Chapter 25 Pike
Pike
Falconry or treasure hunting?” I ask Skylar.
“What.”
“It’s a quiz.”
“Treasure hunting,” Skylar says, adjusting her pillows so her head is more elevated despite her sideways position.
I resume rubbing her back. “Mountains or forests?”
“Mountains, especially after Whistler.”
“Gnomes or trolls?”
She glances over her shoulder. “Is this a D the same fair complexion, though hers is lined with age and carries a warm tan, while Skylar’s remains pale from her need to stay out of the sun; the same shape of her lips, but with less of Skylar’s usual bright makeup.
She barges in, her pressed white slacks brushing against my sweats. Her heels click as she spins to face me like I’m the guest. “We didn’t even know Skylar had a boyfriend.”
“That’s right,” I say. “I’m the boyfriend.”
We’re supposed to be fake breaking up, but Skylar’s been a shield between me and my mom, so why not return the favor?
“I was sorry to read about your accident,” she says, moving toward the stairs. “Sky?”
A fierce rush of protectiveness surges through me. “She’s sick.”
“Yes, I know. Sky!”
“Mom.” Skylar mirrors her mother’s expression from the door, but in pajamas and an oversized sweatshirt, she looks more exhausted than intimidating. “What are you doing here?”
“I brought dandelion tea. And I’m here to drive you to Devlin and Jennifer’s dinner.”
Ugh. Skylar already declined that invite.
“You can bring Brandon, of course.”
“Thanks for the tea, but I said I wasn’t going. I’m not feeling well.”
“You’re always unwell. Why miss out on family time?”
“I’m especially unwell. I won’t be able to hide it.”
Mrs. King pinches her nose. “If it’s that bad, why don’t you finally get a shunt?”
Skylar inhales and exhales like a damn yoga instructor. “I want to know if there are any underlying causes of my intracranial hypertension first. Like stenosis.”
“Well, in the meantime, don’t let pain control your relationships. Come say hi to Jasmine. They drove all the way up here.”
I flinch. My mom’s interference bothers me, but she’d never force me to go somewhere if I said no.
“Devlin can bring Jasmine here for once,” Skylar says.
“Well, could you be more upbeat if he does? Jasmine’s friend showed her your article. She googled IIH. She thinks you’re dying!”
“That’s what happens when they refuse to tell her what’s going on.” Skylar raises tired eyebrows at me. “Jen doesn’t want me being real with her. All that negativity is ‘bad for children.’”
What the fuck?
Mrs. King glances sidelong at me. “Would you excuse us?”
“Why?” Skylar asks. “Afraid someone might disagree with your ableist opinions?”
“Skylar loves using that word,” Mrs. King says to me. “Is it ableist to want my daughter to live her best life? Is it ableist to love someone so much you don’t want them to be sick unnecessarily?” She regards me as though I’ll validate her.
I cross my arms and stay silent.
“Her father and I have been imploring Skylar to get a shunt. It redirects cerebrospinal fluid out of the brain,” she explains.
What’s with these King women, thinking a boyfriend wouldn’t know?
“The solution is there, but she won’t take it.
I even set up a consult with a neurosurgeon. Brandon, she didn’t show.”
“A shunt isn’t a cure-all!” Skylar says. “I don’t want multiple brain surgeries if it’s not necessary. You can become shunt dependent.”
I finally find my voice. “Maybe rethink your definition of love, because it sounds conditional to me.”
Mrs. King’s pleasant smile returns, but her eyes tighten at the corners. “Things are more complicated with chronic health issues.”
“Mrs. King. I have chronic health issues.”
“But you’re managing wonderfully! Traveling, working with a trainer, going from wheelchair to walking. You understand.”
Is that what she got from my article? Damn.
“Skylar’s a charismatic woman with lots of potential,” she continues. “If you care about her, you also need to care about her emotional well-being. Dwelling on illness when there’s a solution isn’t healthy.”
“Skylar knows her body best. She’s doing an excellent job managing a horrible condition.” There’s more I want to say, but I open the door. “Thanks for dropping by.”
I wait. Staring her down until she finally huffs and leaves.
“Skylar?”
A nurse in blue scrubs pokes her head into the waiting room.
Skylar’s grip on my hand tightens. “That’s me.”
According to Skylar, this LP will serve two purposes: to figure out her current cerebrospinal fluid pressure, and to temporarily drain some of it. Sadly, her pressure will go right back up over the next forty-eight hours.
She looks like she might faint, so I help her to her feet. But when I pass her to the nurse, Skylar won’t let go.
“You’re coming, right?”
I’m hit with a sudden rush of relief. She still wants me by her side in public.
Our physicality has increased so much this week. We touch each other playfully all the time now. If we’re in bed together, we’re connected. I keep trying to remind myself that it’s because she needs comfort.
I tell myself I’ll dial things back, stop touching her, stop talking to her at night until I fall asleep. I’ll get over her. But I think I’m falling in love with her instead.
After she changes into a gown, we enter a large room, and my stomach drops into my feet. I’ve had seven surgeries since my accident, and the smell of chlorhexidine makes nausea swirl around my gut.
Skylar climbs onto the table without waiting for instructions. “On my left side. I know.” She curls up, legs toward her knees. “Pike, come here.”
