Intuition (19 page)

We stand there watching helplessly as waves of convulsions take over her body until they load her into the ambulance, slamming the doors as they speed out of the park.

We call Rayne's mom on the way to the car, and by the time we get to the hospital she's standing in the waiting room, looking lost. Her eyes are red and frantic, so I walk over and give her
a hug. She holds me tight, and I know she's giving me what she'd rather be giving Rayne right now. “They asked me to leave the room,” she says. “They're going to have to intubate her, and they don't want me in there.” She looks at me and tears well up in her eyes. “She's not even breathing on her own. What happened?”

I squeeze her hand. “I don't know. She said she wasn't feeling well, and then she just collapsed on the ground.”

“They said she might be on drugs. Did she take anything? You have to be honest with me.”

“She's not on anything, I promise,” Peter says. “Cole tried to give her an Advil and she didn't even want that. You know how she is.”

“I know,” her mom sniffs. “I'm so glad you two were with her.” She puts one hand to her mouth. “I can't imagine what would have happened if she'd been alone.”

“It just looks bad,” I say. “She's going to get through this just fine.” I say that to convince all of us, because any other outcome is inconceivable. “Where's Sienna?” Rayne's sister should be here instead of me.

Rayne's mom looks up, momentarily confused. “I . . . um . . . I think she's at work. I should call her.”

“I'll do it if you want me to,” I say.

She glances at the commotion in the emergency room. “No, I will. She should hear it from me.”

Before she can move, a nurse pokes her head out of the emergency room. “Mrs. Foreman? Your daughter is stable for now. We're going to transfer her up to the ICU. You're welcome to come up, but I'm afraid everyone else will have to stay in the waiting room. We have to limit visitors, at least for tonight.”

We walk to the doorway as her mom looks at us with panic in her eyes. “ICU. That's bad, isn't it?”

Peter puts a hand on her arm. “It's the best place for her right now. She's going to be okay.”

The curtains are pulled back, and through the team of doctors and nurses that surround her, I can see Rayne lying flat on the rolling bed, a tube down her throat and tape on her mouth as one nurse squeezes a bag every few seconds to help her breathe. One hand pokes through the railing they've put up around the mattress, and more than anything I want to grab it, to give the fingers with the chipped blue nail polish a reassuring squeeze, but before I can make a move, they're halfway down the hall.

Rayne's mom hesitates for just a second. “Where are all of her things? Her purse, her phone? She never goes anywhere without her phone.”

“I've got everything,” I say. “Go with her. I'll bring her stuff home and you can get it later.”

“Thanks,” her mom says, tears shining in her eyes as she turns to follow the crowd of people toward the elevator.

I hold the soft edge of Mum's sari in my fingers and feel a flood of emotions that aren't mine. Sadness, definitely. That's to be expected, even though I've told her over and over again that I'll be okay. I'm ready to go. I put one hand up to her face, my fingers exploring her mouth as it turns down in the corners and the dampness her tears leave in the corners of her eyes. She sits completely still and lets me.

“Mummy, don't be sad. You'll make it harder.”

I can hear her sniff, even though she's trying to cover it up. “I know. You're going to have a wonderful time in England and learn so many things. I'm just going to miss you.”

“Me too,” I say. “I'll be home soon, though.” There's something else—excitement, an undercurrent that's almost giddy. I can tell she's trying to suppress it, but it's there just as clearly as
if I can see it with my own eyes. I hesitate, then lean into her before whispering, “I know you have a secret.”

Mum pulls her hand out of mine and I feel her move a small distance away. “Secret? I don't have a secret.”

I turn my face in the direction of her voice. “You do. I can feel it.”

I hear her gasp. “How can you possibly feel it? The baby is still so small—it will be many more months before it is born.”

Baby. Mummy is going to have another baby. That's the secret she's been keeping. Daddy too. I pretend like I knew this all along. “I just can,” I say, as mysteriously as possible.

