Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
NILS
Oliver looks a little pale, even though we’ve long been back in the warmth.
He disappeared into the bathroom for a shower the moment we walked into the house, kissing me softly before closing the door between us.
Cold myself, despite the weather being little different from what I’m used to around here in winter, I’d started a fire and then gone to the kitchen to heat some soup.
Canned soup, because I’m not nearly as proficient as Oliver, but at least it’ll put something warm into his stomach.
Now, sitting next to him on the couch as we drink it from soup mugs, I look at his profile and frown.
Oliver has something of a cherubic look about him during the winter, usually—cheeks flushed pink and eyes bright.
Right now, though, his face is pale. I think, if I were to reach out and put a hand to his forehead, it might be clammy.
He’s also fidgeting. A lot. And not the usual type of fidgeting either, with his tapping fingers and restless hands.
No, right now, he can’t seem to sit still.
Every few minutes, he’ll adjust his hips, sliding his legs to a new position, sitting forward with a frown before resting back slowly.
He looks physically uncomfortable, like there’s something on the couch that’s poking into him.
“Are you okay?” I ask him. Immediately, a smile pops into place as he looks at me.
“Fine. Just tired. Somehow, that short trip was more exhausting than any of our ten-plus-hour days.”
Putting a hand on the nape of his neck, I massage gently behind his ear.
It was exhausting, but I think it was less the physical aspect than it was the mental.
We aren’t coast guard, and even though local fishermen are usually the first to be called during an emergency, it’s not something we are precisely trained for.
Add in the fact that Oliver is fond of Dryden, and I’m not surprised at all that he’s feeling wiped out.
“Bed?” I ask him, reaching for the empty mug as he tips the last of the soup into his mouth.
“Yeah,” he agrees, eyes sleepy and smile soft as he looks at me.
The restlessness doesn’t cease when we crawl into bed.
We curl up on our sides like usual, but only minutes later, Oliver is moving again.
He settles, adjusts, settles, rolls to the other side, settles again.
When he sits up, the blanket pulling off me with the movement, I look over my shoulder at him.
He’s not fully visible in the dark room, but one pale hand is pressed to his chest like it hurts.
“Oli?” I whisper.
“My arm is killing me,” he replies softly.
I sit up, alarmed at the agony I can hear in his voice.
Clicking on the bedside lamp, I reach for him only to drop my hand back to the bed.
I don’t know where it hurts and don’t want to make things worse.
He looks at me, eyes squinted into the light.
“My stomach, too. I don’t feel very good. ”
He doesn’t look very good either. His face is still pale, and he’s blinking his eyes in a way that makes me think he might be dizzy. He was fine earlier in the day, neither looking ill nor complaining about feeling that way.
“I might go to the bathroom, actually,” he adds, still rubbing at his left shoulder with a pained expression. “I think I might throw up.”
Carefully, using only his right arm, I notice, he slides from the bed.
I follow on my side, putting a gentle hand on his hip in case he needs help.
No lingerie tonight, just boxer briefs and my old T-shirt.
He leans against the counter in the bathroom when we get there, scowling and still rubbing a hand into his pectoral.
I watch him, waiting until he meets my eye before raising an eyebrow in silent question. Do you need anything?
“Maybe…some water?” he asks, expression slightly confused as though he’s not really certain that’s what he needs or wants.
I look at him for a second, watching to make sure he’s okay, before slipping out of the bedroom and going downstairs.
Grabbing a bottle of water from the refrigerator, I also snag one of the rice bags my mom made me, popping it into the microwave for a minute.
Maybe he pulled something on the boat today, and a warm compress will help.
I jog back up the stairs, eager to check on him.
He’s seated on the toilet, one arm wrapped around his stomach and the other grasping his shoulder.
When his eyes flick up to mine, the amount of hurt I see stops me in my tracks.
Far more pain than a sprained shoulder or a stomachache should cause.
Setting the water bottle on the counter, I kneel in front of him.
Oliver puts his fingers on the rice bag, smiling at me.
“I don’t know why my arm hurts so bad,” he says. “I lost my balance on the boat and caught my side weird on the gunwale, but…but my shoulder is killing me.”
He puts so much careful emphasis on the word, my worry ramps itself up just a little further.
