There’s a sinking feeling in my gut as I realize that means we can’t use it to help Mom, or anyone else. But, another feeling tangles with the disappointment. A feeling I don’t know how to name, one that makes my chest swell and my skin warm.
Whatever is going on between us… it’s special. Electric. And it’s just for us.
Chapter Thirteen
The silence of Mom’s room is shattered by a scream from across the hall. My first instinct is to make sure it didn’t wake her. My second is to see what’s going on. I don’t want to be like the creepy neighbor woman in a 1950s sitcom, the one looking through her blinds with binoculars and gossiping about the neighborhood drama to her husband who’s barely listening, but… I’m bored. And I’m curious. And I don’t want to work on my thesis or call Jeremy back. Two things I need to do, but keep putting off.
The screams are coming from the man in the room directly across from us, on the other side of the nurse’s station. He’s thrashing in bed with two nurses trying to hold him still. Rose runs down the hall, with Cosmos just behind her, presumably to join the effort. As soon as they enter the room, they shut the door,and I’m left wondering if everything’s going to be okay.
“What’s that about?” Mom’s voice has a hazy quality to it, like she’s still half asleep.
It’s not clinically provable, but I feel like her symptoms cycle a lot on this drug regimen. I expected Thursdays to be the worst, since the drug has a cumulative effect and she gets it Monday through Thursday. Instead, the fatigue hits the hardest over the weekend, like her body is exhausted from processing everything, and when it finally gets a break, it shuts down altogether. Which is where we are right now.
All she wants to do is sleep. Convincing her to wake up for breakfast was torture. Today, our nurse reprimanded me for Mom’s untouched breakfast tray and told me they’d need to put her on a feeding tube if I couldn’t get her to eat more.
I know she didn’t mean it as a threat, but it felt like one, and the weight of it, the responsibility, was crushing. I tried. Mom ignored me, rolled over, and went back to sleep without saying a word. It took over an hour to convince her to eat half a banana, and even then, she was angry about it, snapping at me in a way that was totally unlike her.
She’s mellower now. Her eyes are open, but glassy. Her cheeks are sunken. She’s so pale I can see her blue veins. The nurse is right. She needs to eat more.
“How about some orange juice?” I ask now that she’s awake.
She gives me a weak nod. I peel back the top andhand the prepackaged juice to her. It makes me feel a little better that she’s getting a few more calories, especially when I see how badly her hand shakes as she brings the small plastic cup to her lips.
Once she’s asleep again, I try to ignore my curiosity about what’s going on across the hall and work on my novel. A pointless effort. I’ve apparently forgotten every word in the English language and turned into a slug that can do nothing but smear slime across my computer screen. What a gross analogy. See, I can’t even come up with a decent analogy anymore.
I sigh and stare off into the empty hallway, hoping the patient across the hall is alright, and that Cosmos can help them. I wonder what Cosmos is like in action. Is he the reassuringly calm doctor, or the no-nonsense take-charge type? There’s a confidence and a gentleness to him, and I’m unsure which side would win out when he’s dealing with a patient in crisis.
Then again, the last time I saw him, he was both dominant and gentle at the same time. When he told me to cut his hair, he looked at me like he wanted to devour me, but he was so careful, too, like he saw all of my hurt and didn’t want to push on any of my bruises.
That was days ago, but his eyes are still burned into my memory. I’ve never seen eyes as dark as his. Brown, like… rich coffee or my extra-strong hot chocolate. Ugh, again with the poor analogies. His eyes are… more like the fertile soil coffee plants need to thrive. Humus, I think it’s called, or is it loam? Either way, they’re eyes that make things grow.
I switch over to happilyeveraftercrap.doc, an idea blooming in my mind. A conversation between the main character and love interest takes shape, and soon I’m typing away. It’s not a fleshed-out scene, just quick notes and bits of dialogue. Writing this romance novel is nothing like writing my thesis. When I’m writing it, I feel the same excitement I get from reading. I don’t know where it’s going or what’s going to happen next, and I can’t wait to find out. I want to keep turning pages, or rather, turning out pages.
At the sound of people talking, I look up. Nurses are slowly filing out of the room across the hall with solemn looks on their faces. Fear steals my breath as I consider the worst-case scenarios, possibilities that could just as easily happen to Mom as to the person in that room. Were they screaming because they were in pain, or did something else happen? What would it take for Mom to scream like that? When we were first admitted, Mom rated her pain at a nine, but she never screamed. She clammed up, ground her teeth, and stopped talking altogether. It was like she was trying to hold back the force of a dam, control her way out of the pain she felt.
Thankfully, she hasn’t been in that kind of pain lately. She’s just been tired. She can barely make it through a thirty-minute TV show without falling asleep. But the trial seems to be going well. She hasn’t experienced any of the more extreme side effects, and those she has developed—fatigue, a rash, tremors—have been well controlled with meds and sleep, and, of course, Aunt Joan’s pot brownies.
I don’t feel as panicky as I did when she was first admitted. My breath comes more easily, and my chest isn’t so tight. I don’t hate watching the sunrise anymore. I feel hopeful. There are still plenty of things to feel anxious about, but I can face it all as long as Mom’s okay.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
Kiara:
Help! I accidentally told Sullivan about The Book Bar’s open mic tonight, and I got roped into inviting him. You have to come with us!
Pleeeeeaaaaase! I can’t survive a whole evening with him by myself. He’ll want to talk about his cat all night, and I’ll want to rip my ears off.
If you come, I’ll love you forever and ever
I’ll even buy you the fancy edition of Jane Eyre you’ve been wanting
I’ve wanted that edition for a while, but not nearly enough to make me leave Mom.
Cosmos, Rose, and three other nurses come out of the room across the hall and congregate around the nurses’ station, their voices pitched low and private. He looks more worn and tired than he did last time I saw him. I wish I could smooth the crease between his eyebrows and help somehow.
As casually as possible, I stand up and walk to the doorway. I don’t want to be too obvious, but my curiosity and my desire to be closer to Cosmos propel me forward.
After a moment or two of standing there, without Cosmos so much as glancing in my direction, I start to feel awkward and decide to go get some hot chocolate. I don’t usually start my hot chocolate drip this early in the day, but maybe Cosmos will follow me again, or maybe he’ll still be out in the hall when I get back.
