by D. J. Palmer
Meghan was still having severe stomach cramps, though those had lessened with a hefty dose of Bentyl. She continued to complain of blurred vision, but Dr. Fisher saw no evidence of swelling or irritation in the optic nerves.
Dr. Fisher was off consulting with another doctor, leaving Becky and Carl alone together and yet so far apart. They passed the time in the ER waiting room, both to give Meghan some privacy and because the chairs were more comfortable.
“She looked awful,” said Becky, as if needing to justify the alarm she had raised. But she saw it in Carl’s eyes, his anger at yet another unnecessary trip to the ER. Becky could read her husband’s dark look and sagging body language well enough to know she had pushed him over some invisible edge.
“It’s never going to end, is it?” Carl lamented as he bit into a Snickers bar procured from a vending machine. “It was a stomachache. She had a damn stomachache. Why couldn’t you have just given it some time?” he asked.
“That’s your opinion, not mine,” Becky shot back. She tried to look Carl in the eyes, but he refused to meet her gaze.
“No,” he said. “It’s the opinion of the heart monitor, her oxygen reading, her blood pressure, her temperature, and every other damn measurement they’ve taken. And it would be the opinion of her blood tests if you hadn’t made her so deathly terrified of needles.”
“That’s so unfair. I didn’t make her afraid.”
Becky worried Carl would hear the doubt in her voice.
“That’s what dealers say when they don’t take responsibility for the addict.”
“So I’m her pusher now, is that it?”
A mother seated next to a boy with his arm swaddled in a plastic bag of ice glanced up as Becky and Carl’s voices gained volume. Becky knew this timbre well, and seldom did they come away from the ensuing conversation feeling better.
“Stop putting words in my mouth,” Carl said. “You know what I mean.
“You brought her here, you called Dr. Fisher in, not me,” he continued, going red in the face. “What did it take to get him to do your bidding, Becky? A little flirting? Or did you do a deep dive to get his backstory so you’d really know how to pull the strings? Don’t think I don’t know how you operate. I’m not a fool.”
When they were young and in love, Becky would brag (no better word for it) to anyone who’d listen about how little she and Carl argued. They seemed to agree on everything from movies to ice cream flavors. What Carl thought was cool (back then: grunge, Silence of the Lambs, the internet), she thought cool as well, and it was not because of his influence. They were simply compatible. The term she kept returning to was “soul mates.”
In bed, she’d locked against Carl like a puzzle piece. She had waited two months to sleep with him, and when it finally happened, Becky believed she would never be with another man.
“I know you’re upset with me, and I can understand why,” Becky said now. “But we have to do what’s right for Meghan. We have to get answers.”
“I don’t think there ever will be an answer,” Carl said.
Becky eyed him warily. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means if we cure one thing, I have no doubt there will be some new illness plaguing her before long. It’s your history, you and your damn mother.”
Becky bit at her lip, which was the only thing keeping her from slapping Carl’s face.
“I can’t believe you just said that to me.”
But Carl was not necessarily off the mark. Becky hated to admit that her husband’s doubts had gotten into her head, burrowed a little hole in her brain, and forced her to ask herself that difficult question for which she had no answer: Am I crazy?
Becky knew the mind was a labyrinth of extreme complexity. It twisted and turned like the maze that had nearly swallowed Theseus as he battled the fearsome Minotaur. In her quieter moments, Becky wondered if she was more like Cora than she cared to admit. Was it possible she’d been exaggerating symptoms while at the same time putting ideas in Meghan’s head? Had she sent subliminal signals that were helping to perpetuate her daughter’s illness?
Cora, who defied all expectations by still being alive, had faked serious illness more than once. She’d complained of chest pain, stomach problems, or even fevers spiked with the help of hot baths filled with pounds of Epsom salts, sipping on hot tea to warm her body from the inside while the bathwater heated it externally. The rise in her body temperature lasted six to eight hours, long enough for the doctors to show concern. Her mother was a grifter—no better word for it. She taught herself to be an expert scammer, and the payoff was government-funded disability benefits that kept food in the fridge. Her phantom illnesses also kept Cora out of work and on the minds of everyone she suckered into caring.
