Neighborly(68)

That’s when I remember that she’s still here, that I didn’t tell her to leave. She’s hearing everything. I don’t want her knowing my business, reporting it back to anyone. But how can I kick her out now, in front of the doctor? He’d think I’m nuts.

“What about the jaundice?” I say.

“That’s about the same.”

“And the anemia?”

“The anemia is mild. It might have even been present before the illness and went undetected.”

“So you’re not treating her for it?”

“Not at present, no.” He looks like he really wants to bolt. I was just supposed to take his “all good signs” at face value and let him get on with his day. “We’re monitoring her symptoms very closely. We don’t want to overtreat.”

“Or undertreat?” she pipes up, and I can’t help it, I look at her gratefully. It’s like she’s on my team, more than Doug has seemed. He’s too busy sucking up to the doctors to pin them down on specifics. He just trusts way too easily.

“But what’s wrong?” I ask. “Do you know if it’s viral or bacterial yet?”

“Not just yet. Some of the cultures will be ready tomorrow. She’s already getting fluids and antibiotics. We’re controlling her fever. Believe me, she’s getting the best care.” He pats my arm. “We’ve got this, Mom. Don’t you worry.”

As he leaves, I feel deflated. I fall into the chair, and again, I can’t help it, I’m glad she’s here. I’m just glad not to be alone.

“That was good news, right?” she says. “About her blood pressure and temperature?”

“No one was in here for more than an hour. No nurse and no doctor. I think that means she’s doing better, but maybe it means they’re giving up on her.”

“I don’t think it works that way.”

I don’t know why, but I’m talking. I’m telling her the theory I just came up with, just since being here, about the circles of luck, which are also the circles of hell.

“In the outer circle,” I tell her, “there are all the people with healthy children. Their kids get common colds, but they never need to visit the ER. That’s most people. That was me, until now. And then one circle in, it’s Doug, Sadie, and me. The ones who are lucky because they have health insurance and access to good medical care, and when they realize something’s wrong, they can bring her to a place like this. It could be worse, I know that.”

She’s listening attentively. She’s just so present. I’ve been missing that with Doug for a while, I realize. And this might sound crazy, but when I look into her eyes, I get this feeling like I’ve known her forever.

I really must be losing it.

But I keep talking, because I need to.

“There’s a boy next to us,” I continue. “He whines sometimes, and the nurses go in and out constantly. His mom seems to know them really well. I overheard them talking about him. He’s three, and he’s got some kind of brain tumor. This is his fifth surgery.

“The curtain was open one time, and I could see inside. His head is in this weird vise, like in the Hannibal Lecter movie. And I think, that’s a circle worse than mine. Because Sadie will probably be fine, but he and his parents have to keep going through this, time and time again.”

“Or maybe he’ll be cured. Maybe the fifth time is the charm.”

“Or maybe he’ll die. Or maybe Sadie will. That’s the inner circle.”

“But it’s also the smallest, right?”

Our eyes meet, and that earlier gratitude returns. I want her here. I need a friend so badly.

“I can imagine with all the free time you have in here,” she says, “your mind goes all sorts of places.”

“My mind does that anyway. Even when I’m not at the hospital.”

“Mine too,” she says. “The thing about having kids is that there’s such a small chance of something really awful happening. Like a one percent chance, maybe. But you have to keep dodging it. In the womb, you’re dodging. They say up to fifty percent of pregnancies end in miscarriages. Then they’re out in the world.” We both look at Sadie; both of our eyes fill with tears. “There’s a slim possibility of any one terrible thing happening to them, but you have to keep dodging. It’s like this juggernaut you spend your whole life running from. But you wouldn’t have it any other way, right? You can’t imagine going back to your life before they arrived.”

“No,” I say, “I can’t imagine going back.”





CHAPTER 24

ELLEN

“So, how is she?” Brandon stands on my doorstep, his eyes worried but something else, too. He’s hungry for the update. He likes to be in the loop more than any human I’ve ever known.

“She’s still in the ICU,” I say. “The ICU for kids. It’s called the PICU. She’s barely conscious, and the doctors don’t know what’s wrong with her.”

“I can’t even imagine. A baby that young, in a big, scary hospital. So full of germs. I get freaked out just visiting a place like that. I want to take a Purell shower afterward.”

“Well, that’s why I went instead of you.”