This Ordinary Life (24 page)

Her words are too low for me to hear and her back is to me, but I watch as she reaches up to wipe tears away.

An accident? I don't even understand how that happened. He should have been at school today so what was he doing driving?

When she finally hangs up, she sees me and gives me a small smile. She crosses the room on big steps and pulls me into a tight hug.

“Thanks for coming, darlin'.”

“Of course! What happened? Can I see him?”

She glances toward the hallway beyond the nurse's station. “He looks terrible, I don't want it to scare you. Let's go walk. We'll get a coffee real quick and talk for a few minutes.”

“Okay.” My heart is racing. I want to cry or scream or do something that makes her tell me what's going on, but of course I have to bite my lip and wait patiently. “He's okay, though. Right?” My voice goes up an octave and my eyes search hers.

She hooks her arm through mine and leads me toward the elevator. “I don't know,” she says with a catch in her voice.

The elevator is crowded so it's not until we're in the coffee shop that Wes's mom opens up. I stir my drink and wince at the memory of when I met Wes over my spilled cup of hot coffee.

“He had a seizure this morning.”

No.

I close my eyes and picture Wes's face. Perfectly healthy, seizure-free Wes.

She takes a deep breath, obviously gearing up for a story she's probably told a million times today. “He's been doing so well. You know, he hasn't had a seizure in years. Years! But this was a bad one. And he was at the top of the stairs. He fell all the way down and broke his nose, wrist and ankle. But he also hit his head very hard and has a concussion. Concussions are dangerous enough for healthy people, but for those with epilepsy, they can be detrimental, as can any change in the brain. Anyway, he was still seizing when I came home from the grocery store. They are trying to pinpoint the timeline now, but the cuts he got in the fall were already starting to congeal and scab and the way the fluid gathered at the breaks in his bones, suggests he was on the floor for quite some time, maybe even close to an hour.”

“Oh my God.” I stop walking.

She nods. “I know. And I wasn't gone much longer than that, so it must have happened right when I left.”

“How is he now? Is he coherent?”

Tears spill down her cheeks as she shakes her head. “He is totally out. Heavily sedated. They used the diastat to stop the seizure, which worked for a while…” she shakes her head and takes a deep breath. “But when we got here he had another small seizure and then an hour later, another, a worse one. They gave him IV meds and upped them to the point of him being almost catatonic. They had to slow everything down in there.” She taps her temple.

We step onto the elevator, which is thankfully empty.

“He has regular EEGs so we know his epilepsy hasn't been getting worse. I am praying this is a fluke breakthrough seizure and not his epilepsy getting bad again. Or something worse.”

I close my eyes and lean back against the elevator wall. “Has he had an MRI?”

“Going in for it in an hour.”

I exhale and think about the odds. Abnormalities in the brain, like growths and tumors, are common causes of seizures. But Wes already has epilepsy, so I'm hoping the odds of having both are slim. But still.

“I better get back in his room. A volunteer was sitting with him while I made calls and got coffee. But I need to be in there. Wes's father is flying home from a business trip. But he's in Asia, so it'll be quite a while yet until he gets here.”

I swallow the now massive lump in my throat. “Let me come with you,” I say. “I've been through this so many times with my brother. I know how hard it is to sit there alone, and besides, I really want to see him.”

Wes's mom considers me for a minute and then nods. “Come on,” she says. “Just be warned. He's pretty banged up.”

S
HE WASN
'
T KIDDING
.

Wes has a cast on his ankle and another on his wrist. Tape stretches across his nose and cheeks, his face swollen and bloated, his skin scraped and marred and tender-looking. He looks like a stranger. His eyes are closed, but bruised a deep, deep purple beneath them. My fingers tremble, wanting to touch his cheeks. Wanting to make him better. His head is covered with the electric EEG nodes and wires and cap of course. An IV needle is taped to his arm and two bags hang next to his bed. Wires snake beneath his shirt too, monitoring his heart. His arms are scraped up, as are his legs.

