Chapter 7
Emery
The silence in my room is weirdly comforting.
The little stick-on monitors that covered me from chest to toe were taken off yesterday around lunchtime and were replaced with the little finger clamp thingy.
As long as it doesn’t come off my finger, then the screen stays quiet.
Which means I’m protecting the clamp like my life depends on it because that high-pitched, techy-sounding beep makes my head feel like it’s going to explode.
There is still no hope for being able to watch TV to pass the time.
All the noise and light filters through my brain like a bratty little kid running up and down a grocery store aisle, knocking things off displays.
When I asked how long that delightful little side effect was going to last, I was told it should clear up within a few weeks.
Weeks.
I don’t have time for that shit. I need to get my life back on track.
But honestly, even if they discharged me right now, concentrating on anything at all is exhausting. Oakley brought me my phone, but even attempting to doomscroll to pass the time has done nothing but make the headache worse.
I have no idea what this is going to mean for all my schoolwork, but I’m sure if I play the “I-was-kidnapped-and-almost-sex-trafficked-then-hospitalized” card, I should be able to get extensions on whatever I miss.
And if Oakley is to be believed about my ex-daddies saving me, then two out of three of my teachers are aware of my situation.
If you want to get super technical about it, they are part of the cause for this whole shit show.
Tray, being as desperate as he was, would have found me eventually, but it wouldn’t have been last night.
If they had just chosen to come to me instead of handling their secret plan, I would have been safe with them in the apartment.
I’d been playing Snakes and Ladders while they’d been playing chess.
But that’s fine. They can play whatever the fuck games they want now; it just won’t be with me.
I roll onto my side, cradling my wrist against my chest, and stare out between the slats of the horizontal blinds on the window that looks out into the hospital corridor.
I’ve already spent two nights in this hospital bed.
Every time I’ve asked someone about billing or mentioned that I don’t have insurance and would like to go home as soon as possible, I’m told I don’t need to worry about that right now and to concentrate on healing.
How the fuck is someone supposed to heal while every single minute they lie in this bed, they are racking up thousands of dollars in medical bills?
If all I need to do is rest, why can’t I do it at home in my own bed that’s paid for by the scholarships I’m endangering every minute I’m away from my textbooks?
Just thinking about it makes my headache spike. I should probably take the medication they offered me earlier, but even though it’s merely a painkiller, I can’t do it. If they were offering me over-the-counter stuff, I’d be taking it as often as they allowed, but it’s not.
The little white tablet is prescription codeine. I saw way too many good people start out on the “soft” stuff and then slowly slide down to the harder options. Just look at Tray. I will not go down that path.
I’ve been clean my entire life, and I plan to keep it that way.
Thinking of Tray…I have no idea where he is.
Now that he has popped back up in my life, the familiar tension of not knowing what he is up to or whether he is making more promises my body is going to be responsible for cashing in, is back.
All I want is to be left alone, to be allowed to move on with my life.
A not-so-quiet group of people stops outside my door, and I heave a sigh. The doctor with her gaggle of med students. This marks their third visit in the last two days. Pleasantries and then five minutes of being spoken about, like I’m not in the room. Hopefully I get to go home today.
I watch through the window as the med students consult their notes and answer Dr. Everett’s questions.
In her early thirties, she looks like she belongs on a medical drama, with her blonde hair in a French twist, makeup always perfectly done, a smile for everyone, and a pristine white doctor’s coat.
There is a vague memory of her face from when I first arrived, and I regularly hear her name being paged, so I figure she is probably someone important around here.
Which has had me wondering why she is spending so much time with me, considering I’m only on a watch-and-monitor order.
It’s not like I’m on death’s doorstep or anything.
The handle of my door turns, and the mother duck and her ducklings follow her in, tablets clutched in their hands.
“Good morning, Emery. How are you feeling today?” Dr. Everett asks, eyes darting over to my monitor and then running over my features.
It’s as if she is trying to see inside my head to determine if my concussion has improved or if it is going to develop from a mild to a moderate traumatic brain injury.
“Better than yesterday. I’ve been awake since breakfast, but the TV is still giving me a headache,” I reply as I fiddle with the edge of the hospital blanket. “And I managed a shower this morning, but that made me feel pretty gross, to be honest.”
As much as I really don’t want to fucking be here, I’m not messing around with my brain. It’s literally the key to my dream future, and I’m not letting Tray take that, as well as the last few years of my life.
The students all tap away furiously as Dr. Everett nods. “Yes, that is probably going to last a couple of days, if not weeks. Don’t rush the healing process, okay?”
“Okay,” I reply obediently, because what the hell else am I supposed to say? It’s not like I can make it go any faster, and being vertical makes me want to puke, so there are no escape plans in my future.
“Wonderful. Okay, ready for the med students?” she asks with a smile that genuinely reaches her green eyes.
I roll back onto my back and reach for the remote and adjust the bed so I’m sitting up a little more. “Sure.”
“Excellent. Argos, go.”
A Hispanic guy steps forward, hair styled back with product, black-rimmed square glasses framing dark eyes as he recites my medical history without the use of his tablet.
“Emery Nicholas, female, eighteen. Came in via emergency thirty-eight hours ago with a mTBI and three-millimeter tear of the left UCL. IV has been disconnected. Last medication was metoclopramide and ketorolac at twenty-forty-five.”
“Excellent.” Dr. Everett nods approvingly before turning back to me, serious expression locked in. “Now, one of your nurses has informed me that you have refused any additional medication. May I ask why?”
Ah, Nurse Marie.
I don’t bother hiding the information from the doctor, since it’s a pretty classic story. “I’ve seen too much addiction. I won’t go down like that.”
Something flickers across her face before her entire being softens.
“I understand. Okay, well, my primary objective is to get you through this first stage of healing with minimal discomfort while also ensuring your voice is heard. So”—she turns back to her students— “what is another pain management option we can offer Emery?”
Eight hands shoot into the air.
“Lewis.”
“Alternate pain medication, such as acetaminophen, which can be purchased over the counter after discharge. Cold compresses, ice chips. Reduced lighting will also help with pain management. And if the nausea persists, a low-grade antiemetic.”
“Very good.” Dr. Everett turns back to me. “How does that sound, Emery? Take the sharp edge off the pain and see how it goes overnight?”
I mull it over. It’s not like I haven’t taken painkillers before.
Period pain and general headaches are still a thing I like to not have to deal with.
And even I can admit that the pain was more tolerable when I wasn’t constantly worried that the two bites of toast I managed this morning were going to make a reappearance.
“Yeah, that sounds pretty good, actually.”
“Wonderful. Sims, if you could write up the order, we’ll get that progressing as soon as possible. And, Emery, if everything goes well tonight, we can get you discharged tomorrow. I—” A triple beep from her phone cuts her off.
Before she can reach for her pocket, her name is called over the PA system.
“Dr. Everett, to emergency. Paging Dr. Everett.”
“Three-car pileup, five minutes out. Okay, that’s it for rounds today.
Emery, I’ll try to be here for your hopeful discharge tomorrow.
” Dr. Everett pockets her phone and disappears through my door, one of her students pulling it shut as they excitedly follow her through while she starts rattling off details about what they should expect to see and do.
I relax back into my pillow and re-lower the bed, more than ready for another nap, and try to ignore the loneliness sitting in the back of my chest.