by Mandi Lynn
Shelly sat beside Avery on the bed, wrapping her arms around her. Avery stiffened. Her body felt raw, her skin still too dry and burnt, but then she began to cry, to really cry since the moment she had arrived at the hospital. It was like a gate had been opened in her and now there was nothing she could do to contain her emotions.
“They’re gone,” Avery said. Her voice was muffled in her grandmother’s hair. Shelly didn’t cry. She was too tired to cry. She cried enough on the car ride to the hospital. Now, she held her granddaughter, whom she hadn’t seen in so long, as she fell apart. Shelly’s only hope was that she could pick up the pieces.
“I know,” was all Shelly could say.
Mrs. Tiller found herself backing out of the room, shutting the door. Avery watched her walk away through watered eyes, relieved at her absence.
“It’s going to be okay,” Shelly said. Avery leaned into her chest, pushing the blanket away. Shelly saw the strips of gauze across Avery’s leg and winced.
Moments passed in silence before either found the courage to speak. They sat curled on Avery’s hospital bed, the sound of nurses and doctors on the other side of the door a constant reminder that things were forever changed.
“What caused the fire?” Avery said. Her eyes were red and worn, her cheeks stained. Shelly took a deep breath. It was the question that was being repeated throughout the clinical staff and police. It was the same question Shelly asked when she first heard about the fire. And she knew the answer.
“It started in the kitchen. The fire alarms in the house malfunctioned and didn’t go off—they’re still trying to figure out why.” Shelly turned to look at Avery, but she didn’t seem to react. “From what the police can tell, the oven was never turned off. The burners caught something on fire, and since there was no fire alarm, by the time the fire was noticed, there was nothing your parents could do to put it out—but,” she hesitated, wondering if she wanted to speak the words. “But they wanted to try to stop it. Or at least that’s what they think.”
“I didn’t turn off the oven,” Avery said. Her mouth hung open and she could feel herself shaking. The tips of her fingers quivered. “I forgot to turn the oven off.” Avery moved the thin sheets from her feet and stepped out of bed. Her skin stretched against the movement, raw and dry. She could still imagine the fire against her limbs, but she pushed past it and walked toward door.
“Avery, stop.” Shelly got up and pulled Avery back.
“The fire was my fault,” she said. She turned to look at Shelly, and the tears were there again. Avery didn’t bother wiping them from her cheek. “It’s my fault,” she said, her voice squeaking.
“It’s not,” Shelly whispered. She pulled her granddaughter to her, standing in the middle of the room.
Avery tried to pull away from her, and Shelly let her slip out of her arms. Avery slid to the floor, her shin burning and her body shaking. “I was on a date. I got home late. I made a grilled cheese because I was hungry, and I must have forgotten to turn off the oven because—” she stopped herself.
“It’s okay,” Shelly said, but she didn’t know what to do for comfort. She watched, helpless, as Avery sunk into the floor.
Shelly knelt down beside her, tried to hold her, but Avery just continued to push her away.
“It’s my fault,” Avery said, her tears ran hot onto the cold tile.
Chapter 7
3 months ago
Willow was pacing outside the bedroom. The anxiety came rushing out through her body in sparks. She imagined them reverberating throughout the room as if they were something physical she could catch and use to bring her back down to Earth. She bounced with each step, eager to do something, anything but think, but that’s all she seemed to be able to do recently.
“Please, Willow, this isn’t good for you,” Randy said. He was in the hallway with Willow, watching her pace. “You love your job, I know you do, but you can’t work and take care of your father.”
“No, I’m fine. I cut my hours at work. I’ll be okay,” she said. Her feet led her in circles.
Randy looked at his wife, his eyes always following her. “When did you cut your hours?”
“A few weeks ago.”
“Honey, you’ve been looking more and more exhausted for weeks. If you don’t want to look into nursing homes, maybe we can hire an in-home aid.”
