The Ward (17 page)

I snap my head up, slip my hands from Derek’s. Their sudden coldness makes me tuck them under my armpits. I stand, nervous. Never liked being called by my last name. It’s always bad news.

At the window, a woman seated in a low chair points to a laser projection, red against the white counter. At first I don’t know what she’s asking of me. That is, until I see the dollar sign.

Aven’s first hospital bill. The first of many.

I pull the cash Callum gave me earlier out from my bra and slide it across to the woman. There goes the money that was supposed to get Aven and me through till the end of the month, when I get my stipend.

If
I get my stipend.

Who knows—the chief might suspend my contract if the sample I gave him turns out to be a viable source of freshwater.

The doors swing open and Callum—Dr. Cory—strides though, a white mask dangling from his neck. I look for signs of what he’s about to tell me, and straightaway I notice his hands. They’re tucked into the pockets of his lab coat in a comfortable, relaxed Good News sort of way.

“How is she?” I blurt, leaving the counter to join him.

Don’t say “coma.” Don’t say “coma.”

Please don’t—

“She’s awake, but the growth . . . it needs to be removed. Quickly.”

“That can even be done?” I ask. I’ll find a way to cover it. However I have to, I’ll find a way.

“It’s risky, but it’s her only option.”

“And it’ll fix her?”

Callum pauses. “It’s a patch. And that’s provided she doesn’t bleed out on the table. If successful, however, she could live another year, depending on how fast the tumor grows back. HBNC-related growths have a hundred-percent return rate, but they sometimes return more aggressively than they did at primary onset. She could live a year. She could also live a month, or less.”

Boy doesn’t mince words.

Last question. The one I need to ask, though the answer changes nothing.

“How much will it cost us?” I hold my breath and wait for an answer.

When Callum finds my eyes again, something like guilt catches in his expression. “I don’t know, but I’d like to try talking to some people. I might be able to do something for you. No promises, of course.”

Is he saying he can get her the surgery for free? Is that what he’s saying?

I don’t feel comfortable outright asking—always said I’m no one’s charity case. But for Aven, I’d eat my pride, I’d take whatever they’re willing to offer. Got to wonder why he’d stick his neck out, though, for a roofrat like me.

“Aven’s surgery has been scheduled for tomorrow morning, nine A.M.,” he continues. “You can see her in a few moments, if you like. The nurse will be with you shortly to assist from here on in. Oh, yes . . .”

Callum takes me by the elbow, leads me out of earshot of the others. “Two things. First, a reminder. Do not offer my real name to anyone,” he says, then eyes the name tag pinned to his coat. “I’ve been working under the Blues’ radar for about six months now, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

The whys come back—there’s so much I want to know—but now’s not the time. So I just say, “Sure. Dr. Cory,” and I keep the questions to myself. I’m going to get some answers from him. Just don’t know how. Yet.

“Also,” the doctor says, checking his cuffcomm for the time. From his lab coat pocket he pulls out a shiny, fancy pen. I can’t help but wince, watching as he tears off the corner of yet another envelope and writes something on it.

When he’s done, he holds up the piece of paper and pushes it into my fist. “They can tap the cuffcomm they gave you too easily.”

In a low voice: “Aven was very sick before tonight, wasn’t she?” And then, his face a mixture of distress and hope, he whispers, “You found it,” and watches me for my answer.

I drop my chin the slightest bit, meeting his eyes. For a moment our gazes are locked. I nod.

“Find me. I can help her,” he insists, his tone soft. Desperate, almost. “And bring a sample. It’s the only way.”

But I don’t have a sample—I gave it to Chief. . . .

“I think we got to your sister just in time.” One last pleading look and Callum tips his chin, much the same as I’ve seen the Derbies do, but with respect. First to Ter, then Derek, and me last. Once more he looks at me, before heading down the corridor.

Still turned from the others, I look at the piece of paper, then stuff it into my bra for safekeeping. It’s his address.

We got to your sister just in time
.

A gentle reminder that without his help, she might be dead.

But then, a voice, small and angry and irrational, gnaws at my mind: without his “help” I never would have found the water, or given it to Aven in the first place.

The fault is just as much his as it is mine.