“Oh, Wes,” I whisper. My breath catches in my chest like a wild bird beating its wings to escape. I watch the waves on the monitor that spits out information on what his brain is doing. Impossible for regular people to read, even after a million hospital visits watching those screens for some type of answer. Some type of small clue.

I drop into the chair next to his bed, his mom sitting on his other side. I scoot the chair closer and gently take his fingers in mine. I remember only last week when he cupped his hand over mine while I worried about Danny in Dr. Bee's waiting room. I stare at his face, trying not to wince at how mangled he is. I will him to open his eyes, to laugh and joke around with me.

Please be okay.

I'd been worried about Wes having seizures again. That I wouldn't be able to handle it, to deal with someone else in my life who suffered this way. But this sitting here and hoping he's going to be okay is worse. So much worse.

Just please, please be okay. Please don't let it be too late.

We sit there for hours. Watching his face, the monitors. Nothing changes. I wait in the room with Wes's mom when they take him for the MRI. They wheel his bed back in, but still nothing changes.

Mom calls me around ten. She's insistent I come home and I know she's right. As much as I'd love to sit at Wes's side all night, I know I can't. Lynette promises to call me as soon as there is any information or change. I leave with a promise to be back in the morning.

Mom picks me up with Danny asleep in the backseat. She smiles sadly and pulls me into an awkward hug across the console. She smells like peach shampoo and sugar, as if she was baking. I pull back and look at her. Her eyes are totally clear. She's sober.

I burst into tears and hug her again.

A
FTER A RESTLESS
night, I take my nervous energy into the kitchen before dawn, looking for something distracting. Everything is sparkling clean. Huh. The counter is even completely cleared off, not a bottle of anything in the way of my making breakfast. I look in the cabinets, in Mom's normal alcohol spots, and see nothing. It appears she has cleared out all the booze.

I pop an English muffin in the toaster and pace by the counter, sipping coffee. I nearly choke when I see Dad's old stereo sitting by the back door with the cord wrapped around it tightly. Wow.

I have no missed calls or texts, which means there was no change with Wes last night.

I text Frankie and tell her what's going on. I hate missing school yet again, especially considering I am almost at the allotted days off, but there's no way I'm not going to the hospital as soon as I can.

I mean I have to, right? Bile creeps up my throat, picturing Wes in that hospital bed. I'm sure he'll be okay. But he looked so…

I take a deep breath and grip the edge of the counter. The cheap Formica digs into my palms. My reflection stares back at me in the window over the sink. It's muted, the green grass and pebbly walkway drowning out my face as if I'm a faded water-color painting.

What if I don't go? Wes's mom can update me, I'm sure. I mean, maybe I really shouldn't miss school again.

Or maybe I can't handle this.

I jump back from the sink, turning quickly away. My hands shake as I carry my breakfast to the table and sit. How could I think such a thing? I care about Wes. So much. I'm not a heartless, cruel person.

Am I?

I sit in the silence, nibbling on the cold English muffin while I stare at the blank white fridge door, studying the chips and dents in the surface, dents I've never even noticed.

I think about Wes. His silly dancing, our night in Times Square, his face in the comic shop as he explained his favorite superheroes, the way his smile quirked up as he watched me try on headphones at Junction Records, the dramatic way we fell into each other, breathless after laser tag. And of course the hug, that amazing hug. The way he brought me ice cream and how he sometimes joked about giving me a kiss. I squeeze my eyes shut, but the tears still manage to break through.

A barely there smile tugs at my lips. I really do care about him. But this is terrifying, and way too familiar.

Danny pads into the kitchen a few minutes later and I pull him into a fierce, tight hug. He steps back, eyes wide, and I try my best to wipe my emotion off my face.

“Time to get ready for school, Danny. It's your last week!”

“What's wrong with you? Why are you crying again?” He juts out his lower lip and my heart dips like one of those paper airplanes Wes is always flying.

“What? I'm sorry. My friend is sick so I was worried, but I'm happy, see?” I force a fake smile. Danny returns it tentatively.