“No,” she said. Though tired, her body seemed to awaken. “I don’t want someone else to take care of him. I don’t want him to feel like he needs constant care.”
Randy looked at his wife. Her skin was pale, her face flush. Dark circles were painted under her eyes, and Randy tried to remember the last time Willow had gone to bed at the same time as him. She had a tendency to stay up late enough that he was fast asleep by the time she slipped into bed. Yet, she always managed to be the first one out of bed to go check on Tom even if he wasn’t awake yet. Thin grey hairs speckled her temples—he was trying to remember if he’d ever noticed them before.
“He does need constant care.” He tried to say the words gently, but he could see them slice through her. When she heard his words, her world seemed to stop—her pacing held still. Her green eyes glowed bright as the tear escaped. For a moment, Randy was afraid she would walk away, but instead she stepped forward and let herself crumble into his arms. She let her body melt into Randy’s, his arms strong around her shoulders. She struggled for breath. He whispered into her hair.
“It’s going to be okay.”
When Willow closed her eyes, she could almost picture her father as he once was—a tall man, someone respected, someone that always held himself high. He had taught her to ride a bike, how to drive, he’d been the first one there to hug her when she passed her nursing exam—he had walked her down the aisle. There were some days she looked at her father and wondered if he was there. Who was this person in front of her that looked like her father? Surely it couldn’t be him. But there were moments, rare and precious moments when Tom spoke up and it was like Alzheimer’s had never laid its hand upon him.
“I love you, Willow,” Randy said, his arms still tight around her. He let his lips be drawn into the crown of her head and kissed her. “I love you because of how fiercely you love. I know you would drop the world to take care of your father, but you need to take care of yourself first. Whatever you want to do— quit your job, find someone to take care of your dad while we’re at work—we’ll be okay. But we can’t keep doing this. You can’t be in this constant state of worry because you aren’t sure where your dad is or if he’s okay.”
“I know,” she said. Her words were soft and her knees shook, tempting her beyond everything else to give up.
“What if I’m like my father one day?” Willow laid her head against Randy’s chest and listened to his heartbeat in hope that the rhythm would calm her own.
“You won’t be,” Randy said. He brought her hand forward from where it rested on his chest and kissed the tips of her fingers.
“It can be genetic sometimes,” she said.
Randy wanted to say something else, but a beeping came from Tom’s room. Willow rushed away from his arms, and the moment they had was gone in an instant. The alarm was a common one—Tom has gotten out of bed. Sometimes it felt as if they were caring for a toddler
.
Chapter 8
Sam woke up before it happened. Her body was electric when she slipped into consciousness. Her eyes were open, and she knew they were open, but she couldn’t find the center of the room. She held still but everything began to turn. Her limbs felt jittery, and that’s when it happened.
Sam’s body was only shaking for a moment before a nurse ran in.
“Code blue!” the nurse yelled out. She stood over Sam’s body as she convulsed. Sam stayed in the bed, her limbs never thrashing around to break anything. The nurse held Sam’s IV out of the way and worked to turn Sam on her side. Another nurse ran into the room with an IV bag. She worked quickly to exchange Sam’s previous IV bag for an
other. As soon as the tubes were hooked into place she squeezed the bag gently. Sam’s body stilled and her limbs relaxed into the bed.
“Get Dr. Fischer,” the nurse said.
Penny left just as quickly as she had come. The nurse kept Sam on her side and used the sheet of the bed to wipe the saliva that was at the corner of Sam’s mouth.
“What happened?” Dr. Fischer walked into the room, Penny trailing lose behind. He foamed his hands as soon as he stepped through the door and put gloves on.
“She was having a seizure when I walked by. From what I observed, it lasted about twenty seconds.”
Dr. Fischer nodded his head and knelt down in front of Sam. He checked the machines around her bed for an abnormality in her vitals, but as far as someone who had just had a seizure, she was good. He checked her pulse anyways. Normal. Her eyes fluttered open, and when Dr. Fischer looked at them they were slightly bloodshot.