Indeed, his lovely ocean-colored eyes are glassy and filled with pain, mouth pressed together as though he’s trying not to verbalize just how much.
I point at his left side, questioning whether that was where he fell.
I didn’t see him lose his balance on the boat, but neither was I paying all of my attention to him.
I lost my own balance a couple of times.
All of us were too concerned with keeping our feet under us to worry about each other.
“Yeah. I’ve got a pretty bad bruise, but it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as my arm. Maybe I just…pulled something when I helped Cody onto the boat.”
He doesn’t sound convinced, and neither am I.
Shaking my head, I hand him the rice bag and reach for his shirt.
Obligingly, he puts the warm compress up on his shoulder and lifts his arms. Tugging the hem up, I peek at his tummy.
There’s definitely a bruise, but it just looks like a regular bruise to me.
Anyway, I’m not sure how a bruise here might cause so much trouble above.
Letting his shirt drop back down, I put my hands on his knees.
“ER,” I advise.
“I think it’s fine, honestly. This will help.” He lifts his shoulder to indicate the rice bag resting there. I shake my head. He looks ill, and the two areas of pain don’t add up to me. I’m not a doctor, and I don’t know any of the local ones well enough to call them up.
“ER,” I repeat. His face falls, but he nods and starts to get to his feet.
I bring him some sweatpants with an elastic waist, not wanting him to have to fumble with any ties. He trails me down the stairs in pained silence, handing me the rice bag to heat up for the road and watching as I bring him his jacket and boots.
“I think it’s okay,” he tries again, clearly not wanting to make the trip to the hospital.
I shrug as if to say too bad. Most of the time, I know, things don’t warrant an emergency department visit.
But sometimes they do, and I’m just not willing to leave Oliver’s well-being up to chance.
If a doctor tells me he’s fine, I’ll believe it.
Until then, I’ll continue on the understanding that he’s not.
He settles the rice bag into the crook of his neck once we’re in my truck, right hand holding it in place.
Every now and then, he fidgets with the seat belt as though it’s uncomfortable across his stomach.
The humming comes in starts and stops, like his body knows that’s what he’s supposed to do in the car but can’t quite make it work.
I hand him the bottle of water, but he only manages two small sips during the forty-five-minute drive to the hospital, grimacing like it tasted bad.
Checking in at the emergency department is oddly difficult, Oliver stumbling over the answers to the most basic of questions.
He tells them his right arm hurts, even as he’s holding on to the left one.
He completely forgets to mention the bruise on his stomach and reports his main problem as dizziness.
I stare at him, confused, my own head spinning with stress and exhaustion.
“He-he-he-he fell,” I tell the young man checking us in. Diligently, he types into his computer as I talk, eyes bouncing between us and the screen. He slides Oliver’s ID back over the counter to him, but Oliver doesn’t take it. I put it in my own wallet before resting a hand on Oliver’s back.
“Did you hit your head?” the man asks Oliver, who shakes his head.
“No, just my arm.”
I frown at him. “Yo-yo-yo-your stomach,” I correct, tendrils of anxiety creeping around my throat like fingers. Oliver nods.
“Yes, that’s right. But my chest hurts.”
This time, the man checking us in zeroes his gaze in on where Oliver’s right hand is clenched around his shoulder.
“Your left arm?” he clarifies, standing and tucking a few pieces of paper into a folder.
“Ye-ye-ye-ye-yes,” I agree before Oliver can say otherwise.
I don’t know where this sudden confusion has come from, but it’s not helping my worry.
Now I’m even more certain something is wrong.
My heart thumps rapidly in my chest, and I try to breathe calmly in through my nose before letting it out through my mouth.
Getting worked up will not make it easier to speak. It won’t help Oliver.
We’re brought into the back a lot quicker than any time I’ve ever been in an emergency room before.
The reason for the rush becomes apparent when the staff seem to be taking Oliver through heart attack protocol, even though he helpfully reminds them multiple times that he’s too young and it’s just a bruise on his stomach, anyway.
“He-he-he wa-wa-wa-wasn’t this-this-this-this-this con-confused,” I tell the doctor, chest so on fire with shame, I feel like I might be the one in danger of having a coronary.