Chapter Seventeen
Jennie
I watch as she closes the door behind her. I'm clutching my hand to my chest, terrified to read what she wrote.
I saw the look in her eyes.
I saw the heartache, the regret, the fear . . . the love.
I keep my hand clutched tightly to my chest without reading it. I refuse to accept that whatever words are written on my palm will obliterate what little hope I had for our maybe someday.
• • •
My body flinches, and my eyes flick open.
I don't know what just woke me up, but I was in the middle of a dead sleep. It's dark. I sit up on the bed and press my hand to my forehead, wincing from the pain. I don't feel nauseated anymore, but I've never in my life been this thirsty. I need water.
I stand up and stretch my arms above my head, then glance down to the alarm clock: 2:45 A.M.
Thank God. I could still use about three more days of sleep to recover from this hangover.
I'm walking toward Lisa's bathroom when an unfamiliar feeling washes over me. I pause before reaching the door. I'm not sure why I pause, but I suddenly feel out of place.
It feels strange, walking toward this bathroom right now. It doesn't feel as if I'm walking toward my bathroom. It doesn't feel as if it belongs to me at all, unlike how my bathroom felt in my last apartment. That bathroom felt like my bathroom. As if it belonged partly to me. That apartment felt like my apartment. All the furniture in it felt like my furniture.
Nothing about this place feels like me. Other than the belongings that were contained in the two suitcases I brought with me that first night, nothing else here feels even remotely like mine.
The dresser? Borrowed.
The bed? Borrowed.
Thursday-night TV? Borrowed.
The kitchen, the living room, my entire bedroom. They all belong to other people. I feel as if I'm just borrowing this life until I find a better one of my own. I've felt as if I've been borrowing everything since the day I moved in here.
Hell, I'm even borrowing Lisa. Lisa isn't mine. She'll never be mine. As much as that hurts to accept, I'm so sick of this constant, ongoing battle with my heart. I can't take this anymore. I don't deserve this kind of self-torture.
In fact, I think I need to move out.
I do.
Moving out is the only thing that can start the healing, because I can't be around Lisa anymore. Not with what her presence does to me.
You hear that, heart? We're even now.
I smile at the realization that I'm finally about to experience life on my own. I'm consumed with a sense of accomplishment. I open the bathroom door and flip on the light . . . then immediately fall to my knees.
Oh, God.
Oh, no.
No, no, no, no, no!
I grab her by the shoulders and turn her over, but her whole body is limp. Her eyes are rolled back in her head, and her face is pale.
Oh, my God! "Lisa!" I crawl over her and reach for the door to her bedroom. I'm screaming her name so loudly my throat feels as if it's ripping apart. I attempt to turn the door-knob several times, but my hand keeps slipping.
She begins to convulse, so I lunge over her and lift her head, then drop my ear to her mouth to make sure she's breathing. I'm sobbing, screaming her name over and over. I know she can't hear me, but I'm scared to let go of her head.
"Irene!" I cry.
What am I doing? I don't know what to do.
Do something, Jennie.
I lower her head carefully back to the floor and spin around. I grip the doorknob more firmly and pull myself to my feet. I swing her bedroom door open and rush toward the bed, then jump on it and climb over to where she's lying.
"Lisa!" I scream, shaking her shoulder. She lifts an elbow in defense as she rolls over, then lowers it when she sees me hovering over her.
"Irene!" I yell hysterically, pointing to the bathroom. Her eyes flash to the empty spot on her bed, and her focus shoots up to the open bathroom door. She's off the bed and on the bathroom floor on her knees in seconds. Before I even make it back to the bathroom, she's got her head cradled in her arms, and she's pulling her onto her lap.
She turns her head to look at me and signs something. I shake my head as the tears continue to flow down my cheeks. I have no idea what she's trying to say to me. She signs again and points toward her bed. I look at the bed, then look back at her helplessly. Her expression is growing more frustrated by the second.
"Lisa, I don't know what you're asking me!"
She slams her fist against the bathroom cabinet out of frustration, then holds her hand up to her ear as if she's holding a phone.
She needs her phone.
I rush to the bed and search for it, my hands flying frantically over the bed, the covers, the nightstand. I finally find it under her pillow and run it back to her. She enters her password to unlock it, then hands it back to me. I dial 911, put the phone to my ear, and wait for it to ring while I drop to my knees next to them.
Her eyes are full of fear as she continues to hold her head against her chest. She's watching me, nervously waiting for the call to connect. She intermittently presses her lips into her hair as she continues to try to get her to open her eyes.
