“I’ll call you later,” I said. “Please, don’t come here. We’re OK.”
“Daphne.”
A long silence. I couldn’t talk, I knew I’d cry.
“You’ll keep me posted?”
My voice caught in my throat. I forced it out, unwavering. “Of course.”
During my first hospital stint, when we found out something was wrong, my parents met with the doctors alone. They’d have pre-meetings, where they’d discuss the course of action and then present it to me, united. I still remember my mother’s tight smile.
But I also remember the day after I was admitted. I had gotten up to use the restroom, and my door was cracked open. My father was gone, but my mother was in the hallway, so was Dr. Frank. We didn’t know him yet, he was just a crotchety man with a goatee.
“But what about advancements in medication?” my mother was asking. “Trials. You should see how good her immune system is. She never gets sick. Not even a cold!”
“Every year there’s more and more. And that will definitely play a role.”
“If there’s something broken, can’t we fix it? She could do surgery, we’d get her the very best physical therapy. I don’t understand, you see. She’s healthy…”
I heard the desperation in her voice, the pleading. I understoodthat she was walking her palms along the walls, trying to find the latch to the door. Surely there had been some mistake. Surely not her daughter. She wanted an exit, an answer. She wanted this to go away immediately and have everything whole again. Healthy.
I heard Dr. Frank leave and then my mother’s ragged breathing by the door. The short, hollow sobs. They felt like a knife in my stomach. I was doing this to her. I was causing her this pain, this grief. It was impossible. It wasn’t right. When she came back inside, her face was smiling, but her hands were shaking. I’d never forget their movement, like hummingbirds.
There is nothing more terrifying than lying in a hospital bed and knowing your mom can’t fix it. That she can’t make it better. That no amount of bargaining with any doctor will carry you—the both of you—to safety.
I could hear Hugo’s breathing on the other end—hovering, waiting. I hung up the phone.
The next day I went into surgery. My mom pressed her lips to my forehead. She smelled like lavender and cabbage, like always.
“We’ll see you soon,” she said. Her eyes were glassy, but her face was steady. She was practiced.
“We love you,” my father said.
“I want a cookie tonight,” I said.
My father squeezed my hand. “You got it.”
They inserted the stent, traveled it up through my groin and the veins of my body into my heart, and then opened it—pop—at precisely the right angle. It went off without a hitch. I woke up groggy but otherwise untouched. I could read it on my mother’s face that everything had gone well; I didn’t even need to hear her words.
“You did it,” she said, her face on mine. “Great work, baby girl. Everything is OK.”
They kept me overnight for monitoring, and I went home the next day, ahead of schedule.
I was released, as I had been many times before, into the care of my parents. Into the spare bedroom in their house in the Palisades. One that should have been a gym or an office but they kept with a queen bed, because they had to. Into homemade low-sodium chicken noodle soup andThe Devil Wears Pradaand my dad’s peanut butter chocolate chunk cookies. My parents resumed their roles as medication administrators and temperature takers and phone command—messaging our team of doctors any unusual updates. They were pros, my parents. They had PhDs in caregiving now.
I had told Hugo that my father was out of the hospital—it was nottechnicallya lie. And that I was going to be at their house for the next two or three days. He called, but I did not pick up. I didn’t want to talk to him until I knew what to say, until I hoped I wouldn’t have to lie any more than I already had. Until I could truly figure out just how I was going to continue to keep this from him.
I felt better quickly. I was used to surgery, was used to my body being strung up, marionetted, foreign parts and substances swimming in my veins. I didn’t know if my will was strong or if my baseline had been torpedoed or if it was just being young, but I bounced back fast. By the next day I was up and moving around, pouring my own orange juice and commanding the remote.
My dad was on his morning run—his first of the week. He’d been standing vigil in the living room, at the ready for anythingI might need. And my mom was in the garden. I could tell they were trying to give me space, while still being around.
The house was empty when he showed up at the door. I heard the knocking and thought it must be Joan, over to deliver another round of muffins.
“Hugo.”
“Hi,” he said. He stood there in jeans and a white polo T-shirt. His hair had no product in it, and it hung in tufts.
“What are you doing here?”
