Before I Let You Go(3)
“Of course he is.” Annie sinks onto the bed and shoots me a withering look. “Only the best for our Lexie.”
“Do you want help, or not?” Sam says, before I can respond. Rather than feeling pleased for his automatic defense of me, I feel instant and bewildering irritation. Annie is startled by his short tone. Her gaze snaps from my face to his, and then color floods her starkly white cheeks until she looks feverish.
She doesn’t answer Sam—instead, she rubs her belly gently with her palms and she lifts her legs up onto the bed. My gaze zeros in on her monstrously bloated feet; swollen to nearly double their normal size, the skin pitted around her ankles. I was already nervous for Annie—but my heart sinks at the sight of those feet. I scan my eyes over her body and survey her belly.
“How many months?” I ask. It’s difficult to assess how far into the pregnancy she is because her bump is tiny, but then again, so is she. I’m collating a mental catalog of what I know of heroin use in pregnancy, assuming that’s the drug she still favors. If she’s been using for the whole pregnancy, the baby’s growth may have suffered.
“I think I’m due soon,” Annie says. “I haven’t seen a doctor.”
“Not at all?” I wince as the judgmental words leave my mouth to hang in the room between us. Annie’s eyes plead with me to understand—as if I could, as if there is any excuse for what she’s just told me. After a fraught pause, she shakes her head, and a tear drains out of the corner of her eye to run over her weathered cheek. She wraps her arms around her bump protectively, but when she looks at me, her guilt is palpable.
I approach the bed and motion toward Sam, indicating that he should pass me the medical kit he’s carrying. His hand descends upon my shoulder, and he gently steers me toward the cracked vinyl chair that runs alongside the small dining table.
“I’ll assess her,” he says. His tone is gentle, but the words are firm. I shake my head, and Sam’s gaze sharpens. “She’s your sister. You need to let me do this.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Sam isn’t going to back down, so I sigh and sit slowly. At the last minute, the urge to care for Annie myself surges again and I straighten and shake my head.
“She is my sister, Sam,” I say. “That’s why I should be the one to assess her.”
Sam doesn’t budge, and his gaze doesn’t waver.
“You know as well as I do that you’re too close. You can’t possibly make an impartial assessment here—your judgment will be clouded.” Sam’s gaze becomes pleading. “Lexie, please. Let me do this.”
I sit, but as I do, my fingers twitch against my thighs and my foot taps against the floor of the trailer. The urge to take charge is so great that even my body is revolting. I’ve never been good at sitting back when a problem needed solving—particularly not when it came to my family. The only thing that stops me from pushing him aside and reviewing her condition myself is that he’s right—I’m far too close to this situation to remain objective. Besides, this is Sam, the person I trust more than anyone else in the world.
He sits on the bed beside Annie and withdraws a digital blood pressure machine from his pack. After he fixes it to her arm, he offers her a reassuring smile.
“Can you tell us a bit about what’s going on?”
“I started getting headaches last week, but they’re getting worse. Tonight I couldn’t see . . . everything was doubled and blurry.”
Sam leans over and palpates Annie’s belly, then picks up his stethoscope and listens near her belly button. After a moment or two I see his shoulders relax just a little, and I know he’s found a heartbeat. He continues listening, and I’m desperate to know how stable the rhythm is.
“How long have your feet been like that?” I ask Annie.
“Maybe a week? I’m not sure . . .” The digital machine beeps several times to indicate a problem. I lean forward and am not surprised to see the numbers flash on the screen: 160/120. Annie and the baby are definitely in trouble. I fumble for my phone—do I call an ambulance? Sam doesn’t seem to be panicking, and perhaps I wouldn’t be either if Annie were a patient who had walked into my office, but right now I’m simply a terrified sister.
“Has the baby been moving, Annie?” Sam asks as he rises away from her belly.
“I think so . . .?”
Sam turns to stare at me. Our eyes lock.
“Annie,” I say gently. “We have to get you to a hospital. Now.”
“Lexie, I can’t,” Annie chokes. “My friend failed a drug test last year and they took her baby. Her son went into foster care, and she never got him back. I can’t let that happen to my baby. I just can’t.”
I want to point out the dozens of reasons why she shouldn’t be allowed to bring a baby home to this place at all, especially given her current state of mind. The mess of her life could not be more evident, but those shockingly high numbers on the BP machine are burned into the forefront of my thoughts. Annie needs urgent medical attention. This is not the time to lecture her about her addiction or her suitability as a parent. This is the time to persuade her, and I have to tread lightly.
But despite this, I know that Annie is probably right about the drug test. If she fails a narcotics test, it’s quite likely she’ll be charged with chemically endangering a child—and that’s a felony in Alabama. I’ve never had it happen to a patient personally, but I’ve heard of several cases in the media.