Effortless With You (7 page)

***

“Mild hypoglycemia and moderate dehydration.” I wake to a deep voice. A line of tubing disappears into my hand. Wires lead from my chest to squiggles on a computer monitor. I’ve watched enough of Discovery Health Channel to know it is my heartbeat. An older man stands with his back to me at the foot of the bed, my bed, I guess. A stethoscope hangs around his neck. My parents sit on chairs in the corner. “She’ll wake up shortly and probably feel woozy and exhausted the rest of the day.”

The room spins. He’s got that right.

“Will she be okay?” Mom asks.

“Oh sure,” he chortles. “We will observe her the rest of the day. If she’s stable, she can be discharged this evening.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting this.”

“It’s okay, Sarah,” Dad says. “It’s not your fault. The boy said she refused to eat.”

Justin. Of course he’d tell my parents this was my fault.

“Dehydration and a little low blood sugar can come on very fast in this heat, especially when you aren’t used to working in it,” the doctor offers the information to Mom as comfort. I’m sure it just makes her feel worse. “Now if it wasn’t for that boy, she would have been in much worse shape.” The doctor chuckles again. “Did you know he poured a Pixy Stick into her mouth while she was passed out?”

What? I don’t remember that.

“He’s a smart guy. He may have saved her from a seizure.”

Mom gasps. Great job, doc. You successfully gave her a new reason to manage me
.
Dad places his hand on Mom’s shoulder. “We’ll thank Justin. Maybe have him over for dinner?”

“No.” The word flies out of my mouth. All three turn toward me. Mom rushes to my side, grabbing my hand. I jerk my hand away from her. I don’t need her fakeness right now.

“Honey. You’re awake.”

“Obviously,” I say.

The doctor continues, “Another side effect you may notice is some additional attitude and aggression. She apparently hit that boy rather hard across his face when he carried her into the emergency room.” He winks at me. “If you could have heard what she yelled at that boy …”

“I can imagine.” Mom stands up from my side and glares at me as she crosses the room. She's given up fake appearances. Good.

“Of course, this all may just be a side effect of being a teenage girl, too.” He looks at me and winks. I don’t like him. I hate when people attribute actions to “being a teenager.” Anyone who views someone as a life stage instead of an individual with thoughts pisses me off.

“Excuse me?” a female voice says.

“Come on in, Esther.” The doctor pulls the curtain open and an older, plump nurse walks in with a small box.

“Hi, Sweetie.” She puts the box on my bed. “I just need to poke your finger to test your blood sugar, okay?”

I wince. I hate needles.

“It’ll be quick. Promise.” She puts a small little box against my middle finger.
Click
. A sharp dagger digs into my flesh. She squeezes out a drop of blood onto a small pink paper. “Done.” She places the paper into the machine. It beeps. “Seventy,” she says to the doctor. Then she turns back to me. “How about some juice?”

My mouth does feel dry. “Ok.” She leaves the room. Her steps are soft on the hard white floor.

“Well, Lucinda,” the doctor looks down at me. His white bushy eyebrows bounce as he speaks. “We’ll watch you closely, probably let you go home later tonight. How would you like that?” He pats my hand. I suppress the urge to ask him to stop. He turns to my parents. “She’s going to be just fine.”

“Oh thank you, Dr. Forts. Thank you so much.” Mom shakes his hand. She gives him too much credit.

I look down at the line in my hand, vaguely remembering a strong hand holding my arm down while a needle jabbed my skin.

“She needs a bolus, now.” Esther’s voice filters through my memory. She’s the one who took charge.

Now, my parents stand at the foot of my bed, looking down at me. “I’m fine.” I roll my eyes.

“Why didn’t you eat?” Mom asks, her sweet tone she had around the doctor now gone.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“We can’t even trust you to take care of yourself. Why don’t you think?”

“Sarah, maybe not now.” At least I have one compassionate parent.

“Yeah, Mom. How about we wait until I get out of the hospital?”

Dad pats my foot. “You too, Lucinda. Not here.”

“May I come in?” Esther peeks around the curtain. Dad eagerly pulls it open for her. Esther walks in with three containers of juice in hand. “Cranberry or apple?”