A memory of Cora came to Becky. Her mother moaning in the doctor’s office, eight-year-old Becky telling the doctor what she’d been instructed to say: that she’d come home from school and found her mother passed out on the floor. She called 911, just like her mother had taught her to do. The doctor could not find anything wrong, but he wrote her a prescription for some medicine and made an appointment for her to see a specialist. He made sure the disability checks kept on coming.
In one of her rare moments of parental engagement, Cora had taught Becky and Sabrina how to pull off the ruse by lying to the social workers who’d occasionally pay them a visit. In hindsight, Becky had learned how to fake a disease at the hand of a true master. Surely had Cora known about mito, she would have latched on to that illness—with its strange, puzzling symptoms and no known cure—as a means of perpetuating her con.
I’m not my mother, Becky frequently told herself. And I am not crazy. But then she’d think of Sammy, and of the nursery where he’d slept for all of three months, eleven days, and fourteen hours before succumbing to SIDS—sudden infant death syndrome. The shock had never gone away. The hurt had never gone away. And her fear that Meghan was next had never gone away. How do you prevent that pain from happening again? You make sure your child has the best medical care in the world, that’s how.
Becky never shared her self-doubts with Carl, because she feared he’d question every time she took Meghan to the doctor’s for run-of-the-mill childhood stuff: stomach flu, bad colds, and coughs. He’d call her overly anxious. He’d pressure her to admit she was trying to work through her unresolved childhood trauma or the devastating loss of their firstborn, or even inventing illnesses to keep Meghan in the safety of the medical system.
“I’m sorry it upsets you to hear me say it,” Carl said, “but I have to be honest. I’m beginning to wonder if you truly want Meghan to get well.”
Without her even realizing it, Becky’s hand lifted and swung toward Carl’s face. She slapped his cheek with her open palm. The smack made a loud sound that brought a deeper hush to an already tensely quiet waiting room. Carl rubbed gingerly at the spot where Becky had struck him with a stunned expression.
“Feel better?” he asked. His hooded eyes grew shades darker.
“You’re an asshole.”
Carl leaned toward her. Fearing retaliation, Becky pulled away.
“Tell me you don’t need the attention, that you haven’t become addicted to it. That you’re not like Cora.”
“That’s crazy, and you know it.”
“Then tell me. Convince me. Because I think you’ve learned so much about medicine that it’s made you paranoid. You think any cough is tuberculosis and a rash is scarlet fever.”
“What about Dr. Fisher’s mitochondrial diagnosis? You think he made that up?”
“The tests were inconclusive,” Carl reminded her.
“Well, then, do you think Meghan faked fainting?” Becky asked.
Carl gave it some thought. “I think it’s possible she believed she had to faint,” he said. “Because it’s what we’ve come to expect of her.”
Becky had to look away. When she looked back at him, her eyes were flooded with tears. “And you think I put those
expectations in her head?” Her voice trembled slightly.
Carl was quiet for a moment. His renovation business had taught him to think first before speaking because often what he said was taken as a verbal commitment. “I think it’s a possibility, yes,” he eventually offered. “I’m not saying you’ve done it intentionally. I’m asking if we’ve created a self-fulfilling prophecy here.”
We. Whatever Carl believed, at least he was implying they were in it together.
“Maybe Meghan believes if she’s not sick, she doesn’t have a purpose. It’s how she gets attention from us. Isn’t that what your mother taught you?”
Yes, thought Becky. She taught me how to get attention. Taught me how to play the game.
Before Becky could respond, Dr. Fisher entered the waiting room. Becky studied Dr. Fisher’s expression as he approached, probing for signs that he was about to break her heart with devastating news. To her eyes, he looked deathly worried, his brow furrowed into deep creases, concern etched everywhere. Her thoughts tumbled with possibilities derived from her vast medical knowledge.
Crohn’s disease … pancreatitis … kidney stones … cancer …
“Meghan seems to be doing fine,” Dr. Fisher began.
