Chapter 14
My phone chirps at my side, and I can’t help the silly grin crossing my face.
I’m finishing the last of the lunch dishes, so I don’t check it yet, but I know who the text is from. I’m not sure when Guy managed to find time to work today, because we’ve been messaging each other little silly GIFs all morning. I sent him off to work with a lunch box filled with sandwiches again, resulting in goofy selfies of him eating each one with gusto. I never knew ham and cheese on whole grain could look so good in a man’s hand, or maybe I just love seeing him happy. But I feel like I’m a teenager again, all excited when a boy texts me and unable to focus on my day job.
Admittedly, I haven’t been trying to work much anyway. Emma and I spent the morning inside finger painting and waiting for the day to warm up enough to take her outside.
“Emma, do you want to go say hi to Legs and Lulu before your nap?” I ask as I dry my final glass. She doesn’t answer, which isn’t abnormal, but I hear a small gagging noise. When I turn, I see her sitting on the couch with her head bent down.
“Emma?”
“Sen-na, I don’t feel good.”
Then she promptly throws up all over herself, including the llamacorn Christmas sweater she was so excited to wear today. The effect is instantaneous. The moment Emma realizes her sweater is covered in vomit, she immediately bursts into tears, bawling out my name.
“Oh, sweetie,” I say, hurrying over to her. “It’s okay.”
This is a new experience for me, having a crying child holding on to me with vomit now on us both, but I know the power of a hug when you’re feeling awful. I hold her tight until the sobs become sniffles, then I carry her into the hallway bathroom to get her cleaned up.
“It’s really okay, Em,” I promise her. “I’ll throw it in the wash, and you’ll still be able to wear it today.”
“Really?” She looks up at me with red, puffy eyes, and I hug her again, extra tight.
“Really, sweetie. We’ll do the quick cycle too, so you don’t have to wait long.” I’ll even train Barley to do laundry if it’ll make her feel better.
I start to help her change into clean clothes, then I realize it’s not just her little eyes that look puffy… Her legs look puffy too. The tops of her socks look like they’re digging into her skin. There’s no way Guy would have dressed her in too-small socks.
“Emma, is it okay if I check your feet?” I ask her. When she nods, I press my thumb gently into her ankle. She’s not just puffy; her feet are significantly more swollen than I realized. Guy checks her every morning and evening for symptoms, and he records everything. When I check her tablet, he’s marked she has mild edema, but this doesn’t look mild to me. These are some seriously squishy feet. I put a pair of my socks on her instead of her own, because too big seems better than making her uncomfortable with too-tight socks.
Barley’s waiting for us in the hall outside the bathroom, and he whines pitifully until Emma is back in her room, where he can hop up next to her in bed. I’m about to tell him to get down, but she wraps her arms around his neck, burying her face in his fur, and the look Barley gives me is clear.
He won’t be moving anytime soon.
“Good boy,” I murmur, briefly touching his muzzle. Then I inhale a tight breath, because Barley’s not the only one going gray. Emma is too.
When I call, Guy picks up on the first ring. “Sienna? What’s wrong?”
“Emma just threw up, and she seems really out of it. Her feet and ankles are really swollen, and she’s lost a lot of color in her face.”
“How swollen?”
“Enough her socks don’t fit. I put her in a pair of mine.”
“Swelling and vomiting is a sign she needs dialysis.” Guy breathes a soft curse.
“Didn’t she just get it?”
“Yeah.”
Emma makes another gagging noise, and I grab the trash can in the corner of her bedroom, pushing between her and Barley so I can hold it under her face. “She’s throwing up again,” I tell him, alarmed.
“Get her in the truck, and meet me in town,” Guy says sharply. “I’ll call her nephrologist.”
He doesn’t say goodbye before hanging up, and I don’t blame him. I’m already scooping Emma up in my arms and rushing for the door. Barley is hot on our heels, but I bark at him to stay. He listens, but he doesn’t like it. I run back in for Emma’s bag, grateful for Guy’s preparedness, because inside are green plastic vomit bags. Barley tries to follow again, so I shut the door with my foot before he can sneak out. He ducks through the doggie door, but this time he stays on the porch, ears flattened with stress, as I start the truck to warm it up for Emma.
Emma wants to lie down in the back seat, but I tell her she has to be buckled into her car seat. It starts a new wave of crying, but weaker this time. I hush her as best as I can, telling her we’re going to get her daddy. She nods, clutching the vomit bag I give her like it’s a stuffed animal.
I hate that I didn’t remember to grab one of her toys.
Never has the drive from my place to the main highway felt this long. Every icy bump on the road makes me cringe, because now would be a terrible time to end up with a tire in a snow-filled ditch. I keep checking if my phone has reception just in case I get stuck out here with Emma in trouble.
