Made for You (5 page)

It makes me feel like a lousy person for thinking that, and if my father heard me, there would be a lecture on “counting my blessings.”

I hate thinking about all of this, but there’s not a whole lot else to do in the hospital. I read. I watch television. I text Grace, Robert, Piper, CeCe, and a few other people. It’s lonely, but I can’t deal with most of them seeing me yet.

I
don’t even want to see me yet.

My nurse today, Kelli, is cool. She was here yesterday, too. She’s the youngest nurse I’ve had, only a few years older than me, but she’s not so old that she has that parent-vibe.

“How about a change of scenery?” Kelli busies herself opening the curtains, letting bright light pour into the room. “You could get the grand tour of Peds.”

They aren’t letting me walk yet because of the traumatic brain injury, but I don’t want to walk either, so it works out just fine. “No thanks,” I say.

“You’re moping. It won’t help to hide away in a dark room.” Kelli levels a look at me that would do Grace proud. It’s the keen gaze of someone who isn’t going to accept my excuses or whining. I’m torn between smiling at it and wishing the day nurse was the one from two days ago. She didn’t care that I was wallowing.

“Be right back.” Kelli leaves, and when she returns, she’s pushing a wheelchair. “There’s a great view down in the lounge.”

“Maybe later,” I hedge.

Kelli crosses her arms over her chest and looks at me. “You’re one of three patients I have right now, and I just checked on them. Now’s a good time.”

“Fine. Give me the grand tour.”

I reach out to grab her arm, and she helps me as I turn my body ninety degrees on the bed so I can get down. Then, she steadies me as I lower my good leg to the floor. It takes longer than I think it should every time I do this, but at least I’m getting out of bed.

After Kelli helps me into the chair and hangs my IV bag on the pole, she quietly hands me a tissue. “Do you want something for the pain?”

“Nope.” It hurts more than I expected, but I’d rather hurt than feel like puking. The muscle relaxers already make me queasy, and I’m trying to avoid as much of the pain meds as I can. I dislike the oxycodone they added on what they call “PRN” dose, which, I learned, just means “take as needed.” As far as I’m concerned, it’s
not
needed at all. I tried it, but it made me feel fuzzy-brained. Even without it my tongue feels fat, and my brain feels slow.

Kelli hands me the lap blanket Mrs. Yeung brought me. It’s something she made herself, and I can tell that it’s one of her more recent attempts. The stitches in this one are more even than the others I’ve seen. After I cover my cast and my bare leg with the puce and lime blanket, Kelli wheels me out of the room. It feels a little strange to be in public wearing a blanket, pajamas, and a robe, but it’s either this or have someone bring me a skirt because jeans won’t go over my cast, and even if they did, balancing on one foot to unhook jeans when I need to use the bathroom sounds like a bad idea. So, a nightgown it is.

The floor is flooded by natural light because of skylights and large windows, and the walls are decorated with photographs of nature. Huge potted plants—that I think are probably fake—add to the overall sense that the designers were trying to bring a little of the world outside into the hospital. The common area has chairs and game stations, racks of books, and a few tables. It’s as inviting as it could be considering where we are.

“This is the playroom,” Kelli says as she points to the left. “Over here is the Teen Zone.”

I snort. I don’t mean to, but I do. Then I quickly say, “Sorry.”

“I didn’t name it.” She sounds unoffended, almost happy.

We’re quiet as she pushes me through the hallway. Most of the patients’ doors are closed. A few rooms are vacant, and a few have doors wide open with families visible inside. I try not to stare. I wouldn’t want strangers invading my privacy. There are a few different types of cribs, and I guess that means that there are different ages of babies in them. That makes me feel sadder. It sucks to be in the hospital, but at least I’m old enough to ask questions and make some sense of everything. Babies can’t do that.

Maybe Kelli senses my mood shifting or maybe she’s just used to people sinking into a funk when they have more cuts on their face than Frankenstein’s monster. Regardless of the reason, she starts talking again. “I hear that your friends can’t come during the week, right?”

“Jessup is a long drive.” I sound defensive, even though I try not to. I suspect that she already knows that I asked the desk to lie for me about the no-visitors policy.

