I’m driving faster than I should, faster than is safe through the still-crowded streets. I force myself to slow down, because the last thing Lucy and Brent need is to have something happen to me, too. But it’s hard when all I want is to get to the hospital and see my sister. Talk to the doctor. Find out just how bad things really are.
When her nurse called me at dinner, it was with the news that Heather had a seizure—and that she’d been unresponsive since. When I asked, Lisa told me any number of things could have caused the seizure, but she didn’t elaborate. She didn’t have to. I could tell by her voice that none of the options were good.
Could tell that she was afraid that this might be the last time we have to rush Heather to the hospital. And that made me afraid—terrified—that my sister might not get to come home again.
For a second I think I’m going to have to pull over and throw up. Only the knowledge that it will slow me down—keep me from getting to Heather—keeps me on the road, my foot on the gas pedal.
Not yet, I repeat again and again as the twenty-five-minute drive drags on forever. I’m not ready. Please, God, I’m just not ready. Not now. Not yet.
Finally, finally, I make it to the hospital. I swing into the emergency room parking lot, pull into the first available slot. Then I’m out of the car and running for the sliding glass doors.
The first thing I notice is how crowded it is, how nearly every seat is taken. I make a beeline for the front desk, cursing internally at the line of people standing at the window waiting to be helped. God only knows how long it’ll take for me to find out where Heather is and how I can get there.
I pull out my phone, planning to text Lisa, but she must have been watching for me because suddenly she’s there, at my elbow. Her eyes are serious, her mouth pressed into a straight line and her always neat gray hair looks like a hurricane has gone at it—or her very restless hands.
“We can go straight back,” she says by way of greeting, steering me toward the double doors that lead to the ER’s inner sanctum. A quick nod at the nurse behind the desk has her reaching over and buzzing us in before we even reached the doors.
“Tell me,” I say as we wind our way through the maze of hallways.
“It’s early yet, so they haven’t said anything about what they think it is.” She doesn’t look at me as she talks, just focuses on getting us where we’re going. “But her doctor is on call tonight and he’s already been in. They’re running some tests, and we should know soon.”
“How is she?” I ask, then before she can answer, I continue, “What tests?”
“She’s still unresponsive. But she’s breathing on her own, which is a good sign. Her blood pressure and heart rate are all over the place, which isn’t so good. They’ll be doing an echocardiogram in the next few minutes to get a look at her heart, but…”
“But what?”
“I’m not a doctor, Hunter.”
“No, but you’ve been a cancer nurse for twenty years. And you work for me, nobody else. So there is no protocol here. Tell me what you were going to say.”
She sighs, then looks me straight in the eye as she answers, “My gut says she had a stroke.”
My knees go weak and for a second I fear I’m going to go down. I shove the pain and terror down deep, draw from the same place I tap when I’m hurt and exhausted and have one more quarter to play.
“A stroke?” I repeat, when I’m sure my voice won’t shake. “They ran tests just a couple weeks ago. The cancer’s not in her brain—”
“No, but it is in her bloodstream—that’s how it travels. We always knew this was going to be a possibility as small clumps of cells circulated through her body—”
“But not yet. The doctors said we had more time—”
“They said six months,” she tells me gently. “That was their best guess at the time. And it’s been four.”
“I know exactly how long it’s been!” I snap, then immediately apologize. It’s not Lisa’s fault that my sister is dying. It’s nobody’s fault, or at least that’s what Heather keeps trying to get me to believe.
I wish it was, though. I wish there was someone to blame, someone to fight, someone to make pay for what’s happening to my sister. To her children. To what’s left of my family. But there’s nothing and no one to fight, not anymore. Just this vile, vile disease that is slowly, inexorably, taking everything from Heather.
“I want to talk to Dr. Janewicz.”
“Of course,” Lisa soothes, and her hand is shaking a little as she puts it on my arm. Immediately, I feel like shit. This isn’t easy on Lisa, either. She’s been with Heather for over a year now, and no matter how objective she’s tried to be, I know she loves my sister, too.
We’re outside Heather’s room now, and even though I’ve been anxious to get to see her, now that I’m here I’m finding it awfully hard to walk in that room. Awfully hard to face my sister when I don’t know what I’m going to find. Who I’m going to find. If Heather’s still in there, or if she’s just a shell of who she used to be.
But standing out here like some kind of pussy isn’t an option, either. So I take a deep breath, wipe my suddenly sweaty palms on the sides of my jeans. And force myself to take the first steps inside.
She’s pale. It’s the first thing I notice as I look at her in that bed, hooked up to all those machines. She’s always been golden, always kind of glowed with some kind of light deep inside of her. But right now she’s nearly as white as the sheets she’s lying on.
She’s not intubated, so I guess Lisa’s right. She is breathing on her own, if you can call the fast, shallow rise and fall of her chest breathing. I can’t imagine how she isn’t hyperventilating like this…unless, of course, her system isn’t doing a very good job of getting the oxygen to her brain, or anywhere else.
The thought terrifies me, has me crossing to her side and picking up one of her pale, limp hands in my own. Every other time she’s managed to squeeze my hand, even just a little bit. But tonight her fingers don’t so much as twitch. The terror deep inside of me grows darker, colder.