I walk back to Derek and Ter, chewing on my lip, suddenly full of anger. Not at myself anymore, though. Now, now it’s toward Callum. If he’d never found me . . . or lied about being with the Blues . . .

“It’s just so weird,” Terrence comments. “She seemed fine. Did you change her meds or anything?”

Sitting down, I cradle my head in my hands. His question rings in my mind.

The guilt comes back, tidal. For a few measly seconds I’d been able to forget it, put it on someone else, but I’m glad it’s back. Because that sort of thing is too big, too important to forget. Or deny. Even for a second. I should feel it—the sick, gut-twisting knife of my stupidity. I should feel it over and over and over again.

And I should make it right. I gave her the water, I’m responsible for making sure she gets better. Which means she needs to have the surgery. I can pay for the surgery with the extra Callum promised.

Not hiding his suspicion, “What did that guy hand you?” Derek asks.

“
Dr. Cory
handed me the names of some herbs I can pick up on Mad Ave to help her with the pain.” It could be true. Herbs ain’t offered in hospitals, but that don’t mean they won’t help her. Pricey, though, like anything grown in soil.

Derek looks down at his cuffcomm like he’s reading a message. Then he stands up, face drawn and grave. “
Brack
—I’m so sorry, Ren. I just got a call from a friend. I have to be somewhere.”

“You’re serious?” I ask, stunned. A friend? I swallow, knowing full well what that means.

Her
. He can’t leave. He can’t. . . . If there’s one thing he could do to make every feeling I’ve ever had for him die a quick, early death, it would be this.

“Yeah, man,” Ter says. “Stay . . . we should be seeing Aven any minute.”

Almost on cue, the double doors open. A woman in white calls my name while reading from a clipboard.

“Look, we’re headed in now. Let’s go.” Ter rises to his feet.

I search Derek’s face, as though I might find out what could be so important that it would take him away. At this hour. From here.

And from me
, a hurt, wishful part of myself adds.

But his face is no better than stone: hard, without expression.

“I’m sorry. . . . It’s an emergency,” Derek pleads, looking at me. “Please, tell Aven I hope she feels better. Ren, I’m sorry, I am. . . . I’ll come back with you tomorrow. Promise.” He backs away from us, then turns and quickens his pace out the hospital doors.

I stand, and Ter and I watch as Derek practically races away. We exchange looks—shocked, confused looks—and without a word follow the nurse.

17

12:30 A.M., SUNDAY

M
y insides turn to water when I see her—I’m going to be sick.

Tubes snake around Aven’s body, laid out too still on the small hospital bed. A curtain divides the room, bluish lights buzz overhead, and the smell . . . it’s the smell of dying. Of people waiting to die. That alone shakes me.

“You have five minutes with her.” The nurse speaks to us like Aven’s not even here. “It’s a good thing you were able to bring her so quickly. This is the most aggressively growing tumor I’ve ever seen. Between the time she was admitted, up until about thirty minutes ago, its diameter increased a full six millimeters. Seems to have slowed now, though, which bodes well. I’ve never seen anything like it.” She shakes her head and, looking over her glasses, adds, “Dr. Cory said this is primary onset?”

Primary onset . . . Callum said that she wasn’t sick before tonight? Must not have wanted to raise any questions, like what she was doing in a club with a baseball-sized tumor pressed up against her skull.

“Yes,” I lie. No reason to change the story and raise even more eyebrows. And her situation is already strange enough.

“Ren . . .” Aven moans from her bed.

With a nod the nurse makes for the door. “Five minutes,” she reminds us, which makes me want to throw a dart at her face.

Ter and I walk to opposite sides of her bed. “Shhh,” I say, and I take Aven’s hand in mine. “Don’t talk.”

“You don’t need to talk anyway. We’ve got Ren in the room,” Ter jokes, trying to lighten the mood. He hasn’t seen her in years, but it doesn’t seem like it matters. His shoulders are hunched, tense. He looks nearly as anxious as I do.

Though Aven’s chest rises and falls like it should, I can see that the air tank at her side is doing all the work. Her eyes stay closed, but I hope against hope she can hear me again, that her mind’s clearer than it was back in the transport sub.

“I’m sorry we fought. . . .” she says. Pale blond lashes flutter and she opens her eyes slightly, tilts her head in my direction. “Forgive me?”

