Chapter 36
Tucker
I didn’t know anything had happened until I heard a crash.
Ava had fallen over, her head bumping the table leg as she crumpled.
I dropped to the floor. Her eyes met mine, so she was still conscious.
“It’ll be quick,” I said. “It will be fine. Just like the carnival. And hopefully this will be the wake-up call to Dr. Clark to try a different drug.”
But she didn’t respond, her eyes clocking to the right, center, right, center.
Her entire body stiffened. The seizure had generalized.
I counted to sixty while her muscles pulsed.
Her leg banged against a chair, and I pulled her body onto mine to cushion her.
Ninety seconds was still normal. We had to wait it out.
Gram had never had to call an ambulance on me, and the records told us Ava had never been to the hospital for a seizure other than the one she had when we met. This would end soon.
But it didn’t. Two minutes passed. Ava turned blue, like in the disco room. I called for an ambulance. They said they were on their way, but it felt like forever before they arrived.
I had to leave her on the floor to go open the door. The paramedics rushed into the kitchen. One of them asked why we didn’t have emergency seizure meds. No one had ever told us we should.
I thought for certain she would die.
Ava was out for six long minutes. Her face was ashen, her fingernails purple. She didn’t relax, rigid even when the pulsing seemed to stop.
Longest six minutes of my life.
The first breath Ava took was a miracle. She gasped for air, choking on saliva, but they sucked it out.
She was breathing.
We rode in the ambulance while Ava slept. I had no idea if she was really okay. I’d never been with her for a seizure of this magnitude, not all the way through.
They rolled her to a curtained room, and a nurse took her vitals while I filled out forms. I didn’t have her medicine bottle with me and had to guess at the dose, since it had changed so often. I banged the clipboard against my knee as I waited for her to wake up.
It was half an hour before her hand lifted to her head.
Her eyes opened, and I could see the pain in her glazed expression. “I’ll get them to give you something for the headache.” I pulled back the curtain so I could spot a nurse if one passed.
I also wanted to give her some space. Her face contorted with confusion, her gaze shifting back and forth. What Ava was I about to meet? I’d never been with her at the very beginning of a new life for her.
The nurse came around the corner, and I flagged her down.
“Is she awake?” The whip-thin woman in blue scrubs approached the bed.
Ava scooted away from her, drawing her knees close to her body.
“I’m Nurse Helene,” she said. “How are you feeling?”
Ava didn’t answer, looking from the woman to me and back again. My stomach lurched. I was afraid that she didn’t know me, that she didn’t recognize her surroundings or what they meant.
“She has a headache,” I said. “She usually does after a seizure.”
Helene inflated the cuff on Ava’s arm. As the pressure increased, Ava’s eyes grew wide with panic. She tried to pull it off, but Helene expertly pushed her hand away until it beeped. “Calm down, now. We’re making sure you’re okay.”
But I knew then. Ava didn’t recognize a blood pressure cuff. It was all gone.
I moved beside the bed. “She’s confused. She gets amnesia. She won’t know who she is or why she’s here.”
The woman’s eyebrows lifted. “Is that so?”
My whole body flashed hot. She didn’t believe me. “Can you get something for her headache, please?”
But Helene had had enough of me. “Sweetheart, does your head hurt?”
Ava had pushed herself as far into the pillows as she could, creating distance between herself and the woman. She nodded, moving her hand to her head again.
“Are you allergic to anything?” Helene asked.
“No,” I said. “Ibuprofen will work fine.”
Helene’s lips pressed sharply together, but she stepped back. “I’ll get them for you. Now that she’s awake, I’ll let the doctor on call know he can see her.” She held out her hand for the clipboard.
“Her neurologist is Dr. Clark. Can we call him?”
She glanced at the clock. “You can try. But it’s late. Tomorrow morning during his regular hours will probably be better.”
“But—”
And she was gone.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
Ava held her knees tightly, eyes wide.
“Do you remember anything?” I asked her. I had no idea what she could do. Was it possible she didn’t even know how to talk?
Her eyes met mine. I wanted to do something, anything to let her know I was on her side.
“You had a seizure,” I said. “In your apartment. You and I had just had dinner. I’m your boyfriend. We’ve been together for several years. You’re twenty years old, same as me. Your birthday was only a few weeks ago.”
Her eyes watched me with fear and suspicion.
“Your name is Ava. It’s tattooed on your hip in case you lose your memory. There’s also a tattoo on your wrist.”
Her gaze immediately dropped to her arm, and my anxiety eased that she understood me.
She pushed up her sleeve. Her eyes widened at the words. Trust only this handwriting. Find the book. Remember your life.
So she could read. We could do this.
“I’m Tucker,” I said. “I love you. I’m here to help you through this.”
We were interrupted by the arrival of a tall man in a white coat, a stethoscope slung around his neck.