Not yet, I tell myself. The universe. God. Please, not yet. Over and over I repeat it, until it becomes some kind of mantra. Until it feels like it’s the only thing keeping me sane in this world gone topsy-turvy on me.
I don’t know how long I sit there, holding her hand, waiting for the doctor to come.
Long enough for them to come and ask me to step outside as they do the echocardiogram.
Long enough for the nurse to check in with us three times, and administer medicine into her IV twice.
More than long enough for me to start losing hope, no matter what mantra I’m repeating in my head.
Eventually my phone vibrates in my pocket—probably a text from Emerson, checking in. I should answer it—she’s probably confused and worried and over her head with the kids. But I can’t bring myself to pull my phone out, can’t bring myself to text her or call her. Partly because I don’t know what to say to the kids and partly because I’m not ready to tell Emerson what’s going on. Not when there’s something inside of me, something big and loud and real, that says once I tell Emerson then this whole thing is real. That once I tell Emerson then this whole thing is irrevocable.
I’m not ready to accept that yet.
Lisa sits with me, silently knitting and jumping every time someone walks by the partially closed door. I tell her she can go home—her shift ended forty-five minutes ago—but she just glares at me. And continues to knit.
Fifteen minutes after the last test is run, Dr. Janewicz steps into the room. And I’ve gotten to know her well enough over the last year to recognize the look on her face. To know that it isn’t good.
“So, her heart is fine,” is how she starts. “The echocardiogram came back clear.”
“But?” I don’t have time for what it isn’t. I want to know what it is—and how we’re going to fix it.
Dr. Janewicz sighs. “But she’s had a stroke, Hunter. A f
airly large one.” As she speaks, a nurse comes in with a tray of syringes. I watch as she walks over to where Heather’s IV is. “We’re going to administer tPA, and it should help reverse the worst of the damage.”
“But?” I’ve gotten to know Dr. Janewicz well over the eight months that Heather’s been fighting this damn disease, and I know she’s got more to say. Just like I know none of it is good.
“But,” she says again, deliberately echoing me, “it isn’t going to stop her from having more strokes. We’re going to put her on a blood thinner but that’s probably not going to stop them, either.”
“So, what will stop them?” I demand. “Do you need my blood? My bone marrow again? What can we do?”
I sound as desperate as I feel—I don’t need to see the look on the doctor’s face to know that. Just like I don’t need her to tell me that there’s nothing to do. That my six months with Heather has suddenly been cut short and there’s no amount of money or research or trials that is going to be able to change that.
This time my knees do buckle, and it’s only the arm I shoot out and brace against the wall that keeps me upright as my sister’s doctor continues to break the last piece of my heart wide open.
Chapter 25
I’m still in a daze, still unsteady, still broken, ten hours later when I make the drive back across town to Emerson’s to pick up Brent and Lucy. I texted her an hour ago, let her know I was on my way. I need to get the kids, need to bring them to the hospital to see their mother, even though she has yet to wake up. But she had another stroke in the middle of the night—smaller than the first, but big enough to have the entire ICU hopping—and Dr. Janewicz’s partner told me to prepare for the fact that she might not wake up.
Like there’s any way I can prepare for that.
I’m going to have to find a way, I tell myself as I pull into Emerson’s shabby parking lot. Because in about five minutes I’m going to be facing my niece and nephew and the last thing they need right now is for me to lose it.
I park close to Emerson’s car—the one that hasn’t moved in the week I’ve known her—then climb out. Tanner’s already here, leaning against his car door as he plays on his phone.
He nods to me as I walk by, reaches out and gives me a solid pat to the shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, though, and I can’t help wondering if it’s because there’s nothing to say or if it’s because I look so bad he’s afraid of sending me over the edge.
Fuck. It’s probably a little bit of both.
I take the stairs three at a time—as much as I’m dreading the next few minutes, I want them over with, too.
Emerson must have been watching for me, because the door opens seconds before I raise my hand to knock. She takes one look at my face and then does the opposite of Tanner. She wraps her arms around me and pulls me close. And even though her head doesn’t even make it to my shoulder, somehow she grounds me.
Helps me breathe.
“Are you okay?” she asks, holding tight until I’m the one forced to finally pull away. “How can I help?”
I don’t know what to say. How can I when there are so many answers to that question, but no good answer? In the end, I just kind of nod and shrug. It must not be enough to reassure Emerson, though, because she pulls me close again. Then laces her hands behind my head and pulls my face down to hers.
“What do you need?” she asks, and though I haven’t told her the whole story yet, something tells me that she knows anyway. Brent and Lucy must have said something.
“I need—” I feel myself start to break and I push it back, shore myself up. Behind her, Lucy and Brent are staring at me, their eyes wide and scared. No, now isn’t the time for this. “I need to get the kids and get out of your hair. You need to get to work.”
“It can wait,” she says, even though I know it can’t. And that just breaks me a little more, makes it a little harder to keep the rage and pain inside. Fuck, I need to get out of here.
