I reread our text thread and just as I start to message to ask if she’s okay, my phone buzzes with a new message.
Sorry I missed your game. Mason is in the hospital.
The small reprieve of relief makes way for panic. I stop walking, the breeze picking up to make the temperature steadily drop.Is he okay? Are you there now?
My chest twists unpleasantly as I watch the dots bounce while holding my breath and waiting for her reply. She must’ve rushed out of the city the second she found out, which would explain her lack of texts and my strange and sudden unease.
Mom said he hadn’t been feeling well lately, and he had some chest pain and a mild fever this morning so she brought him in.She said he’s better and stabilized, but they want to keep him for observation. At the hospital waiting to see him now.
I exhale slowly, comforted by the assurance that he’s stabilized but doubly anxious that it happened at all. Mason’s had some issues in the past, usually when the weather turns bad and it gets cold, but just because it’s happened before doesn’t make it any easier now. Especially after a decent stretch of him being healthy and okay. In fact, it makes the entire thing seem a whole lot scarier.
A desperate urge to see them both forcibly hits me.
What hospital?
MedStar
I sprint the rest of the way to my building.
The entire drive to DC is filled with memories of Mason and all the times he was rushed to the hospital. The first when I was ten. He had somehow caught the flu, and only when he was on the mend were we able to visit him. That was the scariest because other than my grandfather’s passing when I was five, I hadn’t known death or the possibility of it. I remember going to see him and being freaked out by all the monitors and the constant flow of nurses and doctors coming in to check on him.
But what really frightened me was Alex. It was the first time I’d ever seen her that scared. She was always tough and larger than life. The first one to stand up and take on anything. Yet when Mason got sick, she turned into a shell of herself. She seemed small and defenseless.
Vulnerable.
I hated that I wasn’t strong or brave enough to fix either of them.
By the time I step into the hospital, it’s a little after midnight. Alex greets me in the lobby looking tired and worried. She throws her arms around my neck, and I hold her, waiting until she pulls away first. When she does, her eyes are shining with a fresh set of tears.
She looks in complete disarray and taps her hand nervously against her thigh, her gaze darting around the room as if she’s looking for someone.
I take her face in my hands and gently guide her to look at me. “How is he?”
“He’s sleeping.” Her lip trembles slightly. “But he’s okay, I think.” Her words sound choked, and she swallows. “They ran a bunch of tests.” I wait for her to tell me more, but she just shakes her head. Tears spill from her eyes, and her shoulders drop as she erupts. She looks as if she’s going to collapse. I pull her back into me, her cries echoing in the empty lobby. The lone security guard looks away in an attempt to give us privacy. It makes me hold her even tighter.
Unable to take away Alex’s fear and being powerless to help Mason, it’s a feeling that never gets any easier.
By Sunday, Alex has been sent home for the remainder of the day, and it’s obvious she isn’t happy about it. Mason had a minor infection, and since he’s been fever free for forty-eight hours and all the tests are coming back normal, he’s been cleared to go home.
Waiting for him to get here, however, has been the challenge. Alex is restless. She won’t stop moving. Chloe and I help her with the laundry and put fresh sheets on Mason’s bed. We clean the bathrooms and tidy the kitchen. Anything we can think of to help Ms. Pestano and Mason when they finally get home.
Chloe, who arrived in DC about two hours after me, forces Alex to shower, and I make her favorite bagel sandwich, but it’s only when she gets a text from her mom saying they’re on their way that she seems to settle. Slightly.
The three of us lounge on Alex’s bed and try to stay occupied. Alex lies on her back with her legs dangling off the edge while she tosses a baseball into the air, catching it before it can smack her in the face.
Chloe and I take an online quiz telling us what kind of cheese we would be—we both get brie—and get into a debate that seems way too deep for the weekend we just experienced.
“I just think it’s weird that some people don’t have an inner monologue. Like, how do you even think when you’re not visualizing pictures or words or narrating life?”
“No idea,” I say, thumbing through one of Chloe’s magazines, hoping for another mindless quiz. “Maybe they just function on vibes.”
“On vibes? Jules, come on.”
“Sometimes I hear songs in my head,” Alex says, startling us.
“Explain,” Chloe says and gives Alex her undivided attention. I close the magazine and do the same. It’s the first real time Alex has engaged, and Chloe and I aren’t about to let it go to waste.
Alex tosses the ball and catches it. “I don’t know. Like, when I see someone, a certain song will pop in my head.”