“Maybe you can talk to some people here?” Kelli suggests.

I make a noncommittal noise because, truthfully, I’m simply not looking to make friends with the other patients.

Kelli wheels me past a kitchen and a laundry room, and then into a room that is a little bigger than the “Teen Zone.” There are a couple of sofas, a few chairs, a coffee table, and a decent-size television. It’s a slightly sterile version of the sort of living room that would be in most homes.

Another nurse comes around the corner. “You’re needed at the desk.”

“Do you want to go back or wait here?”

“Here.”

She smiles like I did something wonderful and then points at a panel that’s low enough to reach from a wheelchair. “There’s a call button if you need anything. I’ll be back, but page the desk if you’re ready to go back to your room sooner.”

I nod, and she leaves.

The window in the lounge overlooks a park. A group of about six people show up after I’ve been sitting there for a few minutes. They’re playing some sort of group Frisbee game. I watch them. That’s all I
can
do right now. It makes me feel pitiful, which pisses me off. God knows I’m not longing to chase a Frisbee. Sitting outside in the sunlight or taking a walk would be nice though. I can’t do either of those things. I’m not sure when or if I will ever be able to either.

My leg was apparently broken in several places. My thigh—the femur, according to Dr. Klosky—has a plate screwed onto it now. He explained it. In time the bone would grow over the metal. Better that than having shards floating about and lodging where they shouldn’t be; better a plate than not healing. Knowing all of that doesn’t erase the sense of queasiness that comes whenever I think about holes being drilled into my bone. I’m not even letting myself think about the possibility of lingering effects from my brain being jarred, or the swelling that went down, or the couple days unconscious. If I think about it, I’m not sure I can stop at a few tears. I’m not sure where to direct my anger, but I’m fighting my temper more and more lately. It twists in and around the sorrow and disgust.

Suddenly, being in the lounge isn’t as relaxing as it was supposed to be. I use my hands to push my chair closer to the call button, but before I reach it, I hear someone say my name.

“Eva?”

I look over my shoulder to see Nate staring at me in shock. I don’t know why he’s here at Mercy Regional Hospital
or
saying my name.

I stare at him as he steps farther into the room.

He drops onto the sofa across from me, careful to keep his distance from my extended leg, but near enough to talk without needing to be loud. “Hey.”

The urge to reach up and smooth down my hair makes me shake my head. My face is a maze of cuts and stitches, and I’m wearing my pajamas and one of the world’s least attractive blankets. My hair is the least of my issues.

“Hi,” I say and immediately realize that my conversation skills are about as bad as my fashion sense right now. Nate is talking to me after all this time. I’m not sure I’d know what to say to him even if we were somewhere normal. I certainly don’t know what to say
here
. I’m a little comforted that he doesn’t seem to know what to say either; he just nods and looks at me.

After an awkward moment during which I consider pushing the call button repeatedly so I can escape, he asks, “Did you just get here?”

“Here?”

“Mercy.” He stretches, tilting his head left and right as if he’s been sleeping in an uncomfortable position. “I’ve been in the lounge the past few evenings, and I haven’t seen you. Plus, those”—he points at my face—“look fresh.”

I’m more than a little confused that he’s not being a jerk like he has been for the past few years. I just don’t know if I should ignore him.

Cautiously, I say, “I’ve been in for a couple days. Someone hit me with a car.”

“That sucks.”

I start laughing. It’s not funny, not really, but it’s such an understatement after everything I’ve been feeling that it seems hilarious to me. He stares at me like maybe I’m a little unbalanced, which only makes me laugh more. It takes a minute to get my laughter under control. By then, tears fill my eyes.

I sniff and wipe the tears with the back of my hand, but in doing so, I bump one of the cuts on my cheek and gasp with pain.

“Shit,” Nate mutters, and he’s at my side holding out the box of tissues from the coffee table. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“It still happens when I laugh—just like when we were kids.” My voice is shaky, more from pain than tears. I’m not completely lying: I
do
cry when I laugh.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his hand coming down on mine—and I’m . . . gone. I’m unable to speak. I feel the world around me vanish before I can ask whether he means that he’s sorry for the past three years or sorry that I’m in pain.