“Get your backpacks,” I say to my niece and nephew. “Uncle Tanner’s waiting downstairs.”
Usually the mention of Tanner is enough to have them whooping with joy, but this morning they just turn away to do what I ask.
“Actually, I do need you to do something for me,” I say, taking Emerson’s hand and pressing the keys to my truck into them. “I know your car’s broken down and it would make things a lot easier for me if I didn’t have to worry about how you’re getting to and from work. Take my truck, please—”
She tries to pull her hand away. “I—”
“It’s just a loan,” I tell her. “Not forever. Just until your car’s fixed. I don’t like the idea of you being stuck somewhere because you can’t get the bus or an Uber.”
“I’m fine,” she says, her voice a little shaky and panicked. “I don’t need—”
“I know you don’t. But I need. So please, take the truck. Just for now.”
She looks like she’s going to argue more, so I do the only thing I can do. I cup her face in my hands and then press my lips to hers.
It’s different than any other kiss we’ve ever had. Softer, slower…sweeter. The heat is still there, but it’s less important than the gentleness and the comfort. Less important than the connection that stretches between us.
When I finally lift my head, she’s clinging to me—holding on as if I’m the one supporting her. But I know that she’s doing it for me, that she’s giving me the only thing I’m comfortable taking from her at this moment, in the only way I’m willing to take it.
It works, too, because after another quick kiss, I find the strength to step away and reach for Lucy and Brent instead. They come quickly, fitting themselves to my sides, and I can see in their faces the same fear I see deep inside myself.
I want to tell them that it’s going to be okay, that their mother has just had a setback. But Dr. Janewicz’s words are raw in my head, as are the words of the doctor who handled Heather’s case in the middle of the night when she had the second stroke.
And so I just hug them tight and say, “Let’s go see your mom, okay?”
They nod, but the serious looks on their faces don’t change. They know. I don’t know how they know, but they do. It breaks my heart a little more.
Emerson follows us down to the parking lot, waving at Tanner as I get the kids situated in his backseat. I think I should probably go back over to her, probably say something else, but the truth is I’m exhausted. Just completely worn out and I haven’t even started talking to the kids yet.
And so I yell across the parking lot instead. “I’ll call you later.”
“Don’t worry about me right now. Text me if you need me for anything.”
I nod, then climb into the car and take a deep breath. Then do my damnedest to find the right words to tell Lucy and Brent that their mother will probably never come home again.
Chapter 26
Emerson
My phone vibrates and I dive for it, not even trying to be surreptitious as I check it in the middle of what is the most important meeting of my career to date.
It doesn’t seem to bother Shawn, though, who just looks at me with sympathy as he says, “Give him a little time. He’s got a lot on his plate right now.”
“I know. It’s just I want to…” What? What exactly do I want? I can’t help Hunter right now. No one can. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to try, doesn’t mean I don’t want to be there for him if he needs me.
“Yeah.” He gives me a sympathetic smile. “Me, too. Hunter’s great at sharing the glory, always has been. But when it comes to the rough stuff? He takes that all on him and doesn’t share it with anybody.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that,” I say with a sigh. “But it sucks.”
“Fuck, yeah, it does. You know how guilty I feel when he takes the blame for some incomplete pass that I know is my fault?” He pauses for a second, takes a drink from the glass of water in front of him. “Almost as bad as I feel sitting here, not able to help him at
all.”
It’s strange to be talking like this to a man I barely know—especially when we should be talking about the houses I found that I want Shawn to check out. But there’s time enough for that when the coffee is done. Besides, Shawn isn’t just any client. The only reason he’s my client at all is because he’s such good friends with Hunter. He’s known him way longer, and way better, than I do and right now that’s important considering I’m trying to find out exactly what’s going on in Hunter’s head.
I haven’t heard from him in two days. Which, okay, his sister is very sick. I get that he’s got bigger, more important things to worry about than answering one of the texts I’ve sent to check on him.
Yet this doesn’t feel like busy. This doesn’t feel like he just hasn’t had a chance to answer—partly because if he’s just sitting around Heather’s hospital room how hard is it for him to fire off a text? And partly because my gut says something is up.
Which brings me back to why I’m sitting here pumping Shawn for information. Because I’m terrified Hunter is in a dark place, one where he won’t—or can’t—let me help him.
“What can I do?” I ask after a second.
Shawn looks at me for long moments, his eyes searching mine for God only knows what. He must find it, though, because he says, “Go to the hospital, get in his face. Make him talk to you.”
“That doesn’t seem…I don’t know, rude, to you? I don’t want to intrude—”
“Yeah, well, maybe you need to intrude. I stopped by last night. The guy looks like a freaking zombie. I couldn’t reach him, but maybe you can.”
“The zombie thing. You didn’t say that before,” I tell him. “I just asked you how he was—”
“Yeah, well, I hadn’t decided on you yet. Now I have.”
I start to ask him what made him change his mind, but the truth is, I don’t care. Not right now, when the need to go to Hunter, to see him, hold him, touch him, is so much stronger than it was even just a few minutes ago.
But there’s still a problem. “I don’t even know which hospital Heather is in.”