She’s sniffling in the back seat, and it’s physically painful for me to keep both hands on the wheel instead of reaching back and holding her little mittened fingers. But I can’t risk an accident. I talk to her instead in my softest voice because she’s hurting. I tell her I love her and her daddy loves her and most of all, God loves her. I tell her when we go back home, we’re going to make reindeer antlers for Legs. We can put Barley in a Santa suit because he’s already red, even though he’ll be grumpy about it.
Emma’s still crying, but she giggles at the image. And when we finally turn onto the ice-free main road into town, I reach behind me and drive the rest of the way with her hand gripping mine.
Guy’s waiting outside the jobsite with a little stuffed moose under his arm that must have been in his truck, and he jogs over to my driver’s side door, opening it. “Her nephrologist wants to see her,” he says, truck keys in hand. “I need to get her to Idaho Falls. Can we switch vehicles? The car seat takes forever to change out, and I need her there now.”
“I’ll drive you,” I tell him. “I’d rather stay with you both.”
I start to ask him if it’s okay, but Guy’s already hustling around the truck. He hops in the passenger seat, then turns around and takes Emma’s hand. “Hey, baby girl,” he says in his kindest, most gentle voice. “I brought Mr. Moose. He wanted to see you.” When she ignores the moose, Guy’s voice softens even more. “Having a tough day today?”
She nods, tears in her eyes, reaching her arms out to him. For a tall man, he’s awfully good at climbing over the center divider, ditching the passenger seat so he can be next to his daughter. It’s not safe to take her out of her car seat, so Guy sits as close as he can, wrapping his arms around Emma and cuddling her.
The drive to Idaho Falls is long, but it’s never felt this long before. The stretch of highway lies in a valley between two parallel ridges, and in the summer, it’s a pretty if remote drive. In the winter, it’s two hours of nothing but snow.
I’m doing ten miles over the speed limit, but it feels like we’re crawling. When Emma throws up again, I push it to fifteen. I wait until she falls asleep against Guy’s shoulder, clutching a vomity Mr. Moose, before asking, “Was it the party? Did she get something we didn’t see?”
“No, I watched her like a hawk.” When I glance in the rearview mirror, Guy’s expression is bleak. “This is just what happens. The dialysis isn’t working as well anymore.”
I don’t ask if he’s going to be in trouble at work. I don’t think it matters.
It’s been a while since I was last in Idaho Falls, but Guy knows these streets well enough to give me directions to the hospital without using his phone. When the hospital’s concrete walls rise above us outside the truck windows, I should feel relieved. Instead, a new kind of fear washes through me. I follow the signs for the emergency department entrance, then pull up to the curb. Guy hops out and takes Emma from her car seat as I go to find a parking space at the most packed hospital ever.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a hospital. As I scratch the door’s paint job getting out because I parked too close to a concrete pole, I realize going to the hospital is Guy’s and Emma’s lives. Days like these maybe aren’t the standard, but they sure are the norm.
By the time I get inside, Guy and Emma aren’t in the emergency waiting room. “I’m looking for my husband and my stepdaughter,” I tell the front reception desk, and I’m told they’ve been moved to the children’s wing.
As I try to find my way to the children’s wing, I wonder if it’s confusing signage or simply my brain resisting this situation that makes it so hard to know where to go. Each long empty hall looks like the next. Beige vinyl tile, more beige on the walls. Gray plastic handrails and oversize pictures of benefactors from the last hundred years fastened to the walls.
Someone in green scrubs yawning while carrying a salad. Two coworkers in red scrubs laughing at a shared joke between them. The logical part of me knows this hospital is full of hundreds of people who need to eat and joke and walk down halls. They are the miracle workers trying to save Emma’s life, the ones who will take care of her and hopefully one day put a new kidney in her. But in this moment, when I am scared and frustrated and lost, there’s another illogical part of me that hates the salad for the normalcy it represents. A part that doesn’t understand how anyone could share a joke when Emma’s sick. Don’t they understand? Emma is sick.
I pause, looking left and right, then close my eyes and lean against the plastic handrail, letting it briefly hold me up. I can’t stomach the idea of calling Guy and telling him I can’t even be competent enough to find them.
“Get it together,” I tell myself roughly. “Be better than this.”
“Do you need any help?” I open my eyes to see a woman in blue scrubs with CNA on her tag. Thank you, God.
“The children’s wing,” I tell her. “I think nephrology?”
“The kidney and transplant center?” She gives me a sympathetic nod. “This way. I’ll take you there.”
