Third Degree (19 page)

Hard to believe his living space has gotten this out of hand in only a few days. But really, it’s none of my business if Marshall wants to party more than clean. It’s none of my business if he’s hungover from alcohol or pot. I think he’s an idiot for making himself miserable, but whatever. We’re all idiots sometimes. Even geniuses.

After spotting a nearly full twenty-ounce bottle of Gatorade on the floor beside the bed, I fling open the fridge to see what supplies he’s got already. Maybe he doesn’t need my help.

The only item in his minifridge is a pink box that I recognize immediately. I reach for it and quickly count the injections left, my brain already spinning with theories. With the box still in my hand, I stand up and close the fridge with my shoe, glancing around for more hiding spots.

My gaze lands on the top dresser drawer where he stashed the weed the other day. I haven’t heard a toilet flush yet, so I jump into action, sifting around in the drawer, moving boxers, socks, mismatched condoms that I recognize from the free handouts during orientation. Finally, I uncover four different prescription bottles. I lift one bottle at a time, taking in each name. Flagyl, Ciproxin—antibiotics. Prednisone—a steroid (so he wasn’t completely lying about the ’roid use). And Vicodin—a narcotic pain med. I shake the bottles, examining the weight. They all appear to be completely full, no pills missing.

There’s a weird tightness forming in my chest as I put the many puzzle pieces together. The toilet flushes, water runs in the sink, and then Marshall is stumbling back into the room, squinting at the bright light. I’m still standing in front of his open drawer, the box of biological injections clutched in one hand.

He takes his time getting back onto the bed, pain filling his expression with each shift in movement. When he’s stretched out, the covers over his legs, I finally open my mouth to speak. “You need IV fluids.”

Marshall lifts his head a bit, takes in the box in my hand, and then lies back again. “You looked through my fridge? I thought we already talked about this invasion-of-privacy problem of yours.”

His lips are dry and cracked, the skin under his eyes sunken. Even the skin on his arms looks dry. “You’re dehydrated.”

“That happens when you make eighteen or thirty trips to the bathroom in one day,” he mumbles, closing his eyes.

“Is it eighteen or thirty?” I ask, trying to get a grasp on the severity of his current flare-up.

He groans and tosses and arm over his face to cover his eyes. “Go home, Izzy.”

I return the box to the fridge, and I’m surprised by the shake in my hands. I do walk out of the room, but it’s only to retrieve my stethoscope and ear thermometer from the first-aid kit under my bed.

“You left your suitcase,” he says when I return. “And the light is still on.”

“That’s because I’m not leaving yet.” I have to shove a bunch of dirty laundry and books onto the floor before I can sit on Marshall’s bed. He uncovers his face long enough to see the stethoscope around my neck. His eyes widen.

“This relationship is reaching a level of weirdness that I’m seriously not comfortable with.”

I place the buds into my ears and press the base against his stomach. “I just want to listen to your bowel sounds.”

“I take that back.
Now
we’ve reached the peak level of weirdness.” He’s using what little strength he has left to attempt this argument with me, but I can see him fading fast. I touch two fingers to his lips to quiet him and focus on the sounds his intestines make. After I’ve heard all that I need to, I take note of the fact that his lips are extremely hot. He tries to swat away the thermometer, but I win again.

His temperature is 102.4 degrees.

My hands are still shaking when I set the thermometer onto the bed and press my fingers against his abdomen. Marshall winces, and what little color he has left drains from his face. I fight the urge to yank my hands back, knowing I’m causing him pain. I slide my fingers lower, gently pressing all the way across, not even needing to ask him if this hurts—the answer’s written all over his face. Something beneath the dark hair around his belly button catches my eye. I lean closer to examine it and immediately suck in a breath. “You’ve had surgery.”

“Surgeries,” he corrects.

“How many?” I reach for the waistband of his boxers and fold it over. There should be another scar right—

“Stop it!” Marshall shoves my hands away and pulls the covers up to his chest before rolling onto his side, his back to me.

“What’s your pain level? One to ten.” I shake out my arms, trying to rid them of the
trembling. I feel like I’m coming down with Marshall’s imaginary flu myself.

“Seriously, Izzy, go home.”