“Cranberry please.” She hands it to me. “Thanks.”

“Well, Sarah and Dan, I need to do some vital signs and a physical assessment on Lucy.” Esther looks down at me and smiles. “I bet Lucy wouldn’t mind some privacy.”

Mom interrupts, “Oh, it’s okay.”

No, it isn’t. I look to Dad, raising my eyebrows. He gets the hint. “Honestly Sarah, I’m hungry. How about we go grab a snack while Esther watches Lucy?”

Esther smiles. “Yes, don’t make more work for me, Dad. I don’t want another hypoglycemic patient today.”

“Good point. Come on, let’s find a candy bar.” He wraps his hand around Mom’s and leads her out the door.

“Do you know how much high-fructose corn syrup is in a candy bar?” Mom’s voice echoes down the hall. I roll my eyes and Esther chuckles.

Esther places a blood pressure cuff around my arm, squeezing it like a boa constrictor. “Thought I’d give you a break, honey.” She nods toward the door. “It’s hard being sixteen and in the hospital with your parents around.”

“It’s hard being sixteen in general.” I sigh, laying my head back on my pillow.

She pats my arm. “97/68.”

“Is that good?” I ask.

“Just fine for a woman your size.” I smile. A woman.

She places her fingers on my wrist, resting them where my blood bounces. “I’m actually surprised it’s so normal. I thought it might be a little high now that you’re remembering some things.” She whistles. “You made quite a scene in the ER.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry.” I hope I haven’t said something mean to her. She's nice.

“No apologizing. It was the best part of my day—listening to you call that guy names as you went in and out of consciousness. And that punch! Whoop! He didn’t see it coming!”

“Did I really hit him?” I try to hide my smile. At least I have that …

“Right across the face.” She nods while counting my pulse. “The best part though was when you woke with him sitting next to your bed. You looked him right in the eye and told him his head was so big it would explode.”

“It will someday,” I mutter. “Was he mad?”

She shakes her head. “Nope. He just laughed.” Of course he did, laughing at a girl in a hospital bed. He’s probably already texted everyone about it. I hate technology.

Esther pulls up a chair. “So, I know you can hold your own with the boys, but how’s everything else going?”

“Um, okay.” I lie. She raises her eyebrow, catching me. I am too exhausted to exaggerate on the lie. Honesty seems easier. “Okay, it’s crappy.”

She leans back in her chair, hands folded on her lap and ready to listen. “Tell me about it.” So I do. I tell her about everything: Marissa, sneaking out, the party, Mom’s yellow hat, Zach, and the new job. I even talk about basketball.

Esther nods along with my words. “That’s a lot to deal with. Hang in there. Sixteen can suck, but it can be oh so good too. More independence. Dating. Love. Knowledge.” She pauses. “Sixteen is really just the beginning of your journey.”

She gets it. Now why can’t Mom and Dad get it too?

CHAPTER SEVEN

A half-eaten bowl of Kung Pao chicken and an untouched orange juice rest on my bedroom floor. A nasty combination. I need to text Zach. We haven’t spoken in four days. I can’t really blame him after Mom’s show the other night.

Me: Hi Zach. Sorry about my mom the other night. She’s crazy. I did have fun at the party with you though. Want to hang out soon?

“Lucy?” Eric’s light voice calls through my door.

“Come on in.” My little brother is the only person I ever welcome into my room. But he has to ask first.

The door creaks open. Eric wears matching frog pajamas. With red jelly on the corner of his lips and blond hair in a curled mess, he looks like a five-year-old prince.

“What’s up, bud?” I swing him onto my bed. My right shoulder protests in pain. My wrist hurts even more. Crap. Wasn’t fainting, fighting, and the hospital enough? Of course the painting job gets the final say. I stretch out my shoulder as Eric looks at me with a scrunched nose; his thinking face.

“-othing up.” He stands up on the bed to poke at the Band-Aid on the back of my hand. “You got a shot?”

“A little one.” His lips turn into a frown. “But it didn’t hurt at all. It just helped me get better.”

“So you’re -ot sick?”

