Saving Meghan

by D. J. Palmer

  Mom and Dad were barely speaking to each other. It’s like they’ve already split up and I’m to blame. But that’s not really true. It’s my father’s fault, and he knows it. It’s not like we ever had the big happy family to begin with. I’ve only seen my Grandma Cora a couple times, and it’s been years since I’ve been out to California. Not that I want to go. She’s old and smells like bark, something decaying. Her fingers are always yellow and nicotine-stained, like her teeth. I don’t miss seeing her, or going to her jam-packed trailer home, which looks like a run-down flea market to me.

  Aunt Sabrina could visit if she wanted to, but clearly she doesn’t. Which leaves my dad’s side of the family. I don’t know many kids with divorced grandparents, but I’ve got a pair. Nobody ever told me the reason they split up, and I never bothered to ask. My father always said he’d never end up like them, which is why he took great pride in holding his marriage together after Sammy died.

  He’d talk about it at parties, which made Mom furious. But his drinking sometimes made it hard to keep his voice low and his thoughts to himself. I overheard him say that most marriages couldn’t have survived that kind of strain, but not his. You see, my dad can’t have weak things in his life. That’s why he can’t have a weak daughter. But he’s the weakest man I know.

  There’s music at my lamest birthday party ever. It’s the first time I’ve heard music since I’ve been here. Somebody brought cheap Bluetooth speakers, so Taylor Swift sounds like she’s singing from the bottom of a tin can. Normally, I listen to music on my phone, which I haven’t had in days. Actually, I don’t know how long I’ve been here, because I’ve completely lost track of time.

  But my phone! I just want my phone! I want to talk to my friends. I want to scroll through Instagram and see what they’ve been up to. I want to type in my familiar second language, the code of the teenager. J/K—just kidding. BRB—be right back. NP—no problem. But there are other codes, too. Codes my parents don’t know about that I could type right now and mean every bit. KMS—kill myself. TIME—tears in my eyes. VSF—very sad face. And then there’s KPC—keeping my parents clueless, which is exactly what I’m doing, keeping them clueless, or at least one of them.

  Somebody (for sure not Mustache Man, who I bit) put up balloons and even hung a few streamers, but it’s like that old “lipstick on a pig” line. Today, we were in A Wrinkle in Time. I guess they wanted to see if a different room would lead to a different outcome. Things are different, all right, but not because of the room change. Evidently, I’m now the talk of the town. I’ve been on TV, in newspapers, Facebook, Twitter, blogs—everywhere there’s media, there’s Meghan.

  My friends must be freaking out. I guess I’m something of a celebrity. I’m sure they’re posting to social media about me all the time. My mom came to the party armed with presents, but she’d say her biggest gift to me is all the attention she’s drummed up about my case. She’s super proud for making it happen. I don’t know how she got the ball rolling, but whatever she did, it’s supposed to put pressure on the hospital and make them let me go. Who knows? Maybe it will work, but I’m not holding out hope.

  My mom said she had something important to tell me, but we were going to talk about it after I opened my presents. Speaking of presents, what the heck happened? They all looked like they’d been opened already. My mom was a damn fine present wrapper, but this job was whack. The paper was torn at the edges. The tape had been put on crookedly. I didn’t get it at first, but then Mom explained: “They had to open the presents first to see what I was giving you.”

  I squeezed Mom’s hand and thanked her. I told her I loved her, which I did, more than anything. Then I opened my gifts. Of course I got books, because what else am I going to do in here? Dad got me Beats by Dre headphones. There was jewelry, a GoPro camera (which I couldn’t have, because I’m not allowed to film anything on this floor), a cool hat that would be great for the winter—unless I’m still in here. Kids on this floor don’t get fresh air.

  I told the doctors they could tie me up, put shackles on my ankles, staple me to Dr. Levine if that’s what it would take, but please, please, let me breathe some fresh air, let me get out of this sterile rat maze even for just an hour. But there was no place for me to go, or so they said. I kind of understood. This was a city, after all. But if they were trying to keep me from being anxious or depressed, it sure would help if they gave me some natural sunlight instead of that stupid lamp. And no—yoga and Wii tennis don’t make up for having zero time outside.