“Give me a damn number or I’ll … I’ll—”

He rolls onto his back again and looks at me. “Or what? What the hell are you going to do with that information?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. Then I stand up and start pacing his room. What am I trying to do here? What’s the plan? What’s the recommended course of treatment? I’ve scrubbed in on eleven surgeries with the attending gastrointestinal doctor at the hospital, and six of those were patients with Crohn’s disease. His symptoms aren’t new to me, nor are any of his meds, so why didn’t I see this before? “Why didn’t you tell me? Kelsey even mentioned that you lost weight last year.…”

His back is to me again, but I hear him laugh. “Right. ’Cause skilled flirting typically includes mention of frequent diarrhea and surgeries to remove diseased sections of the large intestine.”

I grab a small notebook and pen from the front of my suitcase and flip it open to an empty page. “Can you just give me a basic outline of your medical history? If I have that information, maybe I can help make a—”

“A what?” he demands. “A diagnosis? I’ve been diagnosed.”

I’m busy jotting down all the information I have thus far, organizing it in the same structure as a medical chart. “At what age did your symptoms first begin?”

Marshall sighs, tosses back the covers, and plants his feet on the floor. I assume he’s about to make another trip to the bathroom. Instead he stands up and grips my arm, pulling me toward the door, his other hand reaching for my suitcase.

“You’re not even listening to me, Izzy,” he says, his breathing labored from the effort. “I hate being rude, but I need you to leave.”

I feel lost. I feel … I don’t even know what I’m feeling exactly. I lift a hand to my chest and rub away the tightness. “Wait!” I plead, searching for something normal to say. “What about your parents? Shouldn’t you call them?”

Marshall rests his head against the door frame. “You need to chill out. I’m sick, and yes, that sucks ass, but I’m not dying. There’s nothing here for you to dive in and save. It’s a chronic illness, not terminal cancer. It’s manageable.”

It’s manageable
.

The words hit me like a smack across the face, like being slapped back to reality. He’s right. Of course he’s right. But I feel off. My thoughts aren’t forming in the order they normally do. The steps I need to take aren’t falling into place.

I stand in the hall with my mouth hanging open while Marshall crosses the hall toward
the bathroom, this time closing the door to his room behind him—a message for me, no doubt.

But I can’t make myself leave. Instead, I wheel my luggage back to my room and remove my phone, quickly dialing the doctor’s number I’d memorized from the bottles of pills in Marshall’s top drawer.

Unfortunately, Dr. Janet L. Green is currently with a patient and I’m stuck waiting for a callback. When I hear Marshall exiting the bathroom, I chase him down in the hall again. “Answer two questions for me and I swear I’ll leave you alone.”

The door frame has become his crutch today. He puts all his weight on it and closes his eyes. “Fine.”

“Are you having any bleeding?”

“Yes,” he whispers, “But not enough to need a transfusion.”

Yet
, I can’t help thinking. “How’s your pain?”

“Five … maybe six,” he says and then he’s back in his room, falling into bed again. He gave in to the questioning so easily this time, he must really want me out of here.

I follow him inside even though I know I shouldn’t. “Don’t you mean nine or ten? You look like you’re in a lot of pain.”

My phone rings before he can argue, and I’m so eager to talk to his doctor that I completely forget about the issues Marshall will most likely have with this. “Dr. Green?” I say after picking up.

“What the fuuu—” Marshall starts to say, but he closes his mouth and resorts to swearing at me silently with his eyes.

I identify myself, then briefly explain Marshall’s symptoms and current state of health. Marshall’s glare gets more evil by the second.

“Okay, which hospital has he been admitted to?” she asks, her voice calm and straight forward, the way mine would be if I were on the other end of this call. I’ve been on the other end before many times.

“He hasn’t,” I say. “I’m a … I’m a …” Marshall’s eyebrows shoot up, challenging me to pick a role. “I’m a friend. But I have some medical training.”

“I see,” she says. “Well, Marshall knows the drill for his flare-ups—antibiotics, increase his Humira from monthly to biweekly injections, prednisone if there’s no improvement in three to five days—”

“Why wouldn’t you start steroids now?”

“No,” Marshall says, burying his face in his pillow.

Dr. Green must have heard him through the phone, because she laughs. “That’s why. Marshall hates steroids. That’s our last resort. I can only recommend. I can’t force medication on him. He knows his limits pretty well.”