The question undoes me. Tomorrow they’re going to cut her open and she might die, and she’s asking forgiveness. That hard lump I’d been fighting off for the last hour finally breaks its hold.

Don’t lose it
, I tell myself.
If she sees how worried you are, she might not want the surgery
.

Too bad there’s no pep talk in the world I could give myself right now that would do any good. I push my palms into my eyes, find water there, and choke on a sob I can’t hold back. “There’s nothing to forgive, silly.” I sniff, my nose suddenly crying too. “We’re sisters. Sisters fight. That’s, like, half the fun. We should celebrate, actually. I think that was our first fight ever. It’s finally official. Really, we should get a certificate of authenticity or something.” I laugh and wipe away the salty wet from my cheeks.

Aven giggles, then stops ’cause it makes her breathing too hard.

I smile, kiss her forehead. She always liked my sense of humor. If there’s anything I’ve ever been good at, it’s making her laugh. “They’re going to make you better tomorrow,” I tell her.

“I’m nervous. . . .”

“Don’t be, Feathers—”

The woman in white returns, owning the place in just a few steps. “Time for meds,” she crows. “Which means it’s time for you two to be off. This
is
the critical care unit.” She raises an eyebrow and taps her cuffcomm.

“No way, it’s only been five minutes, lady. Just a few more, please?” I try to leave the edge out of my voice. This woman is a gatekeeper. I should be buttering her up, but right now I’m just no good at faking nice.

“Visiting hours have been over since eleven. You only got those five minutes because Dr. Cory said it’d be good for the patient,” the nurse says, not budging. “Besides, this one needs her rest, what with her surgery tomorrow.” She prepares a dose of some liquid that looks like it’s going to get fed through one of the dozens of tubes Aven’s hooked up to. When the nurse sees her slight crinkle of fear, she says lightly, “Three injections. One for the inflammation, one to help her sleep, and one’s a pain reliever. All good things.”

All those meds . . .

Within seconds, Aven’s zonked out.

“When can I come back?” I ask, still holding her hand.

“Like I said, this is the critical care unit, so visiting hours are limited. If she stabilizes, you can see her more often,” she says without answering my question.

“So . . . when can I come back?”

“Right before her surgery tomorrow, if you like.” The nurse steers us through the room and out the door, her hand on each of our backs. “Now, off you go.”

Ter’s Omni barely sways as he brings her dockside. “Drive you home?” he offers, standing over it, ever the good guy.

I didn’t notice just how snazzy the carrot was before, being half-dead and all, but now I do—fancy-pants nav system. Autostabilizing props. I nod my thanks and climb in, sinking back into the red leather interior.

“The ’Racks?” he asks.

I swallow my surprise—didn’t think Ter knew the ’Racks existed, much less where they’re located. He’s never been; I’ve never invited him. Though we were both in the orphanage, once he landed himself a rich dad, we grew up very differently. Doubt his pops would’ve wanted him hanging around the ’Racks, and no doubt Ter woulda felt mighty out of place there too.

“Mad Ave is fine, actually. I can walk home from there,” I answer, thinking of the address in my bra. Callum’s place is right off the main drag. I know he said he could only help if I brought a sample . . . but I have to try. “Just want to pick up a bite to eat,” I add.

“Mmmm . . .” Ter grumbles and pats his belly. “Jealous.”

I’m jealous too. I’m jealous of the lie I just told. My stomach tightens, but I know it’ll be a while before I can get my hands on some grub.

As Ter steers the mobile east though the gutterway, I let my mind wander for distractions, watching the underwater city as it rolls tape. History, right in front of us. Deep in the silty, muddy canal, we see just the torso of a sculpture. One of his arms holds up what I think is supposed to be fire, because he’s just stolen it. That’s how the story goes, at least. Supposedly, we could brush him down and he’d be gold underneath. I never believed it.

Then, when I look around again, we’ve hit Mad Ave.

“Stop here, if you would,” I tell Terrence. I want to ask if he’s planning on visiting tomorrow, but I don’t. Don’t want him to feel obligated or nothing.

Ter gazes wistfully out at the boardwalk. “Eat some dumplings for me, will ya? I’d totally come with if I weren’t positive that my dad’s been having a two-hour heart attack, wondering where I’ve been.”