“Waffles?” he asks.

“How about Cheerios,” I say.
“After
you get dressed.”

“Fine,” he says. “But stop crying, Jazzy. I don't want you to be sad.”

Once he's gone I mentally curse myself for my emotions worrying my brother. But I can't help it. I'm scared and upset, and I'm angry, too. Wes shouldn't have to go through this, and Danny either.

It's not fair.

And what else isn't fair is me stepping away. But I think I have to. Not all the way away or anything. Just a little distance. A little space. I'll go to school today. I'll check in with Wes's mom on the phone. Danny needs me more than anything. What if I can't be there for them both?

I already hate myself as I reach for my backpack.

W
HEN
I
GET
to the hospital, the same nurses are at the desk as when I left last night.

So fine. I didn't make it to school. Not even half a block from home, I turned around and went back to ask Mom for a ride to the hospital. The feeling that tried to keep me away, that inside out hole in the bottom of my stomach, pulses with familiar fear. But as I walk into the hospital, I know this is where I belong, and where I want to be. Being with Wes is worth any bit of worry that may come with it.

So I nod to the bottle blond nurse from last night, the cheerfulness of her pink puppy dog scrubs ridiculously out of place in intensive care. Her eyes light up with recognition when she sees me.

“Hi again,” I say quietly when I step up to the desk.

“Hey there,” she drawls with just a hint of a southern accent. “You were here for Wesley, right?”

I nod, grateful I don't have to wait for a pass. I scrawl my name in the visitor log and head down the hall toward Wes's room.

Lynette is in the hall just outside his room, looking down and scrolling through her phone. A cart of food trays is parked in front of her so she doesn't see me at first. She looks up, eyes weary and red rimmed. When she sees me, her face breaks into a smile.

“Jasmine.”

“Any change?” I glance over her shoulder into the room and see Wes looking almost exactly how he did when I left last night, though from here, the bruises look even darker, maybe.

“The MRI was clear, thank God.”

I let out a breath. Thank God, indeed.

“The EEG was looking a little better last night. So they are slowly decreasing the IV meds. He's still out of it, but I am really hoping he wakes up soon. It was a really long seizure, who knows what may have… I just want to look in his eyes and hear his voice and know he's okay in there, you know?”

Do I ever.

“Can I go in?”

“Sure. I'm running for breakfast while my husband is here. Come on in, I'll introduce you.”

When I step into the room, the cool darkness invades my senses suddenly, like someone's thrown a blanket over the sun without warning. The shift is almost too much to handle after the bright morning outside and the fluorescent lights in the hall. A man sits on the other side of the bed. He's an older replica of Wes, sandy blond hair and all, except his has some snowy white in it. He smiles at us when we walk in, and it's uncanny how much his grin mirrors his son's. Even the way he shifts on the bed is eerie, leading his lean frame with his shoulders first. They carry themselves the same.

“Hey George, this is Jasmine, Wes's… friend.”

Wes's dad walks around the bed to shake my hand. “Nice to finally meet you, Jasmine. Thanks for coming by.”

“Of course. Where else would I be?” I try to ignore the traitorous twitch in my belly, reminding me that I almost didn't come. Because what I feel now completely trumps what I felt this morning. It's true: Where else would I be?

I look at the monitor across from Wes's bed and then let my gaze travel to him. Blinking quickly against my threatening tears,
I reach out and gently pat the sheet that covers his legs.
Come on Wes, wake up.

When I look back up, Wes's parents are wearing matching soft expressions.

“I can see what Wes means,” his dad says.

I cock my head, waiting for him to explain.

“Wes thinks very highly of you. I can see why.” He threads his fingers with his wife's. “You know what, Lynn, let's go grab breakfast and let Jasmine visit with Wes.”

“Yeah?” She leans against her husband, her face a little more hopeful when she looks up at him. I wonder again what it was like to grow up in Wes's house with nice parents who love each other and seem so normal.

“Talk to him,” his dad says to me as they step into the hall. “Maybe it'll help.”