I stand in front of her. The nurse unties her gown from behind, and Skylar stares up at me, her hazel eyes cloudy. Unsure what to do with my free hand, I stroke her cheek as the nurse preps her back.
The radiologist explains the procedure. I don’t have time to process before he begins numbing her back with lidocaine.
Skylar hisses with each shot. “It’s like being stung by bees.”
“This is the worst part,” the radiologist says. “There should only be pressure next.”
“Should is different from reality.” Skylar’s face is as white as a sheet.
What the fuck? Where are the drugs for pain control?
The radiologist preps the next syringe. I start sweating.
It’s fucking five inches long. From my angle, it doesn’t look like there are five inches from her back through her stomach.
The room gets woozy as I imagine it puncturing through her belly button.
Her fists clench into tight balls. “Tell me something, Pike. Distract me.”
My mouth feels stuffed with soggy paper as I watch the needle go in. A long tear spills down Skylar’s cheek.
“This boy wrote me,” I blurt. “Aiden. He’s in middle school and uses a cane. He gets bullied because of it.”
Skylar flinches so badly she almost lifts off the table. “Ow! Fuck.”
“I need you to stay absolutely still,” the radiologist says.
“You’re not in. It feels like you’re electrocuting me.”
I try to remember my story. “I was thinking of writing him back. Sending some swag.”
There’s a squishy noise. I can’t help it; I look. Something’s squirting out of Skylar’s back. It takes everything in me not to puke all over everyone.
“I’m in position now. Extend your legs slowly,” the radiologist says.
With the fucking needle still all the way jammed in her spinal cord, Skylar straightens her legs.
“How…?” I can’t get the words out. “Are you…okay, sweetheart?”
“It’s uncomfortable,” she says. “Like something’s tugging inside my back.”
“Opening pressure is thirty,” the radiologist says.
“I knew it,” she says. “An opening pressure above twenty-five is indicative of IIH. Meds should be lowering it more, so I’ll need a higher dose.”
“Is that…?” I sputter at the clear, gooey mess on the table. “Is that cerebrospinal fluid?”
“You’ve really needed an LP,” the radiologist says. “We’ll drain you down to a ten.”
“Twelve,” Skylar insists. “Any lower, I’ll get a low-pressure headache.”
“Take a deep breath.”
Instead of breathing, Skylar says, “You should write him.” It takes me a second to realize she’s talking to me.
I rush to say, “I could do a school visit. I’ve never done anything like that before, only visits to snowboarding camps. I don’t know what I would talk about or if anyone would even want me there. But I want to show those little bastards that having a cane isn’t weird.”
“Take the needle out,” Skylar says through gritted teeth.
Seriously. Why is it still in her back? The fuck is he doing?
I keep stroking Skylar’s cheek. “Would that backfire because I can’t snowboard anymore, so I have nothing to show for myself?” And why do the opinions of middle schoolers matter to me?
“You have a lot to show for yourself.” She bares her teeth. “Stop selling yourself short.”
“I don’t want to be the pity story that makes them appreciate their life more.”
“Did you learn nothing else from snowboarding? Fuuuck,” she says again, but not because of me. “You gained no skills besides flipping in the air? How about perseverance? Innovation? Discipline? Dedication to a passion? Do those qualities just disappear because you’re no longer in a halfpipe?”
I almost back away in shame. My worth has always been tied to what I produce.
“And…done.” The radiologist withdraws the needle. “I’ll send your sample to the lab.”
I sag against the table. Skylar’s whole body starts shaking, and the nurse covers her with a blanket. “Stay still. We’ll bring you a bed.”
“Why does she need a bed?” I ask. “Is something wrong?”
“She needs to lie flat for an hour so the hole seals. There’s always a risk of a spinal leak.”
Great.
I follow them to the recovery area, an open space separated only by beige curtains around each bed. I’m relieved to see a chair. I’ve been standing for twenty-five minutes, and I’m not okay.
“Does your head feel better?” I ask.
“I need…quiet,” she mumbles. “My back feels bludgeoned. And my butt is fried. Again.”
“Fried?” I ask weakly.
“He botched it. Hit a nerve. I don’t have normal sensation in my leg.” She reaches for my hand, and I gladly take it. The feel of her pulse loosens the knot in my chest. “Thanks for staying with me.”
Emy texts, don’t let her tell u she doesn’t need help. she’ll be lying flat once she’s home. how’s she going to get water? food? entertainment?
Emy’s obviously playing matchmaker, which is good with me. Excellent, actually. Sign me the fuck up for that.
Her friends wouldn’t push if they didn’t think there was a chance. I know the attraction’s there, but this time I won’t assume she wants more than sex. Not yet. I need to work up the courage to talk to her first.
I told her I don’t want to complicate things between us, but if our time together this week has convinced me of anything, it’s that I don’t want to settle for excuses and hide my real intentions anymore.
Maybe she doesn’t want a relationship, and maybe she never will, but I haven’t given her a reason to consider one with me. I haven’t told her how I feel.
Now’s not the right time, but once things are less urgent with her health, I need to speak up. I need to show her I’d treat her like a queen if we got together.
For now, I’m totally worn out from going back and forth to Skylar’s all week. And those damn stairs.
“Skylar,” I say. “Will you please stay at my place tonight?”