As soon as the operator answers, I'm bombarded with a list of questions that I don't know the answers to. I give her the address, because it's the only thing I know, and she begins firing more questions I don't know how to communicate to her.
"Is she allergic to anything?" I say to Lisa, repeating what the operator is asking.
She shrugs and shakes her head, not understanding me.
"Does she have any preexisting conditions?"
She shakes her head again to tell me she has no idea what I'm asking her.
"Is she diabetic?"
I ask Lisa the questions over and over, but she can't understand me. The operator is firing questions at me, and I'm firing them at Lisa, and we're both too frantic for her even to read my lips. I'm crying. We're both terrified. We're both frustrated with the fact that we can't communicate.
"Is she wearing a medical bracelet?" the operator asks.
I lift both of her wrists. "No, she doesn't have anything on her."
I look up to the ceiling and close my eyes, knowing that I'm not helping a damn bit.
"Bobby!" I yell.
I'm off my feet and out of the bathroom, making my way to Bobby's bedroom. I swing open his door. "Bobby!" I run to his bed and shake him while I hold the phone in my hand. "Bobby! We need your help! It's Irene!"
His eyes open wide, and he throws off his covers, springing into action. I push the phone toward him. "It's 911, and I can't understand anything Lisa is trying to tell me!"
He grabs the phone and puts it to his ear. "She has CFRD," he yells hastily into the phone. "Stage two CF."
CFRD?
I follow him to the bathroom and watch as he signs to Lisa while holding the phone in the palm of his hand, away from his ear. Lisa signs something back, and Bobby runs into the kitchen. He opens the refrigerator, reaches toward the back of the second shelf, and pulls out a bag. He runs with it to the bathroom and drops to his knees next to Lisa. He lets the phone fall to the floor and shoves it aside with his knee.
"Bobby, she has questions!" I yell, confused about why he tossed the phone aside.
"We know what to do until they get here, Jen," he says. He pulls a syringe from the bag and hands it to Lisa. Lisa pulls the lid off of it and injects Irene in the stomach.
"Is she diabetic?" I ask, watching helplessly as Bobby and Lisa silently converse. I'm ignored, but I don't expect anything different. They're in what looks like familiar territory for both of them, and I'm too confused to keep watching. I turn around and lean against the wall, then squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to calm myself. A few silent moments pass, and then there's banging at the door.
Bobby is running toward the door before I can even react. He lets the paramedics inside, and I step out of the way, watching as everyone in the room around me seems to know what the hell is going on.
I continue to back out of everyone's way until my calves meet the couch, and I fall down onto it.
They lift Irene onto the gurney and begin pushing her toward the front door. Lisa walks swiftly behind them. Bobby comes from Lisa's bedroom and tosses her a pair of shoes. Lisa puts them on, then signs something else to Bobby and slips out the door behind the gurney.
I watch as Bobby rushes to his room. He reemerges with a shirt and shoes on and his baseball cap in hand. He grabs his keys off the bar and heads back into Lisa's bedroom. He comes back out with a bag of Lisa's things and heads for the front door.
"Wait!" I yell. Bobby turns to look at me. "Her phone. She'll need her phone." I rush to the bathroom, grab Lisa's phone from the floor, and take it back to Bobby.
"I'm coming with you," I say, slipping my foot into a shoe by the front door.
"No, you're not."
I look up at him, somewhat in shock at the harshness of his voice as I slip my other shoe on. He begins to pull the door shut on me, and I slap a palm against it.
"I'm coming with you!" I say again, more determined this time.
He turns and looks at me with hardened eyes. "She doesn't need you there, Jennie."
I have no idea what he means by that, but his tone pisses me off. I push against his chest and step outside with him. "I'm coming," I say with finality.
I walk down the stairs just as the ambulance begins to pull away. Lisa is standing with her hands clasped behind her head, watching as it leaves. Bobby makes it to the bottom of the stairs, and as soon as Lisa sees him, they both rush toward Lisa's car. I follow them.
Bobby climbs into the driver's seat, Lisa into the passenger seat. I open the door to the backseat and pull it shut behind me.
Bobby pulls out of the parking lot and speeds until we're caught up to the ambulance.
Lisa is terrified. I can see it in the way her arms are wrapped around herself and she's shaking her knee, fidgeting with the sleeve of her shirt, chewing on the corner of her bottom lip.
