“Do you want to sit?” the doctor asks, but we both shake our heads. He nods, folds his arms, and says, “Your mother, Siv, has suffered a massive stroke.”
“It’s See-vuh,” I enunciate, cutting him off. He said her name like it rhymed with my nickname, Liv, and for some reason, I can’t handle the thought of them saying her name wrong. “It’s Swedish. She’s Swedish.”
The doctor nods, his gaze gentle. “Right, sorry.Sivhas suffered a massive stroke. And I have to be completely honest with you, the initial tests don’t look promising. She is still unconscious, and there is some swelling in her brain. I know you must have a lot of questions, but I unfortunately really don’t have any answers. At this point, we can only wait and see if she wakes up—and if she does, what the extent of the damage is to her cognitive and physical function.” He pauses, letting us absorb the detonation of his words, the implosion of our lives as we know it. “If you wish, I can take you up to see her now. She’s been admitted to the ICU.”
I wish Ihadtaken a seat because the numbness is receding, and in its stead, my legs begin to tremble. My stomach churns. I might throw up.
“Yes, please,” my mom says, somehow still managing to hold herself together.
The doctor nods, and we once again follow him, weaving through hallways, up an elevator, and down another hallwayto the ICU. The rooms are all made of glass walls, with only curtains pulled for privacy. He guides us to one of the bays with the curtains drawn and pulls it back.
And there, on the bed, silent and unnaturally still, lies Farmor.
Mom and I sit on either side of her. When our gazes meet over Farmor’s inert form, I wonder if I look as shell-shocked and hopeless as Mom does.
I wonder if she, too, is struggling to believe Farmor will ever wake up again.
10.
Hours later, I walk through the hospital in a daze, after Mom forced me to leave Farmor’s side in search of food. I have zero appetite—in fact, I feel sick to my stomach. But I know I need to force something into my body if I want to stay healthy.
We kept a vigil by Farmor’s bed as the afternoon bled into evening, then on into night. Nurses and doctors have come in and out, drawing blood, running tests. The latest we’ve been told is they think the swelling in her brain is why she’s unconscious. They’re monitoring her closely because if it gets worse, they may have to operate to remove a piece of her skull to allow her brain space to swell or drain the edema. And through it all, I’ve sat by her side, clutching her still hand in mine—trying to keep myself from drowning in the relentless riptides of fear. Until Mom finally noticed how long we’ve been in that room with no food or drink, and forced me to go eat.
The windows I pass as I move through the hospital are dark; streetlights and headlights illuminate the night beyond the windowpanes—cars moving through the darkness totheir mundane destinations. There are few things more jarring than to be trapped in the miasma of tragedy and then to look out a window and see so many other people going on with their normal lives. Heading to the store, stopping at a drive-thru for dinner, arguing over what to listen to on the radio—not realizing how quickly life can end, how suddenly your last conversation can become yourlastconversation.
Farmor hasn’t moved, not even a flutter of her eyelashes or twitch of her lips. She’s as still as a corpse. We’re powerless to do anything to help her, capable only of praying for a miracle.
But I can’t help but wonder if God is weary of our pleadings—if He has already given us our allotment. Or maybe He answers only every other need for a miracle.Nofor my dad.Yesfor me.Nofor Farmor.
When I reach the cafeteria, the smell of the food makes my stomach roil. But my mom is right, Ihaveto eat. And honestly, so does she. It’s only been in recent months that she’s finally regained a little bit of the weight she lost last year when I had that scare. Neither of us can afford to fast for too long—although for me, it’s much more serious than losing too much weight again. I can’t let my electrolytes get too imbalanced, or it could directly affect my heart function, and I’ll end up admitted to the hospital too.
And that reminds me that as much as I loathe the idea of leaving the hospital without knowing if Farmor is okay or not, I have to find a way home because I also can’t miss my nighttime meds.
Sometimes I trulyhatethe rigidity of what it takes for me to stay alive.
I sigh and force myself to walk into the cafeteria—and then halt. A familiar man sits at a table across from me, acomputer open in front of him, his tie loosened, and his shirt open at the throat, a shadow of stubble darkening his jaw—except for where it doesn’t grow because of the skin grafts.
“Hunter?” I ask.
He glances up, and a wave of what—strangely—appears to be relief washes over his face. He immediately pushes back his chair and strides to where I stand frozen in place by his unexpected presence.
He reaches out, his fingertips skimming my forearm before he abruptly pulls his hand back—as if he didn’t quite realize what he was doing. The fine hairs on my arms rise.
“How is she?” he asks.
“Why are you here?” It bursts out without thought.
Hunter flinches. I realize how rude I sound—and for once, I don’t mean to be. In the midst of so much worry and stress, my filter is missing, and on top of that, now I’m being assailed by confusion. Talia and Lou left hours ago, when they found out no other visitors would be allowed in the ICU. It never occurred to me thatHunterwould stay.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I ... I’m ...” I flounder, then say, “There’s no change. The doctors think she has cerebral edema, and that’s why she’s unconscious.”
“I’m really sorry, Liv.” Hunter swallows, his throat moving beneath his stubble. I don’t know why I notice that. I don’t know why I notice so many details about him. Like the shadows beneath his eyes. Or the taut curve of his shoulders, as if he’s carrying a weight like the one pressing down on me.
I cross my arms around my rib cage. “I’m really not trying to be rude, but whyareyou here?”
“I ... I’ve been trying to text you, to see if you need a ride home or if I could get anything for you—your medicine, a toothbrush, I don’t know. But you didn’t respond. So I waited.”
“You waited,” I repeat, a spark that is part wonder, part disbelief coiling in my chest, sharp and bright. “In thecafeteria. For”—I glance at the clock—“five hours?”