  Like I said, I’m a prisoner here.

  What looked like a big pile of presents seemed a lot smaller after I’d finished opening them all. That Jill Mendoza lady looked on approvingly, as if I’d invited her to the party. Dr. Nash hung out in the back, near this attractive young woman who got a lot of those kinds of looks from my dad. Her name was Kelly London. Apparently, this Kelly lady was the special investigator who could help us out, which explained why Mom pulled me aside to tell me she was super important and that I should be extremely nice to her, so that’s what I did. I smiled and tried to act not crazy.

  Mom’s words came back to me: If you’re sick, you can get out of here.

  We’ll see about that, I thought.

  Despite this being the worst birthday celebration ever, and I do mean ever, there was this really strange vibe in the air. I thought maybe it was because I’d obviously lost weight and basically looked like a dirty stick mop, stringy hair and all, which maybe is why Mom came armed with a thermos of her chicken soup. But no, my raggedy appearance wasn’t it. There was something else going on, something that nobody was telling me, but I didn’t bother to ask. You spend enough time here, and you learn to lose your voice.

  I slipped on the new Beats headphones and used my mom’s phone to listen to Pandora, which, to be honest, sounded totally sick. I was just getting into the good part of a song when this big, important-looking guy came storming into the room, all red-faced and super agitated. I turned the volume of the music all the way down but continued nodding my head to the nonexistent beat. I heard somebody call the angry guy Knox Singer, and I remembered he was the hospital CEO or had some mega job like that.

  “Have any of you been outside?” he yelled. “It’s a goddamn circus out there. There must be a dozen news trucks. More! I don’t need to tell you that we can’t run a hospital like this.”

  Dr. Nash and Jill Mendoza went over to Singer, and so did my mom, but not me. I was just bobbing my head, pretending I couldn’t hear every word they were saying.

  “What’s the matter, Knox?” I heard my mom say. “You don’t like it? Well, you better get used to it, because those reporters are going to be around for a long, long time unless you want to relinquish my daughter back to our care. If not, I’ll keep getting more press.” Mom poked her finger at Singer like she was stabbing him in the chest.

  “You do realize you are putting us in a very difficult position,” Knox said. “And it certainly won’t help your case with the judge when she learns how uncooperative you’ve been.”

  “I had nothing to do with getting the media involved,” I heard my dad say, which made me sad. I mean, he’s always been the alpha, the big dog in the family. He’s the kind of guy I never thought would let anyone push him or us around. But that was all an illusion. Everything about him is an illusion.

  “Let me be clear about something,” Knox said. “This attention you’re drumming up is a safety issue for my patients and staff. I can’t accept this.”

  “Well, I can’t accept what you’ve done to Meghan,” my mom shot back.

  This guy didn’t intimidate her. Not in the slightest. I wanted to stand up and hug her, but I didn’t dare.

  “I want to transfer Meghan to a residential treatment center where she can get the kind of specialized treatment and support she needs,” Knox said. “She could even go outside. I think it’s especially important we make this move in light of what happened to Dr. Levine.”

 
Dr. Levine? I thought. What happened to him? Only now did I realize he wasn’t in the room with us. Where is he?

  “Let me tell you something,” my mom said. “I will sue anyplace that agrees to take Meghan in, and all the news crews outside your hospital will move there, so I highly doubt any residential treatment center from here to Missoula is going to accept your generous offer to house my daughter.”

  I managed to swallow the gasp rising in my throat.

  “You have a dark soul, Mrs. Gerard,” Knox said. “And what you’re doing to your daughter is unconscionable.”

  “I assure you, you and I share the same sentiments about each other,” my mom said.

  “Becky, please, constrain yourself,” my dad chimed in. “Think about how this will look to Judge Trainer.”

  “Meghan is a sick girl,” I heard my mother say. “She’s sick, and soon enough you’re going to realize it.”