Becky blinked, and Dr. Fisher’s expression no longer seemed quite so alarming. In fact, his countenance was rather affable and suggested more concern for the parents than for the patient. Carl’s accusation continued to worm about in Becky’s head. Was she imagining symptoms that weren’t really there?
“However, I’m concerned,” Dr. Fisher continued. “Let’s go where we can speak in private.”
They followed Dr. Fisher in silence to a meeting room just beyond the entrance to the ER. On the walk, Becky stopped second-guessing herself and felt a stab of anger for letting Carl get to her the way he had.
He’s so selfish, she thought. He doesn’t want a health crisis, because it takes away from him, his time, his business, his damn hobbies. He wants it over with so that his life can cruise along the way it did before.
Becky kept those thoughts private as she settled into a cushioned seat beside Carl.
“I don’t know what’s causing Meghan’s stomach cramps or blurred vision,” Dr. Fisher said. “I’m honestly a bit baffled by the rapidity of these new symptoms. This isn’t like the muscle weakness, headaches, and fatigue you’d see with mito. This was an intense gastrointestinal issue. Mitochondrial disease tends to progress more insidiously, a slower burn, and the symptoms tend to be a bit harder to pinpoint. Meghan’s complaints are very specific and very sudden.”
Becky looked anxious. “Meaning what, exactly?” she asked.
“Meaning something else might be going on with her that’s not mitochondrial disease. I’ve consulted with Dr. Amanda Nash, who heads up our GI practice here at White Memorial, and reviewed Meghan’s case with her. I’d like a consult, and I think it’s a good idea to have Dr. Nash examine Meghan. It could be we stay the course with the treatment for mitochondrial disease, keep working with the dietician, and continue to give her the mito cocktail, but it could be we have to change tactics altogether, or perhaps we’ll have to manage two distinct issues simultaneously.”
“Dr. Nash, you said…” Carl’s voice trailed off.
“You know her?” Becky asked.
He thought a moment. “I think my firm did a project for her a few years back. The name is familiar. Anyway, it sounds like a good idea.”
They talked for a time about next steps and made arrangements for Dr. Nash to see Meghan in the morning. Meghan was coming home tonight, but she’d be back tomorrow. Becky wondered if Carl would have supported a second opinion if she’d been the one to suggest Dr. Nash.
She doubted it.
CHAPTER 12
MEGHAN
I wasn’t sure about this new doctor.
Her name was Amanda Nash. My first take was that she seemed powerful in that Wonder Woman kind of way. She reminded me a bit of Mrs. Banes, this hard-ass biology teacher of mine who would have failed me if my mom hadn’t intervened.
Dr. Nash had thick, dark hair that I bet was super long when not tied up in a bun. She wore tortoiseshell glasses, but they couldn’t hide the fact that her face was really pretty, annoyingly pretty, like, why should she get to be smart and beautiful? She had these gorgeous brown eyes and knew how to use makeup to her advantage. No way did she have a bad side in a photograph.
She was younger than my mom by maybe ten years or so, but I didn’t think they’d be friends even if they were closer in age. Dr. Nash was a bit too cool—not hip, but kind of aloof. If I had to put her in one of my high school cliques, I’d say she was one of the All-Around Girls—you know the type: good at sports, school, involved in a million and one activities, thinking she’s got Harvard locked. They were a bit of a rare breed, but we had enough of them to form a group, all of whom were in competition to be valedictorian at graduation.
I hated thinking about graduation because I probably wouldn’t get to be at mine. If I did get enough credits, it’d be a miracle, and if I couldn’t graduate with my class, I’d probably take my GED and just be done with it. That is, if I could even study. These days, I couldn’t remember anything I read. If this new doctor gave me a lot of instructions, she was going to have to repeat it all for my mom because I couldn’t concentrate worth shit.
My mom was in the waiting room, more nervous than me. Dad didn’t want to come, no surprise there. Honestly, I was fine with it. It was hard to look him in the eyes. Mom noticed, but I thought she figured it was a teen thing, or a sick thing, or a thing thing. I didn’t think she gave it much thought.