“But he’s dehydrated,” I argue. “He’s not thinking clearly.”

Marshall laughs the derisive I-hate-you-right-now kind of laugh. Guilt washes over me, but it’s not enough to stop me. I walk out of the room and head down the hall at a pace that would be way too fast for him to catch me.

“Sorry, I had to walk away from him. He’s being incredibly difficult.”

Dr. Green laughs again. “Maybe, but Marshall thrives on being as normal as possible. Every patient with a chronic illness like Crohn’s has to find his or her own method of management. His last flare-up was in the spring. That’s a long stretch of remission, and that tells me he’s doing something right.”

“But he’s really sick,” I say, not even sure what I’m arguing for or what I want her to do about it. “There must be something else to try.”

“I doubt you’ll be able to talk him into the hospital at this point.” She sighs. “If you convince him to take some pain meds, that might help relieve the cramping he’s experiencing. But Marshall hates pain meds almost as much as steroids, so good luck with that.”

Why would he even bring the meds to school if he’s not planning on taking them? Maybe she’s right. Maybe he does know his limits. They’re just a bit farther out than a conservative medical recommendation.

I hang up with Dr. Green, promising to give her an update tomorrow morning. I glance around and realize that I’m in the common room. I was so focused on running away that I didn’t even pay attention to which room I walked into. I pace for a minute or two and then grab the darts from the board, using Marshall’s techniques to throw a few rounds while I think up a plan for what I should do next.

When I return to Marshall’s room, he’s curled up in a ball on his side, eyes squeezed shut, pain and tension filling his face. I freeze right in front of his bed, a whoosh of light-headedness sweeping over me. I reach for the desk chair and grip it tightly.

He must have heard me walk in, because his eyes open. After he assesses me, the anger drops from his face. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Something about Marshall in his current ill state asking me if
I’m
okay causes a pain to hit my chest. The light-headedness increases, and cold sweat trickles down my forehead and neck. I know this feeling:
I’m going to vomit
.

“Be right back.” I turn around and head for the bathroom, flinging open the door to the stall, but once I’m kneeling on the floor in front of the toilet, the nausea decreases. I lean against the wall and put my head between my knees. My panicky breathing slows to almost normal. Sweat continues to trickle down my face, but after a few minutes the sick feeling passes and I can stand up again.

I lean over the sink, splashing cold water on my face, drinking some of it. I dry off with a
paper towel, ignoring my now shaking legs, and head back to Marshall’s room.

“Did you puke?” he asks, looking concerned.

“No, I just felt like I was going to, but I’m better now.”

He pulls himself halfway up to a sitting position. “My mom ends up barfing every time I’m in the hospital. She tries to pretend she’s walking away to get some item nobody needs at the time, but I figured it out like forever ago.”

“I’m not usually like this.” I turn his desk chair around and sit in it to ease my shaking legs. “Actually, I’m never like this.”

“I meant it when I said you need to chill out. I know what I’m doing. There’s a reason I’m here and not at home. My mom worries and hovers, and my sisters are loud and they worry, too, and cook things in the microwave that smell disgusting—”

“Okay, I get it.” I lean forward, resting my head in my hands. “Let’s compromise, then. You take one dose of pain meds and drink one bottle of Gatorade, and I will promise not to call an ambulance or your mother.”

The glare returns to his face. “That’s not a compromise, that’s blackmail.”

I lift my head. “I’m sorry. Final offer.”

He sighs and only looks half as angry as before, like he’s figured out that I would have left him alone if I could, but I can’t. “Fine, but after you watch me take the pills and drink some fluids, you have to leave.”

“Deal,” I say before jumping up to retrieve the meds from his stash. He refuses to take the Vicodin with crackers despite the fact that without food he might end up vomiting them back up in thirty minutes. It takes him twenty minutes to consume the Gatorade, and by that time the narcotics are kicking in and he’s blinking way more than normal, drowsiness consuming him.

After he’s out, it’s like my brain splits into two halves. One is directing me to lock up my room again, put my suitcase in the car, and head home. The other half has swiped Marshall’s room key, ensuring my reentry, and instead of getting on the interstate and heading north, I’m pulling into the parking lot of the local Walmart.