Five Feet Apart(10)
“All right,” Barb says, bringing me not one but two milk shakes, like the queen she is. “This should hold you over for a bit.”
She puts them on the table next to me, and I smile up at her familiar dark-brown eyes. “Thanks, Barb.”
She nods, touching my head gently before heading out the door. “Night, baby. See you tomorrow.”
I sit, staring out the window and coughing up more and more mucus as the vest does its job to clear my airways. My eyes travel to the drawing of the lungs and the picture hanging next to it. My chest starts to hurt in a way that has nothing to do with the treatment as I think of my real bed. My parents. Abby. I pick up my phone to see a text from my dad. It’s a picture of his old acoustic guitar, leaning against a worn nightstand in his new apartment. He spent the whole day setting it up after I insisted he do that instead of take me to the hospital. He pretended not to be relieved, just like I pretended Mom was taking me so he wouldn’t feel guilty.
It’s been a lot of pretending since the most ridiculous divorce of all time.
It’s been six months and they still can’t even look at each other.
For some reason it makes me want to hear his voice so badly. I tap on his contact info and almost press the green call button on my phone, but decide not to at the last second. I never call the first day, and all the coughing that the AffloVest makes me do would make him nervous. He’s still texting me every hour to check in.
I don’t want to worry my parents. I can’t.
Better to just wait until morning.
*
My eyes shoot open the next morning and I look for what woke me, seeing my phone vibrating noisily on the floor, having free-fallen off the table. I squint at the drained milkshake glasses and mound of empty chocolate pudding cups taking up practically the entire space. No wonder the phone fell off.
If we’re 60 percent water, I’m closing in on the remaining 40 percent being pudding.
I groan, reaching over the bed to grab my phone, my G-tube burning with the stretch. I gently touch my side, lifting my shirt to unhook the tube, surprised that the skin around it is even redder and more inflamed than it was before.
That’s not good. Irritations usually go away with a little bit of Fucidin, but my application yesterday didn’t seem to make a difference.
I put a bigger glob of the ointment on it, hoping that will clear it up, and add a note to my to-do list to monitor it, before scrolling through my notifications. I have a couple of Snaps waiting from Mya and Camila, looking sleepy but happy as they boarded the plane this morning. Both of my parents texted me, checking in to see how I slept, if I’m settled in, and saying to give them a call when I get up.
I’m about to answer the both of them when my phone vibrates, and I swipe right to see a text from Poe: You up?
I shoot back a quick message seeing if he wants to have our usual breakfast date in twenty, before putting the phone down and swinging my legs over my bed to grab my laptop.
Less than a second later my phone buzzes with his reply: Yees!
I grin, hitting the nurse-call button by my bed. Julie’s friendly voice crackles through the speaker. “Morning, Stella! You good?”
“Yep. Can I get breakfast now?” I ask, turning my laptop on.
“You got it!”
The time on my laptop reads 9:00 a.m., and I pull the med cart closer, looking at the color-coded clumps I laid out yesterday. I smile to myself, realizing that this time tomorrow, after I get the beta version of my app fully up and running, I’ll be getting a notification on my phone telling me to take my morning pills and the exact dosages of each that I need.
Almost a year of hard work finally coming together. An app for all chronic illnesses, complete with med charts, schedules, and dosage information.
I take my pills and open Skype, scanning the contact list to see if either of my parents is on. There’s a tiny green dot next to my dad’s name, and I press the call button, waiting as it rings noisily.
His face appears on the screen as he puts his thick-rim glasses over his tired eyes. I notice that he’s still in his pajamas, his graying hair jutting out in every direction, a lumpy pillow propped up behind him. Dad was always an early riser. Out of bed before seven thirty every morning, even on the weekends.
The worry starts to slowly wrap itself tighter around my insides.
“You need a shave,” I say, taking in the unusual stubble covering his chin. He’s always been clean shaven, except for a beard phase he went through one winter during elementary school.
He chuckles, rubbing his scruffy chin. “You need new lungs. Mic drop!”
I roll my eyes as he laughs at his own joke. “How was the gig?”
He shrugs. “Eh, you know.”
“I’m glad you’re performing again!” I say cheerily, trying my best to look positive for him.
“Sore throat doing okay?” he asks, giving me a worried look.
I nod, swallowing to confirm that the rawness in my throat has started to subside. “Already a million times better!” Relief fills his eyes, and I change the subject quickly before he can ask any more treatment-related questions. “How’s your new apartment?”
He gives me an over-the-top smile. “It’s great! It’s got a bed and a bathroom!” His smile fades slightly, and he shrugs. “And not much else. I’m sure your mom’s place is nicer. She could always make anywhere feel like home.”