Sam rolled until she was on her stomach.
“Sam, you need to stay on your side for a little bit,” Dr. Fischer said. He helped her roll back onto her side and she let out a groan. “How do you feel? Does anything hurt?”
“My head,” she whispered. She rolled into her back and Dr. Fischer helped guide her into a position that didn’t affect her IV.
“It’s going to hurt for a little while, but you’re okay.”
Sam’s eyes roamed around the room. She saw a nurse standing close to her, but couldn’t make out what she was doing.
“Sam?” Her eyes sparked open when she heard the voice, and she turned to the door to see two familiar figures.
The figures walked closer until they came into focus.
“Grampy?” she said.
“What happened?” he said, but he wasn’t talking to Sam anymore.
“Just take some deep breaths, Sam,” Dr. Fischer said. She took a long, shuttering gasp. He turned to the couple that walked into the room. “I’m Dr. Fischer, I’ve been treating Sam and Avery during their stay.” He held his hand out to shake.
“Paul,” Sam’s grandfather said. “And this is my wife Shelly.” He took the doctor’s hand. “What happened?”
“From what I can tell, Sam had a seizure. I’m not sure why, so we’re going to run a few tests and get as much information as we can.”
“You don’t know?” Paul said, his voice raising. Shelly stood next to him, holding his hand and she pulled on him as a silent way to ask him to calm down.
“No, sir, but we’re working as quickly as we can.”
“Well, you need to work quicker.”
“Honey,” Shelly said. She pulled him away from the doctor enough to make him notice someone else had walked into the room.
“Grandpa?”
Paul turned around to see Avery standing at the door. He wanted to scoop her up as soon as he saw her, but at the same time she looked too fragile. She took small steps as she came into the room, a small grimace pulling at the corner of her lips. Shelly stood close behind her at the doorway, looking past him to Sam who was becoming a science experiment to the nurses.
“Avery.” As Paul spoke, relief washed through his body. She ran towards him as best he could, still limping. “You’re okay,” he said as she entered her arms.
“I’m okay,” she said, but the words weren’t sure. He hugged her delicately and she buried herself into his shirt. He was something familiar she needed.
“Sam?” Avery said, looking at Sam, her face lips turned down and eyes glossy and red. Avery turned to her grandfather, but he didn’t speak. The wrinkles across his face were defined more than ever, and she tried to remember if his hair was this gray the last time she had seen him. Paul let go of her, and Shelly placed her hand on Avery’s shoulder. “She’s okay, right?” Avery looked to grandmother who wrapped her in her arms, kissing the top of her head before speaking.
“Sweetie, she had a seizure. They aren’t sure what caused it, but they need to run tests,” Shelly said. A flicker of hope poked through her exterior, but her eyes wandered to the corner of the room where Sam was laying.
Avery turned to her Shelly. Her face fell slack, the tears wanted to return, and they slipped like rain drops as she reached out for her grandmother’s arms.
Chapter 9
1 week ago
In the end, it wasn’t Alzheimer’s that killed Tom. It was a blood clot. Willow remembered walking down the street with her father, just as they always did after lunch, when he stumbled forward before falling to the ground.
“Dad?” she said. Tom’s face was white. Willow’s arms were around him, his body limp.
“Whhii…” He put his arm out, and Willow held him up.
She was helpless as her father vomited on the side of the road. There were birds chirping as she held him. She held onto him while she tried to reach for her phone in her pocket, but she couldn’t reach and she was too terrified to let go of him.
“Miss?” A car had pulled up by now, a stranger sticking his head out the window. Willow didn’t let him speak.
“Call 911,” she said. The man nodded his head and within seconds she could hear him talking to the operator. “I think he’s having a stroke.” She didn’t bother to turn to the kind stranger to see if he was listening, her eyes were all for her father. His face sagged, and she watched her father disappear in her arms.