“No secret is safe around you lately.” Even though she doesn't say it out loud, I know what she means. Now that my eyes are gone, everything else has been pushed into vivid focus. Sounds are louder, touch is more sensitive. And that small voice we all carry inside is much more insistent.

“Isn't that as it should be?” I smile at her. “And soon you will have a new baby, so you will not miss me as much.”

Mum presses me to her chest. Even though all I see is blackness, I inhale the familiar powdery scent and feel her heart beating through her sari. “I will always miss you just as much,” she says, and even without listening to the voice inside, I know she means every word.

I blink in the darkness, and for a second I can't tell whether my eyes are open or not, just like in the dream. Lying still, I let my mind wander over what I've just seen and realize that it wasn't a dream, it was another memory.

Gradually, my eyes adjust to the dim light in my room, and I
can make out a faint gray light that outlines the closed curtains. I've only been asleep for a couple of hours, but I'm amazed that I managed to doze off at all. In a rush, the events of yesterday come flooding back and I roll onto my side, curling my legs under me. My stomach lurches as I think about Rayne being wheeled out of the room, the bag filled with air the only thing keeping her alive.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I grab my cell but see only the screensaver, no new texts. I hesitate only a second before I begin typing the letters. Early morning, late night; time doesn't mean much in this kind of a crisis.

How is she?

Peter texts back almost immediately.
About the same. Won't let me see her.
I can picture him sitting in the hard plastic chairs of the waiting room. Maybe if I come, he'll go home for a little while.

I'm coming. Coffee?

Pls. Lots.

I pull on my jeans, trying not to think past getting to the hospital. After scribbling a quick note, I hurry through the quiet house and out the door, holding my breath for fear that I'll wake someone and have to explain why I'm going out so early in the morning. Mom and Dad will argue that there's nothing I can do for Rayne right now. They don't get that I'm not going for Rayne. I'm going for me, because I can't stand not to.

I run up to Haight Street and turn the corner, alternately running and walking a few steps in order to catch my breath. The street is practically deserted—all of the stores still have their metal grates solidly in front of their doors, although the smell of
coffee drifts in the air as the cafés get ready to open for the day. The few humans on the sidewalk are hidden in doorways by lumps of rags or tattered sleeping bags, their spare-change cups empty but at the ready by their sides.

Café Sienna is already buzzing with life when I get there. I glance toward the back, half expecting to see Veronique at the table, but for the moment it's empty. I get coffee for all three of us on a brown cardboard tray and load my pockets up with sugar, because I have no idea how Peter or Rayne's mom take it.

The bus stops just outside the hospital, and soon I'm balancing the drinks as I walk through the lobby toward the elevators. The security guard at the information booth doesn't look up as I pass.

Peter's the only one in the tenth-floor waiting room when I get there, sprawled out over a couple of chairs, the unwatched TV blaring in the corner. “Thanks,” he manages when I hand him one of the cups. He looks exhausted, but the dark circles under his eyes and the day's growth of stubble make him look somehow even cuter than usual. I take out my phone and snap a picture of his scruffiness.

“What was that for?”

“For Rayne, when she gets better.” Because she has to get better. “Do you want some sugar?” I toss the packets onto the table.

Peter takes a sip. “No. I'm not sure I'll even be able to get this down in the first place.”

“Is her mom in there?” I nod toward the locked doors of the ICU. Unlike downstairs, here you have to be buzzed in by the nurses.

“Yeah. She's been there most of the night. She tried to get me to go home, but I'm not leaving until I see Rayne. And even then, I'm not sure.”

I don't try to talk sense into him, because I know exactly how he feels. We sip our coffee quietly and watch the minutes tick by on the wall clock. I get up and walk over to the window. The view is amazing from way up here; you can see the whole city. I wonder how long it's going to be before Rayne will be able to appreciate it.

“Cole!” Rayne's mom says, walking into the waiting room. Her hair is wild, with only a few strands still contained in their original ponytail. “What are you doing here so early?”

