10. Nicola
Nicola
I’m alert as I drive home, my leg stiff and cold.
Inside, the apartment is dead quiet, remnants of dirty dishes in the sink, the living room cluttered and untidy with laundry to be folded, Emmy’s school papers and books.
I head upstairs, careful not to wake Emmy.
Scotch must be asleep with her in his room, I think as I walk past his empty bed in the hall.
I practically fall into bed, the tiredness in my body soothed by the cold sheets wrapping around me.
As I roll onto my side, the pain in my lower back shoots down my leg, causing my entire limb to go numb, dead, cold.
I close my eyes for a moment, and when I open them, Ben is lying beside me.
His large brown eyes stare into mine. I wriggle closer to him until we are nose to nose.
Do that butterfly kiss thing, he whispers. I lean into him, and he starts flapping his big brown eyes. I love you, gorgeous.
I love you too, Benjamin. I feel myself cry.
Whoever falls asleep first loses. He smiles, his teeth gleaming.
Okay, I nod, trying to keep them open.
I always win at this game now, he says.
The darkness closes in, and I know this is the end. The memory is soon to be complete. Stay with me a little longer, I ask sleepily.
I pull up the sheets between us, but Ben is gone. I turn onto my bad side, facing the window. My nerves crackle until my leg bristles with pain. Soon, my limb is cold and dead.
I can hardly feel a thing.
The next morning, I see Emmy hunched over the counter, her head cradled in one hand over a bowl of cereal.
“Em?” She glances up, uncontained and raw, like a toddler lost in the middle of a busy store and longing for a familiar face.
I place a hand on her back, and for a moment, I think I sense her heartbeat, fast, anxious. “How are you?”
Shrug. A wriggle of her shoulders so my hand falls away. “My head is killing me.”
I look around and spot her bottle of pills on the counter. “You took your pills?”
“Yes,” she answers and groans. “They aren’t doing anything.”
Emmy pushes the cereal away from her and lowers her head to the counter. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
“Is it the scar like before or a different pain?”
She rolls her head to the side. “It’s the scar like before but more all over. Like my whole head is one big scar.” Her hands brace the sides of her head. “It won’t stop thumping.”
I check Emmy’s temperature and realize she’s burning up. “We need to get you to Dr. Ching,” I tell her. “Something isn’t right.”
She groans quietly and holds the sides of her head. “I really don’t want to, Mom.”
“I know, sweetheart,” I say and rub the upper part of her back. “Come on,” I say and lift her from the kitchen stool.
She rises and steadies herself, then rushes to the kitchen sink and vomits violently.
“Mom!” she cries out. “What’s wrong with me?”
I don’t want to tell her what I think it is. So I say nothing, and instead, we clean her up, get in the car, and drive to Cedars-Sinai.
We wait forty-five minutes in the small, cramped office that looks like someone’s grandmother’s living room.
I sit holding Emmy close, rubbing her back while we wait.
At last, we’re taken into another waiting room, and Dr. Ching enters right away, her expression calm and collected.
She gives us a once-over, then looks at our files.
“How are we today?” she asks cheerfully.
“Not so good,” I say, trying to stay calm. “Emmy has been in a lot of pain lately.”
“My head is killing me,” Emmy moans. “It’s unbearable.”
“I see,” says Dr. Ching, unmoved. She pats the examination table. “Hop up here and let’s take a look.”
I watch as Dr. Ching puts on gloves and pokes around the scar. Emmy winces when she touches a large pink lump in the center.
“What’s wrong with it?” Emmy asks.
Dr. Ching examines her for a moment longer before removing her gloves and answering. “It doesn’t look compromised, but I’m going to put you on antibiotics just in case.”
Emmy’s face falls.
“What about the pain?” I ask.
“Could be just regular headaches,” Dr. Ching answers. “Of course, we know that patients with head trauma will get headaches from time to time. We’ll up your pain medication.”
“Great,” Emmy mumbles.
“She already has trouble taking the medication,” I explain. “It makes her nauseous.”
“Most pain meds do,” Dr. Ching explains, her voice unsympathetic. “Take them with food. That will help.”
She jots something down on a prescription pad and hands it to me. “She can take the tramadol at the onset of the pain. The sooner the better.”
“Isn’t there anything else you can give her instead?”
Dr. Ching thinks for a moment. “Skin graft patients can benefit from HBOT. Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy. But most insurance companies won’t cover it.”
“So that’s it? Just more pills?”
Dr. Ching looks at me, her expression flat. “I’m afraid so.
Come back and see me in a few weeks.”
My gut turns over as I feel the panic rising. I never wanted Emmy to suffer like this. Any complication with her skin graft means more doctors, more pills, and more money. Money we already don’t have.
Dr. Ching finishes up her notes and leads us out. I pay the co-pay, and in moments, we’re in the elevator approaching the ground floor where the pharmacy is. I pay for Emmy’s prescriptions and realize that the balance in my account is a little less than two hundred dollars now.
My stomach pangs again because rent and bills are coming due. I’m skating on a knife’s edge between having enough and us going hungry.
Back in the car, I tell Emmy she can take that break from school. “I’m not going to make you go. At least not for a little while.”
She shoots me a look, eyes suddenly hopeful, and it nearly breaks my heart. “Seriously?”
I nod. “Seriously. It’s all been too much. I think you need a little time to rest. Don’t you?”
She looks me over like I’ve damn near lost my mind. “So … what? I can just stay home? Just like that?”
“I’ll call the principal and tell her.”
Emmy nods, her eyes wide, like I’m dangling a million-dollar prize right before her eyes. Finally, she turns to me, somewhat brighter. “I heard JoJo got to take two weeks, on account of seeing a psychiatrist after her parents split.”
“Oh, really?”
Emmy smiles, hopeful. “I mean, I can do home study. Get my books and, you know, work from home … It’s not that big of a deal.”
I put my hand back on her back. “Let me call them and see.”
She nearly bursts at the seams and wraps her arms around me, and I savor each second of it for as long as it lasts.
“So, what will you do?” she says, pulling away from me.
“What do you mean?”
“Now that you don’t have to go back to the Whitmore?”
“That’s my job to figure it out, Em.”
She stares at me skeptically. “I thought we needed money …” Emmy pulls her feet up onto the seat, her frayed, tired shoes coming apart at the sides, a shoelace knotted in the middle where it must have snapped. My heart breaks open.
“Don’t worry about that,” I tell her. “You do you, and I’ll do me.”
She laughs bitterly. “Okay. Just don’t let the you that decided to quit come back, or we’ll both be in trouble.”
I smile lightly, but deep down, her words hit like tiny razor blades, nicking at my insides.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I’m not going anywhere.”
A voice rises inside my head, clear and sharp. I snap my head to the left a little, willing it away, but the voice inside is loud and insistent.
How can you be sure?