I don’t know how to wrap my mind around the fact that instead of shapingkanelbullarbeside Farmor in the kitchen, I’m sitting on a hard plastic chair, watching her chest rise and fall, inspecting the monitors that show the differencebetween life and death. They’ve officially declared that she’s in a coma, and they don’t know when—or if—she’ll wake up. Everything hurts. My back, my head, my heart, the inside of mybones—as if my very marrow is rejecting the reality that we are losing Farmor now too.
I’ve only felt this kind of soul-deep weariness twice in my life before: Before my transplant, when my body was being forced alive by the LVAD machine, and the weeks and months after Dad died, when my mom became a shadow of her former self, unable to function without the love of her life. I took care of my brothers. I made the meals. I cleaned. Taking on all that at thirteen, while still going to school, was crushing. But the worst part was trying to convince my mom to eat, trying to get her to bathe or change her clothes or get out of bed at all. I barely slept during that time and could barely eat myself.
And somehow, here I sit, in an ICU yet again. I should have become a doctor, because I am clearly destined to spend much of my life in hospitals—then, at least, I might have felt as if I hadsomesort of power todosomething.
The helplessness is debilitating.
“You have to go.” My mom’s voice is jarring. It’s the first thing she’s said to me in an hour.
“What?”
Our eyes meet across Farmor’s still body.
“You have to go home. You need to rest; you need your medicine.” Mom’s eyes are circled by dark bruises. “I need you to take care of yourself. I need you to stay healthy. I can’t handle it if you end up—” Her voice cracks. “I understand that you’re scared to leave, but you know I’m right.”
I clench my teeth together to keep the sudden rush of anger from exploding out of me. It’s not her fault I’m incapableof going for days with little to no sleep, crappy food, and missing doses of my medications. “I can’t. I can’t leave her.”
“Youhaveto, Livvy.” She reaches across the bed to clutch my hand. “You need to sleep. To eat arealmeal or two. You can come back tomorrow. And I promise to call if anything changes.”
I have to look away from her, from Farmor, staring at the monitors instead, where her heart and brain activity are being mapped until the burning in my eyes subsides. Hunter brought me my meds last night and this morning. Lou dropped by this afternoon with the ones for tonight—but she forgot one of them, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her because she was going out with Chris the Banker again, and I didn’t want to ruin her night.
My momisright. I can’t afford to miss a dose, especially with so little sleep and having been exposed to so many potential illnesses while I’ve been here—even with the N95 masks I wear everywhere outside of the ICU room.
“Fine,” I whisper, still not looking away from Farmor’s vital signs.
“I promise if anything changes, I’ll call,” my mom insists.
I pull my hand out of my mom’s grip and stand up. “Sure,” I say, but I don’t meet her gaze. Because she’s made that promise before.
I can tell she starts to cry, but I still can’t look at her as I gather my purse, phone, charger, and toothbrush Hunter brought me. If I have to leave, I’m not walking out of the hospital a sobbing wreck. I hold it in, hold myself together—refuse to think of the last hospital room, the last time she made me that promise.
“I’ll be back in the morning.”
The ride home in the Uber is silent, thankfully. He’s not one of those drivers who tries to make awkward conversation, but the silence also gives me far too much time for my brain to replay the last two days on an endless loop.
The moment I saw Farmor in the ER.
The way her body started seizing.
Her shaved head and ghastly pale face, so still, so foreign.
Hunter’s surprising kindness.
I shiver when I remember how our eyes met across the waiting room when he came back with my medicine, the way it felt like he was lookingintome, seeing far too much.
As the Uber pulls up at our condo, I fight the urge to flee rather than go through that door and potentially face Hunter since he still has no furniture or appliances in his half of the duplex, knowing the kind, helpful man I saw a glimpse of will most likely be gone, erased by the absence of a crisis. I don’t want to let my guard down with him. I don’t want this confusion about my feelings toward him gnawing at me.
Luck is on my side; when I unlock the door and walk in, there’s no sign of him, and Lou must still be on her date. I’m not sure if he’s in the other half of the duplex or gone, and I don’t wait to find out, rushing up to my room and quietly closing the door. I need a shower, but when I look at my bedraggled reflection in the mirror and then drop my gaze to the prescription bottles lined up on my dresser, everything that’s happened hits all at once. Stifling grief overtakes me, pressing in from all sides. It’s all I can do to stay standing long enough to use some face wipes, take the pill Lou forgot to bring me, peel off my leggings, and crawl into bed in my T-shirt.
Hot, choking tears soak into my pillow through my hair. I silently shake, all my terror and sorrow swallowing me whole. The assault never seems to end, fresh waves crashing over me again and again. I have no idea how much time has passed when the torrent finally starts to wear itself out.
That’s also the moment I hear the murmur of voices outside my door.
“She came back?” Hunter whispers.
“Yeah, her mom texted me that she sent her home about an hour ago,” Lou says softly. “But she’s worried about her.”
It’s a testament to how completely exhausted I am, that as my crying finally stops, leaving me boneless with fatigue, I can barely keep my eyes open as I strain to hear them.
