Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Hudson
The morning after we clinched a spot in the playoffs, I knocked on Whitney’s door. I waited.
And waited.
I’d turned to leave when the deadbolt clicked, and the door opened. I sucked in a breath.
A thin, pink T-shirt stretched across Whitney’s full breasts, outlining her nipples. Plaid pajama shorts revealed miles of skin.
Did she realize she’d answered the door half-naked?
I focused on her eyes so I wouldn’t pop a boner. But her gaze seemed hazy. Had I gotten her out of bed?
She squinted behind her glasses. “Hudson?”
I drew my brows together. “Yeah, it’s me.” I raised the bakery bag in my hand. “I brought bagels and cream cheese to thank you for taking care of Gramps last night.” And as an excuse to see her, though I shouldn’t have stopped by. I didn’t want to lead her on.
“Didn’t have to do that.” She swayed and placed two fingers on her temple. “C’mon in. ”
I closed the door and followed her to the tidy kitchen. Mr. Darcy streaked into the bedroom. I placed the bag on the island.
Whitney poured herself a glass of water and grabbed the bottle of medicine on the counter. She broke a tablet in half and swallowed it. Her hand trembled, and the glass clattered against the granite as she put it down.
Unease tightened my chest. “Are you okay?” I closed the distance between us.
“Hudson?” Her forehead pinched. “When did you get here?”
The hairs raised on my arms. “Let’s sit down.” I took a step toward her.
“I don’t feel so good.” Her eyes slid shut and her legs buckled.
My heart faltered.
With the lightning speed I’d honed guarding the net, I swooped in and caught her before she slammed onto the hardwood. I lowered us to the floor. I held her in my arms as her back stiffened and her legs and arms jerked violently.
“Whitney! Can you hear me?” My gut knotted, my heart pummeling my ribcage.
The only answer was her breath sawing in and out through clenched teeth.
I struggled to hold back a wave of terror that threatened to consume me—a reminder of my grandfather’s sudden heart attack. No. I fought back the crushing fear. Whitney needed me to be strong.
But I’d never felt so helpless. Cradling her head in my lap, I removed her eyeglasses and set them aside. I pulled out my phone and dialed 9-1-1. My heart raced. Whitney continued to convulse as the dispatcher walked me through first aid for seizures.
The convulsing lasted the longest three minutes of my life. Afterward, I turned her on her side to prevent her from choking if she vomited.
But she still didn’t wake up.
After what seemed like an eternity, sirens blared, followed by pounding on the door. I carefully laid Whitney onto the floor and threw open the door. Emergency personnel swarmed in, overrunning the apartment, and I scrambled out of the way.
While they examined Whitney, my heart sat like a lead weight in my chest as I stood frozen in place.
An EMT with a clipboard approached me. All business, she asked, “Did you see what happened?”
My mouth was like a desert and I could only nod, knowing that seeing Whitney so vulnerable would haunt my sleep.
The EMT took down my name and contact information and then interviewed me about the seizure and what led up to it.
“Where is the medicine she took?”
I grabbed the bottle off the counter and handed it to her. “She swallowed a half a pill about fifteen minutes ago.”
The woman scanned the label and frowned. “The dosage is one tablet twice a day.”
My gaze whipped to Whitney, limp and unconscious, as a paramedic took her blood pressure. What’s going on?
I dug into Whitney’s wallet and found her health insurance card and ID—I’d apologize to her later for violating her privacy. I handed the cards to the EMT.
“Where am I?” Whitney’s weak, raspy question pierced my heart.
I rushed to her and kneeled at her side. She turned unfocused eyes toward me. I found her glasses and slid them into place.
“Who are you? ”
A shiver ran down my spine. “Hudson.” I took her lax hand in mine.
“Oh, yeah. My…my neighbor. What happened?” she whispered.
“You had a seizure.”
Her brows drew together. “Stay with me?”
“Of course.”
Her eyes slid shut.
“Whitney?”
She didn’t respond.
“Confusion and sliding in and out of consciousness are typical post-seizure behavior,” the paramedic reassured me. “We’re taking her to Jackson Medical Center. You can meet us there. We’ll put your name on the list of allowed visitors.”
I stepped back as they loaded Whitney onto a gurney and wheeled her away. I raked trembling fingers through my hair and blew out a breath. I didn’t even know if there was someone I should contact to let them know what had happened. Did she have family nearby?
