Wake (86 page)

“Mom!”

When I push back Jem’s blanket I find his pajamas and sheets soaked with sweat. Mom comes in, followed closely by Dad and Eric, and I can see by the look on her face that this isn’t the way she left Jem an hour ago. His fever must have spiked rapidly.

I show Mom the thermometer. Jem is still muttering to himself, saying nonsensical things. His fever is so high that he’s delirious.

“Stay with him.” Mom takes me by the shoulders and stands me directly beside Jem while she runs to the kitchen. She comes back with a plastic bag and starts to col ect his medication bottles to bring to the hospital. She’ll need the obscenely huge binder with all his recent medical records, too.

Dad does a quick series of examinations: temperature, pulse, sweat pattern, eye clarity, and then announces that he’s going to start the car and bring it around to the front door.

Eric dumps out Jem’s backpack on the desk and starts to gather the comfort things he’ll need if he’s admitted to the hospital: pajamas, underwear, toothbrush…

Jem grabs the front of my t-shirt and twists. The heat of his fever has cracked the normally dry skin around his knuckles, and I get a few drops of blood on me. I can’t understand much of what Jem says, but he’s pretty insistent about his nonsense.

Eric tries to wrap him in a blanket for the trip to the hospital, but Jem’s slow thrashing and his stubborn clinging to the front of my t-shirt make it difficult. He starts saying Willa’s name in varying tones—first questioning, then with relief, and again with a sense of fearfull urgency. Assuring him that she’s right here is the only way to get him to stop wriggling, though he doesn’t let go of my shirt. I have to pry his hand away one finger at a time so Eric can carry him downstairs. My temporary absence distresses him and he begins to whimper for me in between coughs. He asks Eric if I’m awake yet.

He’s downright delirious—he thinks I’m still in the hospital.

“I’m right here,” I tell him. It takes him all of about thirty seconds to forget and start asking again.

I open the rear door of Mom’s car and crawl in first. Eric carefully sets Jem on the back seat and I hold him upright while we adjust the blanket and his position. His coughs are shal ow and he’s whimpering like he’s in pain.

Mom takes the passenger seat and Dad drives. How many times are we going to have to make this drive to the hospital, four of us panicking while the fifth flirts with disaster?

*

Dad’s job at the hospital helps with admission in the ER. He’s a trauma surgeon; he works with these nurses and doctors every day. The RN that admits Jem knows my brother by sight. She’s admitted him before, but he’s usually a little more conscious.

There are no beds immediately available, so they park the hospital wheelchair we brought him in with at triage and take his blood pressure and temperature. The nurse has to lift his head for him and hold his jaw to keep the thermometer in place.

Mom, Eric, and I get pushed out into the waiting room, but not before the nurse announces to the on-

cal doctor that Jem’s fever is at thirty-eight-point-six degrees. That’s not so bad, if I put it in perspective.

I was pushing forty degrees last winter before I lost consciousness. But I wasn’t a cancer patient.

Dad insists on staying with Jem at triage, but can’t do much about the nurses who direct the rest of the family into the waiting area.

This is the part I hate. These rooms, with their rows of chairs and outdated magazines and large clocks on the wall, are the home of helpless desperation. This past year I have spent far too much time sitting in these rooms, feeling useless, waiting to hear news about my brother. Why can’t
Obliviate
work in real life?

Mom starts to cry and Eric folds her into a hug.

“I’m going to go get coffee.”

*

The hospital cafeteria has a limited menu at this time of night. Al the dinner items are long sold out. I pour myself a large Styrofoam cup of coffee and grab a seat near the window. I don’t want to go back to the waiting room yet, even though I know that in five minutes, the possibility of missing important news will drive me back to Mom and Eric.

Coffee is my good luck charm. Whenever I have to wait for news like this, I have a cuppa and take an extra Ritalin to balance the jolt. It sounds stupid, but it’s a ritual that has, thus far, yielded pretty good results. I think I had an entire pot to myself when I was waiting to hear if I was a suitable donor for Jem. I had unbelievably good luck that day.

I finish one cup and buy another. I use the last of my spare change on the coffee and a blueberry scone for Eric. I take it back to the waiting room to find that nothing has changed.

