Chapter One
Iused to like sunrises. A sunrise is a promise of something new. An invitation to hope. But my invitation must have been lost in the mail, or maybe it was stolen by a disgruntled postal worker who thought I’d had enough hope in my short twenty-six years.
Today, the only invitation the sunrise offers is crushing grief. The orange clouds are the color of the sundress Mom wore the day I moved out for college. The pink blush is the cotton candy I ate the day she was diagnosed with cancer.
Beep… Beep… Beep…
Mom’s IV alarm goes off, a warning that the bag is almost empty. I abandon the couch by the window, duck carefully under Mom’s IV tube, and press the button, silencing the alarm. Some nurses don’t like that, but it’s hard enough for Mom to sleep withoutthe added noise. Besides, there’s still fluid in the bag, and they’ll be in to take her vitals soon.
Mornings are busy times at the hospital. Nurses change shifts. Food is delivered. Sheets are swapped out. Doctors make their rounds. I can already hear them in the hall. Soon, they’ll burst in, flip on the lights, and in obnoxiously chipper voices ask questions I don’t want to answer.
When I turn around to go back to the couch, my wrist catches on the line, my forward momentum pulling on the IV, tugging hard enough to set off a new alarm.Beeeeeeep.A loud, angry alarm. I stumble, trying to catch my balance, but it’s too late. I trip and crash into the table. My cold hot chocolate flies into the air, splashing over my hair, face, and shirt.
“Hazelnut?” Mom’s voice squeaks, like she’s having to push extra hard to get air past her lips. Her eyelids flutter, but don’t open.
“What happened?” A short, older woman rushes into the room. She’s wearing scrubs with kittens on them and holding a new IV bag, which she must have been coming to replace. With practiced precision, she stops the alarm on the IV, unhooks Mom, primes the new line, and attaches it—all in the time it takes me to catch my breath.
“That’s one way to start a shift.” She smacks her hands together like someone shaking off dust. The clip of her words tells me she’s probably from somewhere on the East Coast. I wonder how she ended up thousands of miles away working at Oregon HopeHospital, but I don’t ask. I’ve never been comfortable with that kind of small talk.
Ripping a paper towel from the dispenser, I try to soak the chocolate off my shirt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean?—”
“‘Course you didn’t mean to, doll.” Kitten Scrubs laughs. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen worse. I had a wife trip over her husband’s catheter once. Yanked the whole thing out and ended up piss-faced. I even had a toddler pull out a port line. Blood everywhere. The kid looked like he’d crawled out of a crime scene.”
She checks to make sure Mom’s IV is still attached to her hand, and I shudder thinking of what could have happened. Mom groans and rolls over, curling into a ball.
Kitten Scrubs crosses to a board on the wall and writes her name. “I’m Rose. I’ll be your nurse today. Gotta finish with a few other patients, but I’ll be back to take vitals. Just sit tight.”
“Um, thanks.” I pat my chocolate-stained boob with a paper towel, wishing for a change of clothes. I haven’t been home to get any of our things yet.
Rose gives a curt nod, swoops up some trash from the table, and barrels out of the room. The door closes with a soft click.
Ignoring the sunrise’s hopeful lies, I return to the couch and open my laptop.
One hundred and fifty-four search results stare back at me. One hundred and fifty-four options for how to save my mom. Or how to make her worse. I have no idea how to narrow them down and pick theright one. But this is something I can do, rather than sitting here in this hospital room slowly turning into helpless slush.
I’ve been digging through the National Institutes of Health’s website for three hours. So far, I’ve found five drug trials and three surgery trials Mom qualifies for, but only two of them are at Oregon Hope Hospital and only one of those is a phase three trial with decent results.
My phone buzzes on the small rolling table near the bed, and I dive for it. If Mom didn’t wake up from the IV pole debacle, it’s not likely she’ll wake up now, but I don’t want to risk it.
Kiara:
Where are you? Professor Paatel is wearing a fedora and a bow tie. A BOW TIE. With ducks on it!!! You have to see it.
I picture Matt Smith from Doctor Who saying,‘Bow ties are cool,’and wonder if Kiara meant to reference the 11th Doctor. But I don’t mention it. Most people don’t get my references.
Kiara:
Pages are due a week from Thursday.
Are you seriously ditching again? I’m here listening to Sullivan share yet another piece about a three-legged calico cat, while you’re probably sipping cappuccinos with some artist named Franc while talking about Proust.
You think I’m way cooler than I am.
And his name is Indigo.
Kiara:
please tell me he painted you blue last night