“Hhheee,” Tom said, though the words were unclear. He began coughing that turned into wheezing. Willow laid him across the ground, placing him on his side in case he started to vomit again.
“It’s going to be okay,” she said. Her years of schooling to be a nurse ran through her head, but panic ruled out. What could she do? How was it she could save the life of a stranger but not her own father?
An ambulance pulled up, and by then Tom had stopped seizing. They worked around his body and placed it on a stretcher. She wanted to ask questions or stand by her father in case he opened his eyes to look for her, but to her the moment was frozen.
Her hands outweighed her will as she took out her phone and dialed Randy’s number. He picked up on the fourth ring.
“Hey, sweetie.” His voice was kind—it was always kind.
“My dad,” she said, and finally it seemed the tears wanted to pour. The panic was evident. “I think he had a stroke; he’s in the ambulance now.”
She heard rustling in the background. The sound of a door opening. “You were on your walk? I’m coming. I’ll be there soon.” He hung up.
Willow stood, watching the EMTs lean over her father. He was hooked up to a defibrillator. He was covered in so many tubes she had to search to find his face in the chaos. Bodies rushed around her. Cars of strangers were parked on the side of the road, ready to help. But what was she supposed to do?
“Willow.” Randy come up behind her, his hand finding hers before she collapsed into his arms. He was covered in sweat. Had he run all the way from their house? How long ago had he hung up the phone?
He brought her closer to the ambulance and spoke in rushed words to the EMTs. She hung on him, like a small child lost in a crowd and he never loosened his grip. He wasn’t Randy anymore, he was Dr. Ash. Willow couldn’t hear the EMTs as they spoke. Her father was in the stretcher, surrounded by machines that were supposed to save his life, but he was already gone.
— — — — —
She watched as his casket was lowered into the ground. The man she had once known, the father that had been with her every second of her life—he wasn’t there anymore. He hadn’t been there for years. He wasn’t in the casket at her feet, and he hadn’t been there when he died. It didn’t seem fair for him to be gone. Was she supposed to continue, pretend like he had never existed? No. The memories of her father seemed burnt into her core.
Everyone that had come to the funeral were long gone. They had all said their goodbye and offered condolences before they left, and now it was just Willow and her husband. He stood farther back from the grave than her. She watched workers fumble awkwardly with the casket. Somet
imes they looked over at Willow, waiting for her to walk away. When she could no longer picture her father in the grave, she turned away, Randy following close behind.
“You okay?” Randy put his hand out to his wife. Her face was dry, but the tears had been replaced by a raw numbness.
“I’m okay,” she said, more to convince herself than her husband.
He opened the passenger door and she slipped in. The funeral tag was still hanging on the rearview mirror, and she pulled it off and put it in the glove box.
She couldn’t stop picturing her father falling to the ground. He had been walking, then what? She had caught him, but what good does that do if it’s a stroke? She could catch him a million times and there would always be the same result.
Randy sat in the driver’s seat and looked over at her.
“Hey,” he gripped her hand. “Don’t do that.”
She was being quiet. She knew that. In this car with Randy, she was not present. Willow was away somewhere she could not be reached, her mind floating somewhere far away. It was Randy’s hand that seemed to pull her out of the fog, and with it came every emotion she tried so hard to repress.
“Do you think it’s my fault?” She said the words so quietly she hoped Randy had not heard them.
“What?” He seemed angry when he responded, but he kept driving and for that she was thankful.
“I didn’t do anything when my father fell. I just…I stood there. I wasn’t even the one who called 911. A stranger did. I don’t even know his name.”
“Willow, there was nothing you could do.” His words seemed final, frustrated, but most of all tired. When they pulled into the driveway neither of them got out of the car.
The silence didn’t want to go on. Willow sucked in a breath. “When you got there, you jumped into action. Why couldn’t I do that?”
Randy turned to her, wrapped his fingers around her chin and kissed her forehead. “Because the hardest patients to treat are the ones we love.”