I’d planned to attend our optional practice, but that was out of the question. With no one else to contact, I was Whitney’s only source of support. Distant memories of neglect shuddered through me. I’d stay with her for as long as she needed me. I called Beck and explained Whitney’s situation.
“No problem—we’ll see you tomorrow. You take care of your neighbor. I hope she feels better soon.” He signed off.
I searched for Mr. Darcy to make sure he hadn’t escaped in all the activity. I found him hiding under the bed and made soothing noises. “Your mommy will be home soon.” I hope. Just in case, I filled his food and water bowls to the brim.
By the time I arrived at the emergency room, they’d settled Whitney into a curtained cubicle. An IV ran into her hand, an oxygen tube hooked under her nose, and wires snaked under a hospital gown. Her brown hair fanned across the stark white pillow, and a thin cotton blanket seemed an inadequate comfort for the seizure that had racked her body. A steady beep filled me with relief.
Her eyes opened at the sound of my footsteps. “Who are you?”
My stomach sank. “I’m Hudson, your neighbor.” I stepped to the side of her bed. “You had a seizure, and you’re in the emergency room.”
Over the next hour, as I sat in a hard plastic chair at her bedside with my head in my hands, Whitney drifted in and out of consciousness. And every time she woke, she asked the same questions. Who are you? What happened? Where am I? I rubbed a hand along my jaw, my stomach as heavy as a bowling ball.
“Hudson?” Whitney whispered.
I vaulted from my seat. “You know me?” Hope lightened the weight in my gut.
“Well, yeah.” Her voice strengthened and her gaze swept the room. “Is this the ER? What am I doing here?” She slurred the words.
“You had a seizure.”
Her eyes grew shiny, and she choked out, “Not again.”
I grasped her hand. “Does this happen often?”
“Not since…not since my doctor put me on a new medication.” Her brows furrowed. “Six months ago?” Her eyes slid away, and she gazed at the wall.
I gently squeezed her hand. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” I had a suspicion but didn’t want to accuse her. “And that you’re keeping from your doctor?”
Her cheeks flushed. “Fine.” She blew out a breath. “I’m only taking half of the dose.”
My jaw tightened. “Why? ”
“Because I can’t afford it,” she whispered.
Something wasn’t adding up. “But…you have health insurance.”
“And it’s worth crap.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. Her head fell back against the bed, and her eyes drifted shut. “The new medication isn’t…generic yet. Even with insurance…costs nine hundred dollars a month,” she said, her voice halting and weak.
I whistled, long and low. “Can you take a different medication?”
“My doctor wanted to try this new prescription, since nothing else was working.” She slumped.
I propped my hands on my hips. “But you’re not taking the full dose, so it’s not doing you any good to take the expensive?—”
The ER doctor pulled back the curtain. “Glad to see you’re awake. How do you feel?”
She opened her eyes. “A little groggy.”
“You’re probably still in the postictal state. And we gave you lorazepam through your IV. That might make you sleepy for a few hours.”
He shined a light in her eyes and performed a few neurological tests for strength and coordination. Apparently satisfied with the results, he logged onto the computer in the bay and scanned the screen. “It says here you only took a half a pill this morning.” He frowned. “Noncompliance with their medication is the number one reason we see patients having seizures.”
She dropped her gaze and plucked at the blanket.
“Promise me you’ll take your medicine, Whitney.” I crossed my arms.
She winced. “I promise.”
The doctor nodded once, decisively. “Call your neurologist if you have any additional seizure symptoms, and follow up with him within three days. I’ll discharge you.” He ducked through the curtain.
“I’ll take you home. Unless there’s someone else you want to call?”
She shook her head. “I’d appreciate the ride.”
A short time later, a woman from billing came by and completed Whitney’s ER bill. Whitney cringed as she handed over her credit card.
A nurse arrived to detach the wires, take out Whitney’s IV, and remove the oxygen tube. I stepped out to allow Whitney to dress. When she was done, she pulled the curtain open. They’d given her a pair of socks to wear, but?—
“You can’t walk through the ER like that.” My gaze dropped to her chest.
“Why…” She held her arms out and looked down. Then she crossed her arms over her breasts and raised her gaze. Her cheeks flushed. “Oh.”
I shrugged off my hoodie, slipped it up her arms, and zipped it over her breasts. “That’s better.” A possessiveness niggled in the back of my mind at seeing her in my sweatshirt, but I tamped it down. Now wasn’t the time for such thoughts.