But I could tell my dad was over it with me—and with Mom. I mean, he pretty much came out and said I was fine, or faking it, or something, when he didn’t want to take me to the hospital. I wonder if he thought I was punishing him for what I knew—what I did. I should just get it over with, blurt it out and take the focus off me for a while. But it was one thing to hold on to a grenade, and something else entirely to pull the pin.
A nurse in pale blue scrubs took me to an exam room on the GI floor. I found out that it was short for “gastrointestinal,” which didn’t make much sense to me. I didn’t have any big stomach problems, at least not until I got super sick the other night. But now that seemed to be the big issue for me. I guess I was whatever my current symptoms said I was. So today I was a GI patient. Not sure what that had to do with my blurred vision, but what did I know? I was just a kid.
I was up on the exam table, per the nurse’s instructions, when Dr. Nash came into the room. The nurse had made me put on a stupid johnny again—yeah, my sundress. My legs were cold under the thin fabric. I was anxious but not panicked, not yet anyway.
“Do you have to use any needles on me?” I asked as Dr. Nash snapped on a pair of purple latex gloves. My voice trembled, and I hated that I sounded like a scared little girl. No matter how hard I tried, I saw needles as knives, and if anyone had a knife coming at them, I was willing to bet they’d be pretty freaked out, too.
“No needles, sweetheart,” Dr. Nash said.
I kind of liked that she called me sweetheart. It eased my worry some. My mom sometimes called me sweetheart, but it always meant the most when it came from my father. I missed him, my dad, the way we were when I was little, when I was his princess, his monkey, which was what he used to call me before I grew breasts and outgrew pet names.
“What are you going to do to me?” I asked nervously.
When Dr. Nash smiled, her nose crinkled a bit. “First, we’re going to talk,” she said. “I want to understand what happened to you.”
What did happen? One minute, I was fine, lying on my bed in my room, the violet-colored walls covered with stickers and posters, a secret hiding place in my closet where I keep something else. The next, I couldn’t read a text from my friend Stephanie.
I told Dr. Nash what had happened, and her expression was kind of a blank. She wasn’t giving me much of anything, which m
ade me feel even more nervous.
Dr. Nash studied me. “Are you feeling okay now?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m okay. Better than I was last night.”
“Have you had anything to eat since last night?”
Even though my appetite had flown south, my stomach rumbled at the mention of food, which I figured was answer enough. I told her no, I hadn’t eaten per her instructions. I assumed they wanted nothing in my system, but usually that meant blood tests, which also meant needles. I shuddered at the thought.
“Do you ever eat anything that makes you feel sick?”
I thought about it before answering. Some hot stuff, like really hot salsa or super-spicy food—Indian food, for instance—didn’t feel great, but it didn’t make me sick like I was last night. I told all that to Dr. Nash, who made some notes on a paper latched to her clipboard. She went through a list of foods I might not have thought of that could make me feel sick, which strangely enough included broccoli, cabbage, and green peppers. Beans, milk, and cheese were on her list, too, which made sense for an upset stomach, but so was corn. I was dragging my fingers through my hair, teasing out some tangles, when we got to the question about alcohol.
“Do you drink?” she asked.
Should I answer that truthfully? Should I tell her what I had a few swigs of not long before I got sick? Should I tell her why I started?
The first time I got drunk was two years ago at a ninth-grade dance, a few months before I started my great decline. Lily Beauport had brought straight vodka in a water bottle that had passed visual inspection, and Cecilia Montgomery supplied the Gatorade that passed the smell test. The mixing took place in the girl’s bathroom on the second floor, and the drinking happened in pretty much every dark corner of the gymnasium.
I was super nervous because I knew if I got caught, I would have been kicked off the soccer team, not knowing then that I’d end up quitting a year later as my sickness progressed. My parents (my mom more than dad) were super-strict about drinking, and I knew they would have grounded me or worse if they ever found out, but I didn’t care. I wanted to do what my friends were doing. Besides, I was curious to know how it would taste; how it would make me feel.