I give him my best reassuring smile and answer back overenthusiastically. “No, bud. I feel great!” I stand up and do our crazy dance, a complex set of movements that involves spinning and arm flailing. My shoulder muscles beg to be ripped off. He giggles and dances too.

“Good Lucy. -ot sick.”

“Good. Lucy
is
n
ot sick.” I correct him. He has been working with speech therapy on annunciation and full sentences all year. I bend over and tickle him into a fit of giggles.

“Lucy is not sick!” He says between gasps. The doorbell rings and he pushes me away. His new chore is opening the front door and he takes it very seriously. I pretend to hold him captive but let go when I notice his smile turning into frustration. He clobbers down the stairs. “No, Daddy. -y job!” I close my bedroom door, only hearing muffles from below.

Dried sweat cakes my skin. Nasty. I step into the shower, using my loofah like iron wool on the visible layers of dirt on my skin. There, clean. I grab some jeans and a tank top off my floor and throw my hair back in a bun. It’s time to get out of this house. It is only ten in the morning. Marissa is definitely still asleep. Maybe Eric will want to walk to the park with me?

BZZZ.
My phone. Zach.

Zach: Crazy is right. Grabbing burgers with guys tonight. You and Marissa in?

My heart relaxes. I had no idea it was so tightly wound. He still wants to see me.

Me: Sounds yummy. I’ll check with Marissa. But I’ll be there.

Zach: Oh, you’ll have more fun if Marissa comes too. It’ll get boring.

My heart twists again. Rejection.

But maybe Zach is right? I imagine myself sitting at the end of a table filled with his lacrosse friends. I’d have no idea what to say and look like an idiot. I send Marissa a quick text. She’ll say yes; she rarely turns down an opportunity to hang out with a group of guys.

What to wear? I find my favorite tank top wrinkled with a peanut-butter smear down the front. I gather the rest of the dirty clothes that carpet my floor and bring them all downstairs to do laundry. Eric’s voice chimes from the kitchen. Talking to himself again. Cute. I swing open the door, but it doesn’t open more than an inch. I hear a low grunt and then the pressure releases, allowing the door to swing open.

My stomach drops. Justin is blocking my view of our white-and-black checkered floor.

Perfect. Am I even wearing makeup? Not that it matters around him. Barfing in front of him trumps not wearing mascara any day. Humiliation.

Justin holds a truck in hand. Eric sits next to him, pointing to his trucks and explaining, “That truck is Bert.” Justin looks up at me and flashes his favorite smile. “Have you met Bert, Lucy?”

I roll my eyes, “Really, here?” His light laugh rolls as he smashes Bert into a gold matchbox car. The screen door opens and Mom and Dad walk in.

“Lucy, I was just about to call you,” Dad says. Justin stands up and Dad pats his back. Excellent. They are buddies. “Justin stopped in to check on you.” Dad smiles at me indicatively.

No, Dad. Way off.

Justin picks up on my Dad’s smile and interjects, “Well, actually, my uncle sent me. As the owner he feels it’s important to check on any employee who falls sick or gets injured on the job. He has a business meeting,” he explains.

Mom speaks in her fake sweet voice, “Well, isn’t that nice? You’re lucky, Lucy, working for such a great company.”

Working? As if I still am? Whoa. I must’ve missed something. What about the hospitalization? It never even occurred to me that I’d be returning.

“So,” Justin looks at me. “How are you feeling?”

Eric answers for me. “Good. Lucy is not sick. She’s all better!” He looks up at me, so proud of his sentences.

I pat him on the head, “That’s right, buddy. I’m all better now.” Eric seems satisfied and zooms a car into Mom’s foot. She scoops him off the ground and cuddles him in a hug; he sticks his jellied face into her neck.

My eyes dart away. I don’t get to have any memories of doing that with Mom. Her depression stole all opportunity from me. My preschool friends’ moms used to do the same rocking hug after our holiday concerts. But Mom couldn’t even make it to hear me sing. She just sat empty on the couch, waiting for nothing. The only fun memories I have is when I was Eric’s age and we watered plants together every day. Her therapy had started. She’d get off the couch, teaching me about each plant and we’d talk to them while watering, encouraging them to grow. But when she finally got better, I was too old for those sorts of hugs.