Mrs. Bryant nods. “Yes, it was ‘just’ the flu at first, but it worsened quickly to pneumonia. So he has influenza with the complication of pneumonia added. Either one by itself is bad—especially for an asthmatic—but together they’re dangerous.”
“Okay…” Tera says. “I still don’t get it, though. Everybody gets the flu. How did it get so serious?”
“Flu can be serious for anyone—even you girls. Usually, you just get sick and stay home for a few days feeling miserable, then you go back to school. That’s how most of us handle it. But Josh’s asthma makes him predisposed to pneumonia. If we’d realized his asthma was still active, we would’ve started him on an albuterol regimen as a preemptive measure, but he hadn’t used an inhaler in so long, we didn’t even have a current prescription. When I left for work Thursday morning, I didn’t think too much of it—he was just running a low-grade fever and felt achy. But by Thursday night his fever had spiked to 102 and he was having trouble catching his breath, so we brought him to the ER.”
“Oh my gosh,” Wendy whispers.
Mrs. Bryant nods. “We didn’t realize how serious it was. We figured they might give him a nebulizer treatment and send him home with a new inhaler and a short supply of steroids. But when they tested his oxygen level, it was dangerously low.”
“What’s that mean?” I ask.
“Usually anywhere in the ninety percent range or higher is acceptable. Josh came in at seventy-two percent.”
“Wow,” Tera says.
“Yeah—wow. It was pretty scary. They admitted him immediately and he’s been in the ICU since. He’s much better than he was, thank God, but he’ll be here for a while. They removed the tube from his throat this morning, so his voice is raspy, and he’s on regular nebulizer treatments around the clock. If he responds well today, they’re talking about moving him to a
room in a regular unit tomorrow. So he is getting better, but he’s still very sick.”
“Why didn’t you call us before this morning?” Wendy asks. “We could’ve been here.”
Mrs. Bryant shakes her head. “You couldn’t have done anything, and I knew you had Homecoming last night. Plus Josh wasn’t in any shape for company anyway. It’s only been today he’s looked strong enough for visitors, though he’s still sleeping a lot. I should warn you: his breathing is labored, so he’s speaking in fragmented sentences. Don’t let that scare you—he just has to catch his breath in between. But also, it helps if you girls will carry the conversation as much as you can so he doesn’t wear out.”
Wendy places her arms around Josh’s mom and hugs her hard. “We’re here for anything you need. Just tell us and it’s done.”
Mrs. Bryant’s eyes glaze over but she smiles. “Thank you. I think just seeing you three will go a long way to making him better.”
“Good—then let’s go back and see him,” Wendy says. “Do you think he’ll be awake?”
“Maybe.” Mrs. Bryant looks at her watch. “He’s been sleeping a little over an hour. We should go check.”
We stand and my attention turns to the bank of telephones. “You guys go ahead. I need to call my parents.”
Mrs. Bryant nods and leads the way back to Josh’s room. I lift the receiver and call the number Mom made me memorize for emergencies.
BEEP…BEEP…BEEP…
Josh sleeps in the small room as a machine next to his bed keeps time like a metronome. A tangle of wires leads from under his hospital gown to a machine above his head, its face lit up with red numbers registering what I’m guessing is his heart rate. On his right index finger is a white clip measuring his oxygen level, and on the back of his hand an IV needle is connected to a tiny tube leading to a clear bag of fluid hanging high on a rack. His eyes are closed and his skin so pale I notice a dusting of freckles across his nose. How have I not seen those freckles before? My eyes move to his lips and I touch my own in empathy. His are too dry. I want to reach for my lip balm and give them some moisture, but I don’t dare. I don’t know what his mom would say.
I’ve been sitting for almost three hours watching Josh sleep. He’s so peaceful lying there, only the heavy rasp of his breathing and an occasional barking cough to indicate how sick he really is. The idea of losing him floats through my mind and I have to squash it or cry. I haven’t known him long, but the idea of a world without him is unbearable.
The sliding glass door opens and the curtain is pushed to the side as a nurse enters, carrying a mask connected to a small vial of liquid. She offers us a smile. “Time for his breathing treatment.”
“Do you have to do that now?” Tera asks. “He’s sleeping so peacefully.”
“I’m sorry,” she replies. “Every four hours. Sometimes they sleep through it, though.”
The nurse connects a tube to a spigot on the wall and steam billows from the mask connected to the tube. Then, with Josh still sleeping, she removes the oxygen tubes away from his face and places the mask over his nose and mouth, securing it with an elastic band behind his head.
Josh’s eyes flutter open and he looks around the room. His hand moves to the mask, stretching it away from his mouth. “Hey.”
The nurse guides the mask back to his face. “Let’s leave this on for right now, okay? It’s only about fifteen minutes and then you can talk to your friends.”
Josh nods and his eyes close to half-mast. He rests a moment then coughs into the mask for long seconds, making my own chest hurt with each deep bark. His mother sits beside him and brushes his hair away from his face.
“You slept a long time,” she says. “Feeling any better?”
He cocks his head to the side and lifts a shoulder as if to say, “Meh—maybe a little.”
