I don't have any answer at all.
I stand by Sadie’s side as the doctor says what he has to say. Decreasing kidney function, more intensive treatment needed.
I watch Sadie jot down rapid fire notes as he speaks. See the worry behind her eyes. She thanks the doctor politely when he leaves but I can tell her head is already a million miles away, running numbers. Running time.
Her mother, meanwhile, is happy as a clam in her hospital bed, with a spread of jello and saltines and cups of juice over ice. The TV is tuned to some god-awful reality TV show where women with frightening plastic surgery scream at each other in tacky mansions.
“Momma?” Sadie says. “Did you hear any of that? They’regoing to start getting the discharge paperwork together. You can go home tonight.”
“I'm not going anywhere.” Her mother doesn't look away from the television. “It's the middle of the night.”
“It's eight o'clock.”
“They can't just put me out on the street. I have rights.”
“Nobody is putting you on the street. They're sending you home to your own bed.” Sadie's voice is level. It won't be level much longer. “We can't afford another night. This isn't a hotel.”
“Where's my soda?” Her mother jabs the call button. “I’ve pressed this button ten times.”
Sadie’s plush lips thin with frustration. She’s been in caregiver mode all day, and her mother is not an easy patient.
My girl has been so strong, but now she’s running on fumes, and I can see in the stiffness of her shoulders that she’s one more complaint away from the end of her rope.
She's done enough today. Just like when she stepped in with me and Jonah and took over when I was running low, I do the same for her now.
I reach into my wallet and press a bill into her hand.
“Baby,” I say. “Why don’t you go get your momma that soda. But take a walk first. Get some fresh air. It’s still nice out.”
She opens her mouth to object, and I drop my voice to a murmur and say, “I’ll talk to her. Let me take care of this.”
She's too tired to argue. She takes the bill and goes, and I watch her walk down the hallway until she turns the corner.
I turn to her mother. “Mrs. Sullivan, Sadie’s bringing you that soda in a moment. You can relax and settle in for the night.”
“That’s right, I can,” she grumbles.
“I’ll be back to check on you.”
“Quit fussing. You’re almost as bad as my daughter.”
I just smile. Then I pull Jonah’s little napkin-card out of mypocket and hand it to her. “My son made this for you, by the way. He’s always been a little artist. But your daughter is the one who taught him how to read and write this summer. She’s an extraordinary woman.”
She takes it. Stares at it for a long time. And then her eyes meet mine, sharp and assessing as she examines every inch of me.
“Tell him I said thank you for the card,” she says at last. Her voice is raspier than usual.
I nod.
And then I head to the nurse’s station.
The nurse at the desk has her head down over a clipboard. She looks up when I approach and then does a full stop, pen freezing mid-notation, eyes going wide, the clipboard lowering slowly to the desk like she's forgotten it's in her hand.
“Oh my God,” she says. “You’re Walker Rhodes.” She claps her free hand over her mouth. “Sorry. Sorry, I'm so sorry, that was completely unprofessional, I just…” She takes a breath. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I say.
She stares at me for another second. Then, in a rush: “I know this is so inappropriate and you can absolutely say no and I won't be weird about it, but is there any chance I could get a selfie? And an autograph? Just really quick? I have a notepad right here.”
