Pictures of You

Chapter 43

43

Drew

Evie ends the call abruptly and I turn back to the paramedic. He’s got Mum sitting up on the sunken couch now, her hand gripping the worn wooden armrest, and he’s given her something to calm her down. I wish he’d give me something. I’ve never been so scared in my life. And I should never have been so reckless as to ask her about that photo when I was meant to be heading out to the formal.

All I wanted to know was who it was. It has to be Oliver’s dad; they’re practically identical. Though I need to stop jumping to conclusions. Just because it’s a photo of Mum with Oliver’s father doesn’t mean … God, I can’t even say what it doesn’t mean.

But I didn’t expect her to react quite as badly as she did.

“Where did you get this?” she said, collapsing into one of the kitchen chairs as she held the photo in her hand.

“It was inside a book in a box in the garage,” I explained. “I was looking for that old army belt to wear tonight. Mum, who is this?”

The color drained from her face and her breathing seemed to constrict. Within seconds, she was physically shaking. “I … can’t,” she said.

Can’t what? “Mum, is this my father?”

The woman staring at me wasn’t my mum. She was the ghost of a person. Was she having a heart attack? She just froze. I couldn’t shake her out of it, and in the end I called the paramedics—I didn’t know what else to do. By the time they arrived, she was a mess.

“Your mum’s heart rate is starting to slow down now,” the paramedic explains kindly. “That’s good.”

I’m used to seeing her in medical settings, just not inside our own little house. Having paramedics walk through your own kitchen, past unwashed dishes still stacked in the sink, recycling piling up next to the bin, while they set their equipment down on top of your history essay is a whole other thing. Home is meant to be where we’re safe. An escape from all of this. They’re like intruders here. This feels all wrong.

“Given your mum’s medical history, we’re going to take her to the hospital,” the paramedic explains after they’ve made their initial assessment. “They’re well equipped to handle a mental health crisis.”

Mental health? I thought it was her heart.

“Did something trigger this panic attack?” he asks, as I follow him back down the hall to get the paperwork he needs. “It’s pretty severe.”

I triggered this by showing her that photo. She’s still agitated, though not as much with the Valium they’ve given her, and I’m racked with guilt.

We get to the hospital, Mum in the ambulance, me racing behind in her car. Everyone stares when I walk through the ER waiting room. Maybe I should have changed after all.

I tell the nurse behind the registration desk that I’m Annie Kennedy’s son, and she presses a button for the automatic door and directs me to the critical care ward. Aren’t we just here for a panic attack? Why critical?

Mum is parked on the bed in the corridor. She’s even more washed-out and fragile than normal, hair stuck to her forehead from where she’s sweated through the anxiety, brown eyes dulled from the sedation.

“I’m sorry,” I say. I mean that I’m sorry for showing her the photo and upsetting her. But even mentioning it stresses her out again and I decide just to shut up about it altogether. I hold her hand and tell her it will be all right. I have no idea if it will be or not—probably not, the way things have been going. But I say it anyway.

As the sedatives really sink in, she starts to doze. I try to compose a message to Evie. It’s not as simple as telling her Mum isn’t well, because I know she’ll ask for details and I can’t share the trigger for tonight’s collapse. And if I tell Evie where we are, she’ll appear here in an instant. It’s not fair to ruin her night. But that leaves me with no valid excuse for ditching the formal at the last second, when I’m the one Evie rescued after Alicia Brown first spread those rumors.

In the end, all I can do is type It’s Mum. I’m really sorry x.

But the message won’t send.

A couple of hours later, they’ve done a blood test and they’re a bit concerned about Mum’s white blood cell count.

“It could indicate an infection,” the doctor explains. “Your mum is immunocompromised from the chemo, as you know. Emotional stress weakens her system further and makes her more susceptible to whatever’s going around.”

My own blood pressure rises. Is this all my fault? I’m never going to tamper with someone’s past again. The speed with which she collapsed after I showed her the photo leaves me with zero doubt that it was the trigger for the panic attack that led us here, though she must have already been struggling with the infection.

My skin is clammy. I’m hot and cold and shivery and finding it very hard to breathe. I’ve felt alone with Mum during various emergencies in the past, but never more than now, when I can’t even voice my guilt. It’s tearing me up.

“Listen, we might keep her in overnight and get some IV antibiotics into her, just to be on the safe side. She’s sedated and peaceful now. And you look like you have somewhere to be …”

I really don’t want to go to the formal now . But if my message isn’t going through, turning up in person and apologizing may be my only option. I can’t afford to blow up this friendship.

There are plenty of odd looks once I arrive at the venue. The staff in the hotel foyer direct me to the function room. It takes a minute for my eyes to acclimate to the dark, and, as I scan the room, the room scans me. I feel like I’m never going to forget the blue-green patterned carpet in this room. The chandeliers. The round tables adorned with candles and flowers. The dance floor and lights. Muffled laughter. People staring and pointing at the billowing sleeves of my shirt—so out of place beside every other boy here, most of whom have ditched the theme and taken the less attention-seeking route, not that I care.

Finally, I see her. She’s in the center of the dance floor, under the twinkling lights of the disco ball, lit up.

In the sixties-inspired go-go dancer dress.

Wrapped around Oliver.