I don’t know how long I’m taking out of her break, and I feel guilty for my earlier thoughts as I whisper a thank-you. I silently promise myself not to be upset at any more salads or laughter. We pass from the adult wing to the children’s wing of the hospital, and the decor changes to an overly cheerful holiday theme. The walls are plastered with attempts to make this terrifying place resemble the North Pole. We turn left at the reindeer paddock, follow the hall of Santa’s workshop, and I try not to let my eyes linger on the Christmas lists handwritten in crayon and taped to a giant snowflake cutout. There are so many Christmas lists, it makes my heart twist and drop somewhere deep in my gut.
I wonder how many times Emma’s had her own Christmas list on a hospital wall.
“The waiting room is at the end of the hall,” the CNA tells me. I thank her again and wonder how many halls like this have been in Guy’s life. How many salads or jokes or kind people who sacrifice five minutes of their day to a stranger who is lost?
The holiday decor is only muted when I reach the waiting room at the end of the hall. Maybe someone instinctively knew the parents of these kids needed a break from the bright reds and greens and sparkles and smiles. Instead, there’s a dull, scratched coffeepot and a basket of chocolate chip chewy granola bars.
Guy’s the only one in the waiting room. His long limbs don’t quite fit in the chair, and his shoulders are slumped. The man I first met in the coffee shop looks up at me with haunted eyes. There’s a little more flesh on his bones now, but the strain crushing him then is still crushing him now.
“How is she?” I ask, slipping into the seat next to him.
At first, I don’t think he’s going to answer me, because it takes him so long to reply.
“They’re giving her dialysis. Her nephrologist says it’s not a good sign she swelled up so quickly. They’re switching her over to dialysis every day.” His voice is toneless, his eyes staring at the wall just over my shoulder, but a muscle in his jaw twitches, the only tell this man has. I don’t know him as well as I want to, but I know this: Guy’s terrified.
I take his hand, and when he doesn’t squeeze mine back, I pull his arm over my shoulders. I slide my own arm between the seat and his back, gripping his worn leather belt and pulling him to my side. I’m not strong enough to budge him, not if he doesn’t want to move. But until he tells me otherwise, I’m giving him something solid to feel, someone else to lean on.
It takes him a moment, and one more. Then Guy turns and pulls me into his arms, holding me crushingly tight. His face presses to my shoulder, his whole torso shaking.
And when he cries, I hold him right back.
***
We don’t leave the hospital until they run blood work and are satisfied Emma’s stabilized…for now. At least there’s pediatric dialysis close by, because it’s going to be every day from now on.
“Will they let a stepparent take her for dialysis?” I ask as we get closer to home. The bulk of the drive has been in silence. I don’t know why Guy isn’t talking, but I’m staying quiet because Emma is sleeping, and I don’t want to wake her. He’s been staring out the passenger window for the last two hours, except for when he glances back to check on his daughter.
“I don’t know,” Guy replies hollowly. “It’s never been an option.”
He doesn’t say anything more, doesn’t give me any hint of what he’s feeling or what he wants me to do. My brain is racing as it tries to plan my way through this. What can I do, what does she need, how will this change things? I pull into the jobsite, and when I park near his truck, I move the driver’s seat back to give him legroom. His truck keys are still sitting in the cupholder of my truck, so I pick them up.
“I’ll follow you,” I say, because I’m not separating him and his daughter right now.
Wordlessly, Guy nods and gets out of the passenger side.
Guy’s truck is tidy inside, although it carries a light layer of sawdust, not unexpected for a man who works construction for a living. I’m grateful when the engine starts, because the temperature has taken a dive since nightfall, and I rushed out of the house without a coat this morning.
I give the engine a moment to warm up, fiddling with the driver’s seat so I can actually reach the pedals. That’s when I notice there’s a photo of Emma taped to the dash with duct tape. The edges are worn and the color is faded, but her smile is still bright as ever as she holds a massive floppy-eared bunny in her arms. Then I realize there’s a second, newer photo taped next to the first one. A photo of me and Emma in the photo booth at our surprise wedding reception, with us both making matching silly faces.
Guy’s got a photo of us in his truck.
This hits me hard, because it’s what my dad did: he kept a photo of me and my mom in his truck. I’ve always known, but suddenly I understand, really understand, what’s happening right now. Emma is dying. The little girl in my truck, waiting for me to pull out of the jobsite so her daddy can drive her home, is dying . And her daddy, who loves her enough to keep a picture of her on his dashboard, is going to lose her.
I’m glad to be alone because I sob all the way to the ranch.
