My heart goes haywire with anxiety trying to piece everything together. How long have I been asleep? How long have I been here?
Dad rushes in and pales when he sees me, his expensive cellphone almost falling from his hands. That’s when I know something is happening, because he lives on that. “Baby.” His voice is thick with worry as he replaces Cam by my bedside. “The doctors are going to come in here and explain everything to you that they told me, okay?”
“D-Da…？” His face is more wrinkled, more aged, than I’ve ever seen. I did that to him. My slurred words and unknown state broke him.
I look around the room slowly, blinking past the tears that I know is because of more than just the headache blossoming. “W-Where…is…K-Kaid?”
Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I try internalizing why my tongue feels so heavy. It’s weighing in my mouth, drowning every syllable that tries escaping my thin lips.
Cam peeks her head around Dad’s shoulder and gives me a small smile. “He’s waiting in the lounge outside. The ICU doesn’t allow more than two people in here.”
My eyes widen. “I’m in the…ICU?”
I’ve never been here before. All the times I’ve been admitted, it’s always been in the Inpatient Center where I had to share a room with angry old people who complained about the food or the television not having anything good on to pick from.
Dad kneels beside me, his throat bobbing and eyes a shade of green I’m not accustomed to seeing. “Emery, you’re very, very sick. At some point during the night you had a stroke. It’s honestly a miracle you didn’t choke on your vomit when you got sick, because the function on your right side is minimal. And that’s…” He chokes on his words. “That’s not all, baby girl.”
My eyes go to the hand he’s holding.
My left hand.
I stare at my right arm for too long, which has a needle in the vein on the side of my wrist that I can’t feel. “S-Stroke?”
He nods.
I’ve heard about strokes. Old people had them whenever a call came over the police scanner at Mama’s house. John Doe age sixty-three. Stroke. Jane Doe age seventy-one. Stroke.
Not eighteen-year-olds. Not me.
Cam’s eyes water, and hers don’t turn any other color. Not in the darkness. Not from the tears. They’re the same as always. “Your mother has been called, sweetie. She and your grandmother are already on their way.”
I swipe my dry lips with my tongue. It feels lighter, but the weight in my chest hasn’t eased as much. “K-Kaiden? He must…be worried. Plea—”
A doctor walks in, opening and closing the squealing door behind him. I know Kaiden. He must be pacing the waiting room, his hair a mess, and cursing out anyone who asks if he needs anything. Is he still barefoot? Did someone get him shoes? Hospital booties? A cup of coffee?
“Ms. Matterson,” the doctor greets. He squeezes Dad’s shoulders like he must have done hundreds of times since our arrival.
“Emery,” I whisper, taking a deep breath of relief when the word forms correctly.
His hair is still dark. Not graying like most doctors I’ve crossed paths with. His face is wrinkle free and kind, like he hasn’t witnessed true tragedy yet. Does that give me hope? Or will I be the one to break him?
“Emery,” he corrects, washing his hands and drying them off at the sink in corner. “I’m Dr. Thorne. I was assigned to you when you arrived at this wing. After reading over your medical file and seeing the image tests, EKG, and lab work they did on you tonight, I contacted your rheumatologist for some additional information. I’ll need some further answers from you on how you’ve been feeling, to get a better picture.
“Can you tell me about some of the symptoms you’ve been experiencing? Is there anything out of the ordinary you’ve noticed over the past few months? Every detail will help.”
Dad’s breathing is unsteady, and I wonder if he’s going to cry. I’ve never seen him do that before and I’m not sure I ever want to. Tearing up and letting them spill are two different things. It’s like an acceptance that things have changed. When you tear up, you’re simply unsure. When you cry, you know.
I don’t want to know.
I don’t want Dad to know.
For some reason, I struggle looking at the young doctor. Instead, my eyes go from Dad to Cam to the door. I think about Kaiden and pretend he’s right here. He should be, he’s family.
My ears pick up on the drum of my heart, which pounds in a rocky beat. It doesn’t sound normal at all. It’s been like that for too long, and excuse after excuse I reasoned with its abnormality as if it made a difference. It overpowers the noise coming from the various machines hooked to me. Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump. Thump.
“Emery?” Dr. Thorne repeats.
“H-head…aches.”
He nods, glancing at the computer screen I didn’t know was on. “It looks like you came to the emergency room over the winter because of a migraine that turned into a fainting spell?”
I don’t answer.
Dad says, “Yes. She got sick at school and fainted, but insisted it was from the migraine.”
Pressing my lips together, I finally meet the doctor’s eyes. “I saw a…neurologist right after who helped me get medication.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.” No. I don’t know anymore.
“You no longer get headaches?”
No answer. My lips tingle.
His eyes scan the screen once more before he proceeds with his questions. “Have you noticed any changes in weight?”
I know for a fact any fluctuation is right in front of him, documented from my many visits and check-ins. “Gain. I’m not sure how much.”
“Bruising? Bleeding? Dizziness?”
Exhaustion sweeps through me. “Dr. Thorne, I’m t-tired. I-I’m sorry, but I want to know what’s going…I’ve never felt…I never had…”
I’m used to being here.
I’m used to the interrogations.
The assumptions.
The medical jargon.
But not in the Intensive Care Unit.
“Please,” I whisper brokenly.
Dad squeezes my hand, and I ignore the bite of pain that greets his strong grasp.
The doctor moves the computer away from him, giving me a firm-lipped expression. I know it too well, the distance he puts between us while he figures out how to deliver the news.
“We’re running additional tests,” he begins, not looking at anyone but me. I appreciate the effort he puts in that no other doctor does. I’d get worked up when doctors talked to Mama like I couldn’t possibly understand what they’re saying, much less be affected by the diagnosis as though I’m not the patient. “The scans that were done on you tonight showed many alarming things. Your brain tissue shows signs of extensive inflammation, as does the area around your heart. And your kidneys…”
I hold my breath.
My heart drums.
The clock on the wall ticks.
His voice is so soft it’s like velvet against my skin. “Emery, your kidneys barely showed up on the images done.”
Blinking, I shake my head.