AN: Told from Abby's POV, about fifteen years in the
future. Also, all medications are made
up.
"Luka,"
I whispered, "Luka, wake up."
Luka rolled over and looked at
me. Moonlight was streaming in through
the windows, and it chiseled his face in places, making him look like the
grandfather in The Nutcracker ballet. "What?" he asked, sleepily rubbing
his eyes.
"Someone is singing," I said
quietly.
Luka listened for a moment. A childish voice was singing "Deck the
Halls." I peered outside but saw no
one, just some snowflakes, adding to the inches on the ground. Luka looked at me and I looked back at him,
and we both came to the same conclusion at once. "Maggie."
Our
daughter, thirteen-year-old Maggie, is severely bipolar, the only bipolar one
of the four. She's usually off in her
own world, but occasionally comes out.
Tonight must have been one of those exceptions.
Luka and I crept downstairs, trying
not to wake 11-year-old Daniel and 9-year-old Jacob, who have the room next to
the stairs. Our other daughter,
15-year-old Olivia, sleeps near the end of the hall, and wouldn't have woken up
anyway.
Maggie was sitting on the front
porch, wearing her nightgown, slippers, and a heavy sweater that I recognized
as Olivia's. "Hi, Maggie," I said, sitting down next to her on the steps. Her face was pale and her lips looked blue.
"What are you doing outside?"
"Singing," she said, and her blue
lips smiled. "It's so pretty outside."
"It's also cold," I said, shivering
even inside my flannel Pj's and heavy wool coat.
"But it's pretty," she said
sleepily.
Luka came out with a blanket. "Abby,
get her in the car. We need to get her
to the hospital, she could have hypothermia."
"I'll go," I offered. "You stay here
with the boys and Olivia."
"You could be all night."
"It's okay, I'm not on until
noon tomorrow. Besides, Daniel needs
someone to give him his pills tomorrow morning."
Our 11-year-old son, Daniel, is very
sickly and has almost continual lung problems.
He adores Maggie.
"All right," he said, and kissed me
good-bye, handing me the keys to the car.
I lifted Maggie in my arms; a small
feat because she only weighs ninety pounds, and loaded her in the van, buckling
her seatbelt. She looked even bluer
than before, but I didn't say anything.
Had she been locked out? Was that why she was singing? But why was she outside in the first place?
"Maggie, what were you doing
outside?" I asked, pulling away from the now-dark house.
"Looking for Butterball," she
answered drowsily.
"Butterball?" I asked, puzzled.
"The kitty," Maggie answered.
"Oh," I said. We had once had a cat, and its name was Butterball,
but it was dead. We had tried keeping
another cat, named Snowflake, but it had also died. "Maggie, Butterball is
dead. We buried him in the old house on
McKinley Street, remember?"
"Dead," she sighed contentedly.
"Dead, dead, dead."
That was the last I heard from her
until we pulled up at County. "Hospital," she said slowly. "Do I have to see
Dr. Erickson?"
"No." Dr. Erickson is Maggie's
psychiatrist.
I carried her into the ER, going
through the sliding doors. Malucci was
on, and he looked up at me as I came in.
I probably looked a wreck, my short hair uncombed and rustled by sleep,
wearing my pajamas, tennis shoes, and coat. "Well, well, well, what do we have
here?" Malucci asked, coming over.
"Thirteen-year-old severely bipolar
female, possible hypothermia.
Delusional, possible fever due to a virus."
"What meds is she on?" Malucci
asked, trying to set Maggie on a gurney.
"Uh, lithium, Dopikate, Civilan,
Trilisan, and Markan." Maggie grabbed at my coat.
"Mom, Mom, Mom!" she started screaming.
Malik and Lydia came over. "Hey,
it's Maggie," Malik said.
I tried to pry Maggie off my coat.
"Maggie, look, it's Malik."
But Maggie wouldn't stop screaming.
"Mom, no!" she shrieked. "Let go of me, let go of me! I hate you, I hate you!" Her arms grabbed at whatever she could
hold, hitting Lydia nearly in the face. "Shut up!"
"Maggie, nothing's wrong, calm
down!" I said.
"Shut up!" she cried.
I would have been offended, except
that I knew she was having a manic episode.
It happens occasionally.
Malik took her temperature. "104.5,"
he reported to Malucci.
"Okay, let's get her into a room,
monitor her vitals, warm her up, get her some other clothes."
"What's wrong with her clothes?" I
asked. That's when I noticed that
Maggie's clothes were soaking wet. She
must have fallen.
I stood there in the hallway,
watching as Malucci, Malik, and Lydia rolled Maggie away. I could hear Malucci calling for someone
else to help him, and someone yelling for restraints. Yep. Maggie was manic
again.