“Hello there,” he said, lines crinkling around his eyes as he smiled. “I’m Dr. Jensen. I heard your new anti-seizure med might not be quite right.”
I took in the deepest breath since this ordeal began. This man seemed reasonable.
“What’s your name?” he asked Ava.
Her eyes darted from me to the doctor. “Ava,” she said.
“Good, good.” He pulled a metal object from his pocket. “Can you look at me, Ava?”
He shined a light in her eyes. At first, she shied from the brightness, but he moved it aside and grinned. “Just seeing how pretty your blue eyes are.”
She let him look.
“Very good. How old are you, Ava?”
She glanced at me. “Twenty.”
“Very good. Can you touch your nose?”
He ran her through all the neurology checks we’d both done a thousand times. Touching fingers. Sticking out your tongue.
“You look good, Ava,” he said. “You seem recovered. How often do you have seizures?”
Ava glanced at me. In our short time, she seemed to understand I had the answers.
“Every few years,” I said, but before I could explain the additional problem, he interrupted.
“Then I will release you to the care of your usual neurologist, so he can determine what adjustments to make. Call him in the morning.”
And before I could say another single thing, he was gone.
The nurse came in right on his heels. “Here’s the ibuprofen,” she said. “Looks like you’re being released. Let me get some papers, and we’ll have you on your way home.” She passed the small cup of pills and a bottle of water to Ava. “Dr. Jensen will send a report to Dr. Clark for the follow-up.”
“Wait,” I said. “She can’t go home. She needs testing.” I remembered all the things Ava told me about her hospital stay when we met. “Her memory. Her skills. We need to know where she’s at so we can help her through this transition.”
The nurse’s smile became plastic, like it had been carved onto her face. “I’m sure her regular doctor can manage all that. I’ll send someone in with your release papers.”
Then Ava and I were alone again. Maybe this was the difference between a children’s hospital and an adult one. They probably didn’t even have an epilepsy center here.
Ava held the cup of pills and the water bottle in her hands as if she wasn’t sure what to do with them.
“Do you want me to open that for you?”
She held out the bottle, and my chest loosened. She trusted me at least that much. Maybe she could remember. I had no idea.
I broke open the seal and unscrewed the lid. When I passed it back, she took a sip, still holding the pills in her palm.
“Do you want to take those?” I asked.
Her eyes searched our small space, the privacy curtain, the small table by her side, the white sheets on the narrow bed.
“Ava?”
She set the cup of pills on the bed and held the bottle with both hands. When I shifted to pick up the pills before they were knocked off, she recoiled, holding the bottle close to her.
“What do you know?” I asked.
Her gaze met mine, and I realized my question was too big.
“Do you know the rest of your name? What comes after Ava?”
After a long moment, she shook her head from side to side.
“It’s Roberts. Your name is Ava Roberts. You’re a photographer.”
Her eyebrows drew together at that.
“You take pictures with a camera.”
She nodded, understanding registering.
“When you have seizures, you sometimes lose your memory.”
Her face crumpled into confusion again.
“You can’t remember people or things that happened in your life.”
She gazed down at her water bottle.
“Do you still have the headache?”
She nodded.
I held up the cup of pills. “This is medicine to make the headache go away.”
She held out her hand.
“Don’t chew them. Swallow them like you do the water.”
She shook the cup, rattling the pills, then dumped them in her lap. She picked up one and examined it closely. Then she put it in her mouth.
It stuck there, and her eyes widened with alarm.
“Drink the water, and it will push it down,” I said quickly.
She took a swig, and her shoulders relaxed as it went down.
“Can you do it again?”
She picked up the second pill, this time managing it better.
A different woman in black pants and a shiny shirt arrived with paperwork. “You guys are good to go,” she said. “Follow up as soon as you can with the neurologist. Someone will call you in a week to make sure you’ve made an appointment.”
I took the sheaf of paper from her and she disappeared, leaving the curtain open.
“I guess we have to go,” I said. “I can take you home. Will you go with me?”
Ava drew her knees up to her chest.
“I can ask for a social worker. We might be able to get more help.”
But something clicked at those words. “Social worker,” she said.
“You want one?”
She shook her head. “I want to go home.”
Thank God. I helped her down from the bed and pulled up my app to call for a ride. But as soon as her feet were on the floor, she walked ahead of me to the curtain. She peered both ways, not sure what to do, but clearly wanting to do it on her own. I hurriedly requested a car for us.
She looked lost. Of course, she would be. I could barely get around in a place like this myself. “There should be an exit sign.”
She spotted it and hurried past other curtained rooms. She stopped abruptly when the doors slid open on their own, then she rushed on through. I jogged to keep up with her as she barreled through the waiting room, then out into the night.
Only when she was assaulted by new sounds and smells with no idea where to go did she turn back to me. “This is terrifying,” she said.
I knew exactly what she meant.