“How much have you had?” Eric nods to my coffee cup as I hand him the scone.

“One and a half.”

“Should you be having caffeine right now?” He nods to the double doors that separate the waiting area from the emergency room.

“Damn,” I mutter, and hand the cup to him to finish it. If the doctors tap me for a donation, Jem is going to get quite a jolt off it. Elise Juice comes laced with Ritalin and caffeine, on tap and a perfect thirty-

seven degrees.

“Have you eaten?” Eric holds out the scone to me. I take a bite and give the rest back to him. “You’re one tough chick, you know that?” he says to me, and then eats the remainder of the scone in one bite.

This is harder on him than it is on me, I think. I’m not entirely helpless. I can keep myself healthy, in ready shape to be a harvest zone for spare parts. I’m tough enough to keep taking it—the healthy lifestyle, the threat of being sliced open, the pain and infections, etc. It’s easier to focus and do that than it is to sit here, doing nothing. Jem and I are bonded by the shared medical consequences of his diagnosis. And Eric… he’s the solid foundation of this family that we all take for granted far too often.

“Thanks, bro.”

He gives me a dol ar and tells me to go buy some orange juice. Eric is my homeboy. Jem is my hero.

Thursday the 8th of June. Sunny.

Thousands of droplets

Hit the windows every minute

But the only ones I hear are the

Drip

Drip

Drip

Of the IV The ride to school doesn’t feel complete without Jem stretched out across the back seat. I miss his snoring and brooding and complaining. When we pull into the parking lot I see Willa leave her car to come join us. She doesn’t know what happened to Jem yet.

Eric and I turn to each other and extend fists. We Rock-Paper-Scissors for who has to tell her. Eric loses.

When Willa approaches the car he starts off by giving her a hug. Way to tip her off to bad news, bro.

“I guess he’s still feeling sick?” she says.

“We had to take him to the hospital last night. His fever spiked.” There’s something comforting about the fact that Willa doesn’t immediately panic.

“Did they admit him?”

“He spent the night.”

“I guess it’s not just a cold, then?”

Eric shrugs. “Jem’s fragile.”

“Should I try to visit?”

Eric shakes his head, trying to be casual about it. “They’re trying to limit his exposure to people while he’s sick. And it’s not that bad. He’ll probably be home late today or maybe tomorrow.” That’s a lie; we don’t know when Jem is coming home. His condition still isn’t much improved, apart from the fever. He’s developed a cough and can barely speak, his voice is so hoarse.

“You’ll keep me posted?”

“Of course.” Eric gives Willa another awkward hug and holy crap, what is that mark on her hand? She leaves to go inside with her head down.

I round on Eric once she’s out of earshot. “Why did you say that? He won’t be home today,” I hiss. Eric doesn’t even look at me. He’s watching Willa’s back with an uncharacteristically thoughtful expression.

“I didn’t want to scare her, or for her to change her mind about him.”

“Willa wouldn’t do that.”

Eric just shrugs. He doesn’t trust Willa to stay, because he wouldn’t if he had any choice in the matter.

*

Eric drives me over to the hospital during lunch period. I want to visit Jem. I wanted to see him last night, but the staff didn’t think it was a good idea to let visitors in so late. Unfortunately, Mom and Dad agreed, and I’ve had to wait patiently for the past twelve hours. I do not cope well with patience.

Eric declines to join me.

“What’s he going to think if you don’t come?”

“I’ll see him later.”

“But—”

“Go on, Lise, you’re wasting lunch hour. I’ll wait in the parking lot.” When I persist he claims to have a test this afternoon that he needs to study for. He even has his Chemistry text with him as evidence. I quit busting his balls about it, even though I don’t believe him. Eric never studies—he’s one of those people who can do well without having to try too hard. This test, if there is indeed a test, is just a convenient excuse to avoid visiting Jem.

I sign in as a visitor and dutifully sanitize my hands and don a mask. Standard operating procedure. I actually kind of like the packaged smell of these masks, now.