I pull over, my tires crunching on the gravel. I wasn’t drinking at all, but my vision is off. Something is wrong with me, and I’m afraid I won’t make it to the house. I guess it’s the flu or something, but I’ve never had the flu hit so suddenly
.

My mother will be irritated when I wake her, but she’d be worse if I wrecked the truck
.

I shiver as I get out of the truck
.

With the help of the dashboard lights, I search the cab of my truck again, hoping that my phone fell out of my pocket and under the seat. The truck is clean enough that I know it’s not there, but I don’t see how it could be anywhere else. I had it earlier at the restaurant. I called Nora to talk to her and Aaron, but my brother was asleep, so I had Nora tell him I couldn’t make it until morning
.

I feel out of it, tired enough that I worry that I’m coming down with something. I need to shake it off. I can’t carry germs to him. That’s the last thing he needs
.

I wonder if I have any more of those germ masks at the house. I’m fairly certain I have gloves. Even if I feel better tomorrow, I’ll wear gloves and masks. Cystic fibrosis is hard enough for him to handle without adding colds or a flu
.

“Eva?”

For a moment, I remember again that I’m
not
Nate. I’m Eva. Then the voice saying my name is swept away by a sharp pain in my stomach
. Nate’s
stomach. I think about how I’m Nate and not-Nate. My stomach
—Eva’s
stomach—shouldn’t hurt, but I’m swept further into Nate, and it’s all I can do to try to remember I’m not really him
.

The stomach cramps become bad enough that I stumble and clutch the door frame of my truck. The pain is unexpected
.

I pat my jeans pockets as if I would’ve missed my phone if it were there. It’s not there. I can’t call for help if my phone is gone
.

My mouth feels like it’s filled with something hot and sour. I’m not throwing up. Yet. My heart feels too fast
.

Someone pulls up in front of me, their headlights shining in my face so I can’t see who’s in the car. I’m not sure if it’s a helpful stranger or someone I know. There aren’t a lot of people who drive along Old Salem Road. Aside from a few houses and the reservoir, there’s nothing out this far. Mom always says that’s the only reason she’s willing to live at “the godforsaken end of the devil’s elbow.”

The lights make the person getting out of the car look like a silhouette. He’s not a huge man. I can tell that. He could be a bigger woman. . . . I open my mouth to speak, but instead puke all over the seat of my truck. Something’s wrong. Something more than the flu
.

“Sick,” I force out of lips that feel oddly numb
.

The person from the car is beside me, but he—or she—isn’t speaking. I can see jeans and tennis shoes, but when I look up, I can’t see a face. It’s there; it
has
to be, but I can’t tell anything about it
.

“You should’ve stayed away.” The voice sounds almost familiar, but the person is whispering
.

I’m shivering so hard that my face hurts from clenching my jaw
.

My legs are shaking too, and I hit the ground. I’m sitting in a puddle of vomit. The person opens a bottle of what looks like Mad Dog 20/20, grabs my chin with a gloved hand, and tilts my head back. The alcohol pours into my mouth faster than I can swallow, and it spills down my shirt
.

He takes my hand and wraps it around the bottle, and my muscles are too weak to put up much of a fight. I try, but it’s about as effective as a toddler resisting a parent. My phone hits the asphalt beside me hard enough that the screen cracks. The stranger had my missing phone
.

I try to turn my head so I can throw up on the ground instead of on myself, and the person helps me this time, turning my head so I can try to get whatever I ate out of my body. As soon as I’m done though, he puts the bottle back in my mouth. He gives me a break when I start gagging, but as soon as I’ve caught my breath, the bottle is back
.

I need to get away. I need to get
home.
Then it hits me: I’m not going to be able to walk anywhere. I blink blearily at the silhouette crouched in front of me
.

Then he helps me to the ground and puts the bottle to my lips
.

“Your blood alcohol should be high enough that they won’t ask a lot of questions,” he or she says
.

I feel like the world is spinning. I try to turn my head as the bottle comes back, but the person holds my chin again. This time when the Mad Dog gags me and the vomit comes at the same time, there is no break. Tears fill my already blurry eyes as I try to shake my head to get away, but it doesn’t work
.