It feels like a lifetime has passed between when I left the house and when we finally park back in the driveway. Guy looks exhausted, even more than I feel. His strong arms hold Emma close, and I wonder how much of her life he’s spent carrying her. He takes her up to bed, and I want to tell him that I can do it for him. I want to carry them both, despite it being physically impossible. Instead, I put on a jacket and go take care of chores, knowing the animals are all going to be very upset with me for feeding them late. I work fast, checking the water trough in the cattle pen for signs of freezing, making sure they have enough hay until tomorrow morning and that no one got hurt while I was gone. Then I get through the barn feeding in record time, because I want to be back inside with my family, not out here, wondering if they’re okay.
My family. They aren’t even mine, not truly, but in this moment, they feel like all the family I’ve got. I almost forgo checking the cattle gates, but a lifetime of repetition wins over.
When I get back inside, Guy is just coming down the stairs from putting Emma to bed. My heart hurts to see those broad shoulders slumped as he joins me in the kitchen.
He’s not meeting my eyes, and I wonder if it’s because he’s too tired to deal with a stranger who isn’t used to his life but is suddenly right in the middle of it all.
“Did you get anything to eat?” he asks me, and I blink at the question. Guy’s brow furrows. “You look dead on your feet.”
“I can’t remember, but you definitely haven’t.” I return to my default mode: make sandwiches, and make Guy eat the sandwiches. His furrowed brow softens when I put the first sandwich in front of him. Peanut butter and banana today. I don’t know if he likes them, but it’s my comfort food.
“Thanks, Sienna,” he whispers, and the way he holds my eyes for a longer moment, I feel like his thanks is for more than the food.
We eat in silence at the kitchen island, and I’m only finishing my sandwich when I realize I took the stool right next to him. I’m simply unable to stay out of Guy’s personal bubble right now.
“Do you need anything before I call it a night?” He’s so exhausted, his voice is a low, raspy version of his normal baritone. But in this moment, I realize Guy isn’t just being polite. Despite today, despite so many days and nights like today, he’s still willing to help me if I ask. Then he’ll head to a broken-down couch I never got around to replacing, the one that probably hurts his back and he’s never once complained about.
I don’t have the heart to ask him to sleep there tonight. Guy’s life is a train wreck not of his making. He shouldn’t have to be hungry. He shouldn’t have to sleep on a crappy couch.
“Will you sleep upstairs with me tonight?” I ask finally. “In case Emma needs anything?”
I’m aware I’m inviting him into my bed when I could have just offered to stay on the couch. The thing is, I’m not sure I’m okay with being far from Emma tonight. And maybe, if I’m being honest with myself, I’m not okay with being far from Guy either. I need to keep them both close, where I can make sure I’m there if they need me.
Guy looks at me as if trying to process what I said. “I was planning on sleeping on her floor or in the hallway.”
Oh. It makes sense he wouldn’t want to be far away. “We can take turns on her floor if you want. Whatever she needs, Guy. Whatever you need, I’m here, okay?”
We sit there silently, and I wonder if I made a mistake by asking. Then Guy closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I’m not thinking straight. Yeah, I’d love a real bed tonight. But if you decide at any point it’s not okay for me to sleep next to you, I need you to verbalize it, Sienna. I don’t trust myself to notice if something’s wrong. I’ll try, but my brain is scrambled.”
“I’ll say something,” I promise. “If I get unsettled, worst-case scenario, I’ll go sleep on the couch so you can be near her. Stop worrying about me, okay? Let’s just focus on Emma. We’re Team Emma. We’re in this together.”
And let me focus on both of you , I add silently.
His fingers are work-roughened, just like mine are. But mine feel small inside his as we climb the stairs together. He brushes his teeth in the hall bathroom and changes for bed while I do the same in my bathroom. Then he raps his knuckles lightly on the doorframe of my room in warning before coming in.
Guy’s never been in my bedroom before, and it’s a testament to his exhaustion that he doesn’t look around. Instead, he pauses and waits for me to sit down on the side of the bed I’m used to sleeping on. Guy’s careful to stay on his side of the bed, but he fills his side with long limbs and broad shoulders in a way that makes me feel like he’s dwarfing me. The bed is suddenly much smaller with him next to me. I could flex my fingers and almost touch his arm. Instead, I tighten them into a fist and tuck them behind my back, willing them to stop shaking.
How many nights did Guy face this all alone? What could I ever say to make any of this okay? I’m in over my head, desperate to do anything to help when there’s nothing I can do. I love that little girl when I never expected to love anyone ever again.
“Sienna?” His voice is rougher, and I don’t know for sure, but he might be crying. “Thanks for being there for us today.”
My fingers no longer shake, not when they cover his hand.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper in the darkness of the room. “We’re in this together.”