  I glanced out the window, looking into the hallway at the other patients, who carried lunch trays back to their rooms. It was noon, which meant in fifteen minutes Loretta would wheel her empty food cart away. I’d seen the menu that morning and was grateful to sip Mom’s homemade soup and not the sock dipped in broth that Loretta was serving for lunch that day.

  I honestly couldn’t have been prouder of my mother. She was amazing, standing up against the CEO like that. And then I was overcome by a terrible sadness. She was battling for me, fighting doctors and courts, facing off against my father, coordinating the press, all for me. And what was I doing to help? Nothing. But there was something I could do. Something I would do. Yes, I would have to do it. For my mom, for me. I knew what had to be done.

  I stood up. I took off my headphones.

  “I’ll do it,” I announced in a loud voice.

  All conversation came to a grinding halt.

  “Do what, darling?” Mom asked.

  “The muscle biopsy,” I said. “I’ll do it. I want it done. I want it done now. I want to show you all just how sick I am. Because I am sick! You just don’t see it.”

  My mom closed her eyes and pressed her hands together like a thank-you for answering her prayers. We had talked about getting the biopsy before my kidnapping, but obviously, it had taken on new importance. Honestly, I should have demanded it the first night I was here, but I’d been a little out of sorts and was holding out hope for another solution because they couldn’t sedate me during the procedure.

  I’m not entirely sure why I had to be awake, but it had something to do with how anesthesia messes up the sample. I do know that I could have refused to have the biopsy, created a big fuss, and since it wasn’t going to save my life, I probably would have gotten my way. Maybe not, maybe my parents would have gone to court, or they could have restrained me, held me down, but that’s irrelevant now because I was all in.

  Cut me. Get it done, and get me the eff out of here.

  Mom started toward me looking happier than I could remember as I felt a familiar cramping in my stomach. My head began to tingle, too.

  Oh no, I thought. Not again.

  My insides tightened as if a pair of hands were squeezing my organs. Even my lungs felt compressed. The room began to spin. I took a staggering step toward my mother and sank to the floor, clutching at my abdomen. Dad looked at me oddly, almost detached, as if he was not surprised to see me on my knees and in distress.

  Mom’s walk became a run, and eventually Dad came over to me as well.

  “Baby, is everything all right?” she asked, caressing my hair. Her voice sounded so far away.

  “Get her some help!” my mom screamed at the room.

  Another violent spasm rocked me. I groaned in pain. Knox Singer, Jill Mendoza, and Dr. Nash looked at me like I should be getting an Oscar for this performance. None of them came to my aid. Through a haze of tears, I saw the Mendoza lady holding Kelly London back. A fresh cramp came on so intensely that I couldn’t breathe through the pain. I fell over onto the cold linoleum floor, curling into a fetal position, clutching at my stomach. My heart was beating funny—too fast, and then too slow. I was dizzy. Everyone looked blurry.

  “Get her some help!” Mom screamed as she cradled me in her arms. “You think she’s faking? You think she’s making this all up? Look at her! Look how goddamn sick she is, you monsters! Do something! Do something!”

  Dr. Nash looked to Jill Mendoza, not my mom. “I suggest our protocol,” I heard Nash say.

  “Yes, that’s fine. Get her back to her room.”

  I had no idea what their “protocol” was, but then I saw two big orderlies, including Mustache Man, coming toward me with purpose. One of them pulled Mom off me like he was breaking up a street fight. He held her in his massive arms. She was kicking, screaming, spitting wildly. The other orderly picked me up like I weighed nothing.

  “We planned for this, Mrs. Gerard,” Dr. Nash said to my wailing mother as the orderly carried me away. “If Meghan experienced another crisis with you in the room, we agreed to examine her, but we’re not going to treat her. We are not going to feed her delusion or yours, is that understood?”

  My mom broke free from the orderly’s death grip. I managed to resist being taken away, dragging my feet to delay departure, just long enough to see Mom get in Nash’s face.

  “My daughter is sick, and you won’t help! We’re in a hospital, and you won’t do anything! How can you?” My vision may have been blurred, but I could see Mom looking at Dad to do something.

