Page 11 of Goodbye Days

“Okay, Carver, I need you to try to stand and I’ll support you. You’re too heavy for me to lift.”

I make it to my feet, where I sway drunkenly. I put one foot in front of the other until we’re outside. Georgia sits me in the passenger seat of her Camry and runs inside for her phone, her wallet, a pair of sandals for her, and a pair of shoes for me. I want to puke. I close my eyes and try to breathe through the nausea.

While I wait, I wonder if it’s annoying God to be missing the last member of Sauce Crew in his collection. I wonder if dying right now wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. It would certainly solve a lot of the problems I foresee in the immediate future.

When we arrive at the St. Thomas West Hospital ER, about ten minutes from our house (with Georgia exceeding the speed limit by twenty-five miles per hour), I’m breathing easier and I’m less queasy. My vision has opened up a little, my heartbeat has slowed, and in general, I’m a lot less certain I’m going to die, which comes as a strange disappointment.

I’m able to walk into the ER on my own. While I’m filling out paperwork, Georgia pulls out her phone and starts scrolling through her contacts.

I pause mid–check mark. “Are you calling Mom and Dad?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t.”

“Carver.”

“What? Don’t worry them. Plus it’s probably the middle of the night in Italy.”

“I know you aren’t stupid.”

“I’m serious. Just…we’ll tell them when they’re home.”

“Okay. We are sitting in the ER after you fully had some weird deal. I’m calling Mom and Dad. End of story.”

“Georgia.”

“We are not, like, debating this. I wonder if I can legally give consent for you to be treated. Fortunately, they don’t seem to care about parental consent at the ER.”

Georgia’s a sophomore biology major at the University of Tennessee, with plans to go to medical school. She’s probably loving this on some level.

“No answer,” Georgia mutters. “Hey, Mom, this is Georgia. I’m at St. Thomas ER with Carver. He had some sort of…episode after the funeral. He’s doing okay now. Call me.”

I slump in my chair and stare forward.

Georgia finds my eyes. “Why are you so weird about opening up to Mom and Dad when you’re vulnerable?”

“I don’t know. It’s embarrassing.”

“They want to be a part of your life. So many kids would kill to have our parents.”

“Can we not talk about this now? I feel shitty enough.” She’s right, but I can’t deal with yet another kind of guilt.

“Well, we might be waiting awhile.”

“Let’s find something else to talk about.”

“All I’m saying is that when we’re down, we need the people who love us.”

“Got it.”

“Got it,” Georgia says, mimicking my voice.

I’m feeling better now, less like I’m facing imminent death or confinement to some dread-filled limbo. Only exhaustion mixed with shapeless anxiety. Which I guess is my new normal. Too spent to experience much embarrassment, though, which is a relief.

It’s several minutes before a nurse comes to talk to me about my symptoms and take my blood pressure. They run an EKG. A little while after that, the doctor comes to see us. She gives off a reassuringly chipper go-ahead-try-to-shock-me aplomb even though she doesn’t look much older than Georgia. It’s weird to imagine Georgia wearing scrubs and treating people in a few years. She’ll probably try to guilt-trip all her patients.

“Hello, Carver. Dr. Stefani Craig. Nice to meet you. Sorry you’re not doing well. Tell me what’s going on.”