“I couldn't sleep. How is she?”

She sighs. “Stable, finally. They had to take her off the ventilator and bag her twice during the night.” Her eyes fill with tears. “I thought we were going to lose her.”

I wrap my arms around her neck and she hugs me back. After taking a deep breath, she continues. “She's in a coma right now. Unresponsive, but they still don't know why. They're going to wait until later this morning and then take her down for a CAT scan as long as she stays stable.” She looks at Peter. “Do you want to see her?”

He sits up. “Of course.”

Rayne's mom goes to sit next to him. “It's not easy. She barely looks like herself, and there are tubes everywhere. But there can be two at a time in the room with her. Do you want me to go with you?”

Peter looks up at me. “Take Cole first. She's Rayne's best friend.”

I shake my head. “No way. You've been here all night. You go now, I'll go after.” I don't say so, but I need a little more time to get myself together before I can face her.

He stands up, his legs a little shaky. “If you're sure.” He rubs his hands over the front of his jeans, and I can tell he's nervous too.

“I'll be right here.” I take his still-warm seat, feeling like the job of holding up hope has now been transferred to me. They're only in there for about ten minutes, but it feels like hours before they come back to the waiting room, Peter wiping tears away with the sleeve of his jacket. Rayne's mom has a hand on his shoulder. “It's going to be okay. You were great.”

He looks stricken as he takes a seat next to me. He nods. “You should go. It's hard, but she needs us more than ever.” Peter takes a deep breath and seems calmer.

“Are you sure you want to?” Rayne's mom asks.

“I'm sure,” I say, following her into the hallway. “They don't have any idea what's wrong?” I ask, as we reach the double doors.

She shakes her head sadly. “Not really. They ruled out meningitis last night, which is a relief. As far as they can tell, something neurological is causing her organs to fail one by one. Her oxygen levels were rough all night, and now her kidney function looks compromised.” She gives me an encouraging squeeze. “But they'll figure it out, I'm sure of it. And as soon as they do, we'll know how to treat her.”

Even as the words come out of her mouth, I know she doesn't fully believe that. She's worried that the doctors won't find the cause of the trouble in time. And I don't blame her.

“We need to wash our hands at the sink right outside the door,” she says as we approach the nurse's station. “And then use the hand sanitizer that's just on the other side. They're really worried about infection in here.”

We're buzzed through the heavy double doors, and it's like entering another world, dim and quiet except for the beeping of machines and the whoosh of assorted ventilators. The nurses seem to walk on air as they check tubes and type on portable monitors.

“She's down at the end,” Rayne's mom whispers. We walk by several people lying in curtained beds, but I can't bring myself to look at any of them. Instead, I focus on a clock that's on the opposite wall, slowly ticking toward six a.m. “Here we are,” she says, still quiet but with a forced sense of levity. “Rayne,” she says to the figure on the bed. “Cole came by to see you, isn't that nice?”

She leans over and whispers to me. “You can touch her, but just watch the machines.”

I nod, unable to trust my voice. The only thing recognizable about Rayne is her hair. Everything else looks alien. She's lying flat on the mattress with a tube coming out of her mouth that's hooked up to a big square machine right next to the bed; it makes a rhythmic pounding sound as it forces air into her lungs. There's tape on her cheeks to hold the tube down, and more tape holding more tubes to the back of her hand. Someone pulled a blanket up to her chest, but wires and tubes snake out from under it to more machines on either side of her head and to IV bags that are hanging on a pole. There's a plastic clip on her index finger with a red light on the end, and I notice that someone has
taken off all of her blue nail polish, although her fingers still have a slightly bluish tint, as though they're cold.

Rayne's mom sees my glance. “They're monitoring the color of her fingers,” she whispers. “She's been having some circulation problems.” She looks on the other side of the curtain. “I'm going to go check with one of the nurses. I'll be right back.”