Hunter shrugs. “I thought you’d eventually need to get something to eat. I didn’t know where else to wait, and I didn’t know where your farmor is—they wouldn’t release any information to me since I’m not family. I came here and hoped for the best.”
I clamp my teeth to keep a surge of feeling locked away. This man, who I thought might actually hate me, has been sitting here for hours because he figured Imightneed him to get my medicine or drive me home? “Why?” My voice falters, raw and hoarse.
“Because I know what it’s like being stuck at a hospital when you’re out of your mind with fear.” The green flecks in Hunter’s irises are darkened to a deep jade, shadowed by pain that haunts his gaze when it meets mine. “And even though you might not believe it, I’m usuallynota monster.” He exhales, then adds in a rush, “I was worried about you.”
His unexpected thoughtfulness is so startling it makes my head spin. I don’t know what to say—or how to handle the sudden addition of bewilderment to the vortex of my already beleaguered emotions.
“That’s really considerate of you,” I allow, afraid of trusting this disconcerting kindness.
As if he can sense my wariness, he changes gears. “Let’s go get you some food. And then I can run you home or go get your medicine and bring it back ... whatever you need.”
I stare at him, unmoving, unable to take that step toward him that somehow feels a lot more like a leap off a cliff than merely shuffling into a line of other weary hospital patrons. “I don’t get why you’re doing this. I thought you ‘don’t do scar buddies.’”
A muscle in Hunter’s jaw tics. “There’s nothing I can say to excuse the way I’ve acted. I’ve been in a really bad place, and you became an undeserving target.”
“And now ... you’re in a better place? A fewdayslater?” I can’t keep the disbelief from my voice.
“No,” he acknowledges. “But this has been one of those days that forces you to get a little perspective. You’ve done nothing to deserve how rude I’ve been.” The apology is there, in the way this giant of a man somehow shrinks in on himself. “Please, if there’s anything I can do to help you, let me.”
I swallow, squeezing my arms even tighter around myself. I don’t have the energy to figure out whether he’s being sincere or not. All I know is that he’s here ... and Idoneed my medicine. If he’s willing to get it and bring it back, then I don’t have to leave Farmor’s side.
“Okay,” I relent.
He nods, the tightness at the corners of his mouth releasing. “Tell me what you need me to do, and I’ll do it. But first, let’s get you some dinner.”
I exhale and step forward to stand beside him as we join the line.
An alarm’s wail shocks me out of sleep. I’m hunched halfway over in my chair, my hand still on top of Farmor’s. There’s a sharp pull in my neck as I straighten, and it feels like I have sand beneath my eyelids when I peel them open. I have no concept of what time it is.
But all vestiges of sleep flee when her hand spasms beneath mine, and I realize her entire body is shaking.
She’s seizing again.
“Help!” I scream, scrambling to my feet.
At the same instant, the curtain rips open, and medical personnel stream through the doorway, shouting commands, flattening her bed, surrounding her body, dragging me and my mom away, out into the hallway.
Mom’s eyes are wide and bloodshot as we huddle together, shaking with shared dread.
Within moments, Farmor’s gurney is rushed past us, down the hallway and out of sight, leaving us clinging to each other outside of an empty room, shell-shocked and silent.
“Mrs. Karlsson?”
We both turn at the soft voice of a nurse standing next to my mom.
“Your mother is being taken into surgery. The intracranial pressure from her edema has caused another seizure and possibly another stroke. They are going to remove a piece of her skull to alleviate the swelling and prevent further damage. It’s going to be a while. Would you like me to show you to a waiting room, where you can get some drinks and snacks if you need them?”
I can only stare, mute with terror.
Mom somehow gathers herself and nods. “Okay. Thank you for letting us know.”
“Follow me this way. One of the doctors will come find you as soon as there’s any news.” The nurse gestures, and we fall into step behind her, even though every cell of my body fights to stay where we are—to wait in Farmor’s room. Because a part of me is scared that if we leave this place, if we go to that waiting room, the next time one of these nurses or doctors comes to find us, it will be to tell us that she’s gone.
11.
The next eighteen hours are a blur of waiting-room chairs, choking down awful hospital food, and weary-faced doctors delivering news that is nothing more than fancy lingo for,We don’t know if she’s going to make it or not. My brothers drop by when they can, once or twice between classes and work, but neither of them is there when we finally end up back in the ICU with Farmor, resuming our vigil at her bedside. This time, her hair is partially shaved, and they’ve fitted her with a specialized headpiece to protect her brain—as there is merely some mesh and a flap of skin between it and everything else.
We’ve had to temporarily close the bakery since neither of us is willing to leave her side, and none of our part-time employees can bake. Whatever financial problems the closure may cause is something I’ll worry about if—when—Farmor gets through this.