As I head down the ward I see Mom in room 204, speaking quietly with another mother. The other woman is crying and Mom is holding her hand. Must be a new patient on the ward; a new family to commiserate with. If Mom is there it must mean that Jem’s sleeping, so I enter his room as quietly as possible.

I find Jem asleep, half on his side and breathing loudly. One of his feet pokes out from under the blanket. I cover it and pull a chair up beside him. It makes me feel better just being close to him. I can relax knowing that he’s relatively okay (read: breathing).

He doesn’t wake up when I set my notebook on the edge of his mattress and use it as a desk. I feel like writing, surrounded by the silence of this room—with the rain pounding on the window and my brother’s raspy breathing and the sounds of the equipment and noises of the hospital. Silence is relative.

Jem can sleep through anything. Always could. I tuck my hand into his curved one. He still feels unnaturally warm.

When I was little I had the sense that Jem somehow belonged to me. That he was
mine
to follow and observe and idolize. I followed him everywhere. I wanted to do what he did. I would practically fawn over him whether he paid me any attention or not. I was in my glory during the moments when my hero would all ow me to be his sidekick, if only for an hour or two, and sometimes, when no one was watching, he would even condescend to play Barbies with me. I craved validation from my second brother like no one else. Even when he became a teenager and was too cool to hang out with his little sister, I wanted his attention. I should have minded that he blew me off over and over again like he was too cool for me, but I didn’t really. I
wanted
him to be that cool. I wanted other people to admire him the way I did. I would do anything to gain a moment of his notice, even when he was totally self-absorbed in what clothes he wore or the stupid things he did to impress girls who would never appreciate him properly.

As terrifying as his illness is, I don’t have to look hard to find the silver lining. Cancer all owed us to reconnect. He had time for me again, as long as I had patience for his moods, and I was pleased to find that we hadn’t grown so far apart. Everything I’d idolized about Jem as a kid is still true. He is thoughtful and tough as nails and in need of quiet reassurance—he just expresses himself differently now.

Eric is unchanging, and I like that about him, maybe because we’re nothing alike. He’s steady; he likes to stay the course he’s chosen. Jem is frustratingly fluid, overly sensitive and has a bad habit of overreacting. He doesn’t make it easy to justify my favoritism.

Hurry up and wait

For a sign that will be

Missed.

Watch the line, the

Numbers, the

Beat

Of the meaningless pattern

That means everything.

“Read it to me?” he rasps. I look up to find Jem awake. I can only tell he’s conscious because of his breathing. He can’t open his eyes because they’re crusted shut.

I set my pencil down and go get a warm cloth to wipe his eyes clean. Jem murmurs ‘thanks’ as I soak his lids and brush away the gunk. When he opens his eyes they’re bloodshot and glazed.

Jem reaches for my notebook to read my scribblings. I usually don’t let anyone read my poems, not even Mom, but Jem is a special case and he knows it.

“I’ll read it.” I set aside the cloth and recite the poem. It bothers him. He thinks he’s making me worry, like watching his heart monitor could become an unhealthy obsession. Eric and I call it ‘hospital TV.’

“How come you never write about Eric?”

I shrug. “Eric isn’t subtle. You’re a pattern. Like music. I can make poetry out of that.” I tear the page out of my notebook and leave it on the side table for him.

“What else have you written lately?”

I offer to write something about Willa. It’s a diversion I know will pique his interest, because I don’t want to give my brother an honest answer. The truth is that I haven’t written very much of anything in weeks that isn’t about Kipp. It would bother Jem if he knew. He doesn’t like Kipp—or maybe he just doesn’t like it that I’ve found another boy to adore; like I’ve outgrown my need for my hero.

The orderly comes by with a meal tray for Jem. He doesn’t have much appetite, but I help him eat the fruit cup and juice box. He leaves the chicken and peas untouched, not that I blame him. It looks like a frozen TV dinner.

“I’m cold,” he complains quietly. I offer to get him another blanket, but he asks for a hug instead. I scoot my chair as close to the bed as I can and he shifts his weight to the edge of the mattress. His forehead comes to rest against my neck and his thin arm wraps around me. I hold him as best I can, rubbing his back to warm him up. Maybe he wasn’t talking about physical warmth when he said he was cold….