“Why don’t you close your eyes and rest while the nebulizer works,” she says. “The girls will still be here when it’s done.”
Josh nods and closes his eyes, then is wracked by another deep cough before settling back under the covers.
The machine takes forever to finish, but after a while the steam lessens and disappears. The nurse removes the mask and replaces it with the oxygen tubes at his nose. She smiles and closes the spigot on the wall. “There you go. Now you can talk.”
Wendy and Tera take seats on each side of Josh, so I pull my chair closer to his bedside.
“Hey.” His voice is deep and scratchy. “What’re you…doing here?”
“The better question,” Wendy says, her tone barely disguising her concern, “is what are you doing here?”
“I missed…Homecoming,” he says.
“We were worried about you,” Tera says. “But we never thought you might be seriously sick. We thought you had a family emergency or something.”
“How…was it?”
“We missed you,” I say.
Josh smiles his cracked lips at me and I can’t stand it anymore. I reach into my pocket and hand him my lip balm.
“Thanks.” Shaking slightly, he dabs it over his lips.
We spend the next hour telling him about Homecoming, but he doesn’t have the stamina to stay awake. After a while, his eyes drift closed and he falls into a deep slumber. We stay until after seven thirty but Josh only awakens twice more, and then only long enough for his breathing treatments.
“Can we come again tomorrow?” Wendy asks.
Mrs. Bryant nods. “Call me first, so if they move him, I can tell you where he is.”
“Sounds good,” Wendy says.
“Do you need a ride home, Abs?” Tera asks as we leave Josh’s room.
I pause. I hate having Nick waste gas, but I also don’t want Tera dropping me off at the homeless shelter. “No, thanks. I’ll call my stepdad.”
“You’re sure?” she asks. “It’s no problem.”
“No problem if it starts,” Wendy says under her breath, but smiles.
Tera narrows her eyes.
“I’m sure,” I tell her.
“Okay, then. We’ll see you at school tomorrow,” Wendy says.
I nod and stop at the bank of telephones while the two girls step into the elevator. I dial the number and let it ring twice before hanging up—a code we’d worked out when I called earlier. They don’t answer, and I don’t expect them to. The CallerID will read Mayo Clinic, alerting them I need a ride, and we won’t waste valuable minutes by answering the phone.
NICK IS WAITING for me under the canopy of the St. Marys building when I leave Josh’s room.
“Hey.” I slide into the passenger seat. “Thanks for picking me up.”
“It’s fine. I didn’t want you walking in the dark. What’s the word on your friend?”
“They’ll keep him in ICU tonight then probably transfer him to a regular unit tomorrow.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah.”
Nick glances at me before making a right turn. “You missed dinner. Check with your mom—I think she put some aside for you.”
“Thanks.”
We slow for a red light, pulling to a stop behind a U-Haul truck.
“How much longer are we going to live like this, Nick?” I ask. “I mean, I know you’re doing everything you can to get things straightened out, but do you have any guesses?”
He blows out a breath, his expression more defeated than I’ve ever seen. “I knew that was coming.”
“Oh, God. What?” Tendrils of fear crawl up my spine. “Has something worse happened?”
Nick puts his hand over mine and squeezes twice. “No. It’s just—your mom and I are getting nervous. We’ve been out every day looking for anything to bring in more money, and every lead results in a dead end. Sunday is our last night at the Dorothy Day House, and we’re not sure what to do. It’s getting too cold to sleep in the van, but we don’t have another option.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
Nick turns and smiles at me. “No, you’re doing enou
gh with the paper route and keeping an eye on Amber. If you have any ideas, though, let us know.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“ABBY.” MS. RAVEN SMILES FROM BEHIND HER DESK. “THANKS FOR COMING DOWN.”
“Sure. Is everything okay?”
She waves at a seat. I choose one of two open chairs and wait while she turns her attention to the mess of paperwork on her desk. She selects a document and her eyes move over the page. With the sun shining onto the paper through the window, the words Abby Lunde are visible from the front side.
“Tell me how classes are going. You’re adjusting well?”
“I think so.” I nod.
“That’s good to hear. I saw your audition—I was impressed. When do you hear the results?”
“At the end of school today, actually. They’re supposed to announce it over the intercom.”
“Good luck to you.”
“Thanks.”
Ms. Raven picks up a pencil and taps it on the document in front of her. “Abby, now that you’re settled in here, I thought we’d talk about your plans for after high school. Have you given any thought to what you’d like to do?”
I shrug. “I guess I’ll probably get a job.”
“Have you thought about college? I’ve looked at your transcripts and your grades are competitive. Mrs. Miner mentioned she thinks you might qualify for a vocal music scholarship. Does that interest you at all?”
“Yeah, but what would I have to do?”
“For starters, you’ll need to fill out an application and submit a copy of your transcript with your ACT scores. Additionally, you’ll probably need an audition tape, but we can research that more once we’ve identified a few scholarships. Have you taken your ACT yet?”
I shake my head.
“Okay, let’s get that out of the way first. There’s a test on October 29th.” Ms. Raven reaches inside her desk and pulls out a form, handing it to me. “The fee is forty dollars, and you can pay online with a credit card. Once we get that out of the way, we can start the application process.”
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