A medical assistant wheeled her to the curb outside the ER, and I scooped her into my arms. She felt like she belonged in them, but I stomped on that, too. She needed me to take care of her.
She squealed and flung her arms around my neck. “What are you doing?”
“You’re not walking through the parking lot in socks.” I carried her to my SUV and buckled her in.
She closed her eyes and leaned against the headrest during the drive home.
“You doing okay?” Concern gripped my gut.
“I have a headache, and I’m nauseated,” she admitted .
I pulled into our parking garage and carried her to her door, where I set her down. She swayed, and my heart sank for her. “What’s your key code?” Demonstrating her trust in me, she recited the digits. I opened the door and guided her into the bedroom. The covers lay open on the unmade bed.
She sat on the edge, tore off the hospital socks, and peeled my hoodie from her shoulders. She swung her legs onto the bed with a groan. “My whole body aches.”
I frowned. “Do you have a pain reliever somewhere?”
“Bathroom medicine cabinet.” She snuggled into her pillow.
I retrieved a bottle of ibuprofen and a glass of water and helped her take two tablets.
She placed the glass on a nightstand. “I can’t thank you enough for your help.”
“I’m just glad I was there.” What would have happened if she’d collapsed and I hadn’t been there to catch her? A chill ran down my spine, and I shivered despite the warmth of the room. I pulled the blankets up to her chin.
Mr. Darcy jumped up onto the bed and settled on Whitney’s chest.
How could she breathe?
But she simply petted his head, welcoming his affection. “Thanks again. Mind seeing yourself out?”
“Uh-uh. You’re not getting rid of me that easily. I’m staying until I know you’re on your feet.”
“What? I’m just going to take a little nap, and then I’ll be fine,” she said drowsily. Her eyelids drifted shut, but this time I was confident she was simply sleeping.
I quietly left the room, leaving the door open, and settled onto the sofa in her living room. I dialed Gramps.
“Hudson! Why are you calling instead of picking me up?” Concern threaded his gruff voice.
“I have to cancel our plans for the day. I’m sorry.” I hated to skip our weekly visit, but I needed to be with Whitney. For her sake and for mine.
“What’s wrong? Did you get injured?”
“I’m fine, but Whitney is…sick. I’m going to take care of her today.”
“Glad to hear you’re taking care of her. I knew there was something going on between you two.”
“Gramps, it’s not like that.” I rolled my eyes, even though he couldn’t see me.
“You can’t tell me you’re not attracted to that girl. I know you, son.”
I couldn’t deny our attraction. “Don’t play matchmaker,” I warned.
“Bah. I don’t need to. You two are doing it to yourselves. Now, go take care of our girl and tell her I hope she feels better soon.”
“What are you going to do this afternoon, now that your plans have changed?”
“I’ll download another one of Whitney’s books.”
What the hell? “You’re reading her books?”
“Why not? They’re good. And I’m learning a lot about this newfangled sex. Didn’t know there was more to it than what your grandmother and I did. You should read the books. Get some pointers.”
I choked.
“I’ll see you next week.” He hung up on me.
Sex? Get some pointers? My face flamed with heat.
But maybe I’d have to read one of her books.
I tiptoed into Whitney’s bedroom. She and Mr. Darcy slept deeply, her mouth open in a gentle snore. I crept into the kitchen and made myself at home by toasting a bagel and helping myself to a glass of OJ. Settling at her table, I opened Chrome on my phone and typed epilepsy . The screen filled with symptoms, causes, treatments, and medical terms I’d never seen before. Every article brought a new avenue of investigation, and I made mental notes of questions to ask Whitney. While I respected her privacy, I was already intimately involved with her condition. And I wanted to help in any way I could.
Because there didn’t seem to be anyone else helping her. Maybe she was simply independent, but she hadn’t asked the hospital or me to call a friend or relative.
Why not?
Next, I dug into Whitney’s health insurance provider and benefits. Self-employed, she had to buy insurance from the marketplace. There were few good choices, and—as she said—premiums were high and benefits were lacking. The medication she took wasn’t available as a generic drug, and something called the First Generic Drug Approval had been held up by the FDA for revisions. There was no telling when it would be approved.
I stood in Whitney’s bedroom doorway. Her slack form was vulnerable in sleep, her pink lips relaxed, and her breathing even. The peaceful scene was such a contrast to her seizure, and I never wanted her to convulse again.
I knew what I could do.