  “Leave it be, Becky,” he said.

  And that’s when I knew. That’s when all doubt left me. My dad was gone. He believed them, not me. It was just Mom and me now. We were a duo. We were in this alone. I guess that’s how it’s always been.

  I cried out for my mom one last time. One more time the pain came, like fire burning inside me so hot and intense, I thought my heart would melt. Weak as I was, I managed to lift my arm. I stretched it out as far as I could. My mom came toward me, but everyone blocked her way, including my dad.

  She blew me kisses with tears in her eyes. “We’ll do the test,” she said.

  I blew a kiss back to her, and then everything went black.

  CHAPTER 33

  BECKY

  Tomorrow was the big day: Meghan was scheduled to have the muscle biopsy done. Becky wondered if she was as nervous as her daughter. She was in her upstairs office, online as usual, using Meghan’s computer to answer a reporter’s questions since hers was still with those detectives. She startled when her cell phone rang. Sabrina. Becky thought of sending the call to voice mail, but had a feeling her mother might in fact be dead this time.

  “Hi, Sabrina,” Becky said flatly. “So?”

  “Hi to you, too,” said Sabrina. “And no. Mom’s still with us.”

  Becky was not sure how she felt, but relieved was not one of her emotions. “Any change?”

  “No, not really,” Sabrina said. “Seems like you’ve been busy. You can’t seem to stay off the news these days.”

  Of course, Sabrina was referring to the airplane incident and to CNN, the first national news outlet to pick up Meghan’s story. Others soon would follow. Since the CNN story came out yesterday, producers from the Today show, 20/20, and Dateline all wanted exclusives, and all were willing to pay to get them. Veronica’s advice to Becky was to say no across the board.

  “Think of the media like a man,” Veronica had said during their last FaceTime chat. “Play a bit hard to get, and they’ll keep the story alive, which is really what we want.”

  So Becky had fielded dozens of calls and sent dozens more Veronica’s way. They cherry-picked the best outlets to keep intense local pressure on White Memorial, while at the same time did what they thought was most effective to help the story slowly spread westward.

  “It’s not me, it’s the damn hospital,” Becky said to her sister. “If they’d just let Meghan go, we’d be done with this.”

  But would you be done? Sabrina was probably asking herself.

  Becky did not
feel like getting into it with her sister. Certainly, she was not going to bring up the missing earring, or how she had willingly handed over her computer to the detectives without a warrant. She knew how Sabrina would see it. She had learned from Cora just as Becky had.

  Meghan’s latest medical crisis at her birthday party was also a topic to avoid, knowing Sabrina would press her about the exam results. Becky was not surprised the doctors had been unable to pinpoint a physical cause for her daughter’s sudden distress. No real diagnosis, that sounds a lot like Cora, doesn’t it? Sabrina would say. You’ve taught her well. She’s learned from the best. Maybe it’s just in our damn DNA.

  Becky switched topics and told her sister about the death of Dr. Levine.

  “Mom would say he got what he deserved,” Sabrina replied coolly.

  “Well, he was very young. It’s still tragic.”

  “Tragedy follows us like a shadow, doesn’t it, Sis?”

  “We’ve done all right,” Becky said. “Despite the circumstances.”

  But they hadn’t done all that well, had they? Sabrina had never married. Never had children. Never dated, for all Becky knew. She lived a sheltered life, working as a CPA, counting other people’s money, lonely as Ebenezer Scrooge himself. Becky may have put physical distance between herself and Cora, but poor Sabrina had put in an equal number of emotional miles by distancing herself from everyone. The only obligation Sabrina felt was to the mother who knew nothing about mothering, who had left the two sisters to fend for themselves and deceive the social workers who circled the dilapidated trailer Cora still called home.

  Becky did not know how long Sabrina would want to talk. Sometimes it was five minutes; other times it could stretch on for a good while, with lengthy periods of silence tucked in between painful reminiscences. But the doorbell rang, giving Becky good reason to put a quick end to the call.