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I tapped my fist three times over the counter.
“Bartender. Brandy.”
And blacked out.
My eyes fluttered open and I groaned, reaching with my hand to touch my temple. There was an annoying sound buzzing in my ear. It sounded like an old car trying to pull through a journey it wasn’t meant to do anymore. That was when my eyes grew wide, and I realized I had tubes tucked into my veins. IV drops next to me. Bright room. Fluorescent lights. The whole big hospital show.
Story of my life, and I’m getting tired of the angsty plotline.
“What’s going on?” I coughed, even though I had no indication that someone else was there. My fuzzy vision got clearer with every blink. The room was scorching hot, and I wondered who tampered with the thermostat. It was hot and humid enough to fry bacon on my forehead. Mmmm, bacon. I was hungry. That was a good sign, surely.
The machine. It kept on doing that noise that seemed to scrape on my nerves.
Phhhhhhsttttt. Phhhhhhsttt. Phhhhhhsst.
Someone seriously needed to turn it off before I went all Hulk on it.
“You’re at the hospital.” I heard my sister’s voice before I felt her warm hand on mine. Even though I was sweating, my skin still felt bitter-cold against her flesh. I lolled my head to the side, squeezed my eyes shut, and opened them again so I could look at her. My parents were sitting by her side. Three wide-eyed faces, inspecting me like an animal at the zoo.
Her lips came down to my cheek, fluttering over it. “How are you feeling?”
“Better than I look, I’m guessing by your stares. Why am I here?”
I remembered most of what happened. I remembered pounding on the door to that house in the Hamptons until the skin on my knuckles split open. I remembered calling and texting Dean. I remembered hailing a taxi while shivering in the rain. But I don’t remember what happened next. My anxiety attack came back in full swing and I must’ve fainted or something.
“Who brought me here?” I coughed out every word.
“The taxi driver.”
Oh. I felt like a complete idiot for asking the next question.
“Where is Dean?”
Millie looked at Mama, Mama looked at Daddy, and Daddy looked out the window.
“We don’t know.” Millie munched on her lips. “Vicious is trying to get ahold of him. We flew in the minute we heard.”
I looked around me. I didn’t recognize the room, which meant that it wasn’t Lenox Hill Hospital. We were more than two hours away from Manhattan. And in Manhattan, they didn’t have that machine, with that terrible, terrible noise.
“You have a serious lung infection.” Mama pushed Millie aside and sat on my bed. She took my hand in hers. I almost whimpered at the gesture. I pressed my fingers to her palm, enjoying this brief moment of intimacy. Her face remained tortured. “Your infection has spread, and the fact that you caught a cold didn’t make things better. Your system is weak.”
I patted her hand and mustered a smile. “Don’t worry, Mama. I get lung infections all the time.”
“This time your liver and pancreas are affected, too.” Millie licked her lips, blinking fast. Daddy walked over to the window and pressed his forehead against the glass. Rain pounded on the other side of it, and maybe he did it because he didn’t want us to see him cry.
“We told you the boy was trouble.” Daddy sighed. He wasn’t angry anymore. Exasperated, maybe. Drained, mostly.
“Now’s not the time,” Millie scolded him.
“You should’ve just come back to Todos Santos.” Mama wiped the tears from her face, and it occurred to me that maybe my biggest problem wasn’t that I didn’t know where Dean was. Because Mama rarely cried, and my father never did. And Millie…? I chanced another glance at her. She nibbled on the dead skin around her finger, fighting tears, too.
“Can someone turn off that machine?” I changed the subject, trying to lighten the mood. “You know? The one that sounds like it’s about to explode in a second,” I barked out an awkward laugh.
Millie looked up from her round belly and inhaled before she opened her mouth. “That’s your lungs, Rosie.”
I clamped my mouth shut and listened carefully. Crap. It was my lungs. They wheezed every time I drew a tender breath.
Phhhssssstttt. Phhhhsssstttt. Phhhssstttt.
“I don’t get it,” I muttered. “I’m fine. Really.”
Was I? I tried to sit up in bed, but my back ached and my lungs burned. Millie darted up and helped me, rearranging the pillows behind my back as Mama held me by the shoulders so I wouldn’t fall backwards. My eyes zoomed to my feet, and I swallowed, thinking back to what Dr. Hasting told me in one of our very first meetings.
“You can live a fulfilled, happy life, Rosie. If you play your cards right and take care of yourself. Most cystic fibrosis patients die of long-term lung complications and become disabled as time goes by, but if you do your exercise, intensive physiotherapy, and take your medicine, you should be fine.”