I still have no idea what's wrong with Irene, and I'm scared that she might not be okay. It still doesn't feel like my business, and I'm definitely not about to ask Bobby what's going on.
The nervousness seeping from Lisa is making my heart ache for her. I move to the edge of the backseat and reach forward, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. She lifts her hand to mine and grabs it, then squeezes it tightly.
I want to help her, but I can't. I don't know how. All I can think about is how completely helpless I feel, how much she's hurting, and how scared I am that she might lose Irene, because it's so painfully obvious how that would kill her.
She brings her other hand up to mine, which is still gripping her shoulder. She squeezes both of her hands around mine desperately, then tilts her face toward her shoulder. She kisses the top of my hand, and I feel a tear fall against my skin.
I close my eyes and press my forehead against the back of her seat, and I cry.
• • •
We're in the waiting room.
Well, Bobby and I are in the waiting room. Lisa has been with Irene since we arrived an hour ago, and Bobby hasn't spoken a single word to me.
Which is why I'm not speaking to him. He obviously has an issue, and I'm not really in the mood to defend myself, because I've done absolutely nothing to Bobby that should even require defending.
I slouch back in my chair and pull up the search browser on my phone, curious to know about what Bobby said to the 911 operator.
I type CFRD into the search box and hit enter. My eyes are pulled to the very first result: Managing cystic fibrosis–related diabetes.
I click on the link, and it explains the different types of diabetes but doesn't explain much more. I've heard of cystic fibrosis but don't know enough about it to know how it affects Irene. I click a link on the left of the page that says, What is cystic fibrosis? My heart begins to pound and my tears are flowing as I take in the same words that stick out on every single page, no matter how many pages I click.
Genetic disorder of the lungs.
Life-threatening.
Shortened life expectancy.
No known cure.
Survival rates into mid- and upper thirties.
I can't read any more through all the tears I'm crying for Irene. For Lisa.
I close the browser on my phone, and my eyes are pulled to my hand. I take in the unread words in Lisa's handwriting across my palm.
I need you to move out.
Lisa
Both Bobby and Jennie spring to their feet when I round the corner to the waiting room.
"How is she?" Bobby signs.
"Better. She's awake now."
Bobby nods, and Jennie is looking back and forth between us.
"The doctor says the alcohol and dehydration probably caused her . . ." I stop signing, because Bobby's lips are pressed into a firm line as he watches my explanation.
"Verbalize for her," I sign, nodding my head toward Jennie.
Bobby turns and looks at Jennie, then refocuses his attention on me. "This doesn't concern her," he signs silently.
What the hell is his problem?
"She's worried about Irene, Bobby. It does concern her. Now, verbalize what I'm saying for her."
Bobby shakes his head. "She's not here for Irene, Lisa. She doesn't care how Irene's doing. She's only worried about you."
I bury my anger, then slowly step forward and stand directly in front of him. "Verbalize for her. Now."
Bobby sighs but doesn't turn toward Jennie. He stares straight at me as he both signs and verbalizes for us. "Lisa says Irene's okay. She's awake."
Jennie's entire body relaxes as her hands go to the back of her head and relief washes over her. She says something to him, and he closes his eyes, takes a quick breath, then opens them.
"Jennie wants to know if either of you need anything. From the apartment."
I look at Jennie and shake my head. "They're keeping her overnight to monitor her blood sugar. I'll come by tomorrow if we need anything. I'm staying a few days at her house."
Bobby verbalizes again, and Jennie nods.
"You two head back and get some rest."
Bobby nods. Jennie steps forward and gives me a tight hug, then backs away.
Bobby begins to turn toward the exit, but I grab his arm and make him look at me again. "I don't know why you're upset with her, Bobby, but please don't be a jerk to her. I've done that enough already."
He nods, and they turn to leave. Jennie looks back over her shoulder and smiles a painful smile. I turn and walk back to Irene's room.
The head of her bed is slightly raised now, and she looks up at me. There's an IV drip in her arm, replenishing her fluids. Her head slowly rolls across her pillow as her eyes follow me across the room.
"I'm sorry," she signs.
I shake my head, not even remotely wanting or needing any type of apology from her. "Stop. Don't feel bad. Like you always say, you're young. Young people do crazy things like get drunk and have hangovers and puke for twelve hours straight."
She laughs. "Yes, but like you always say, probably not young people with life-threatening conditions."
I smile as I reach her bed, then scoot a chair close to it and take a seat. "I'm going back with you. I'll stay a few days until I feel better about leaving you alone."
She sighs and turns her head, looking straight up to the ceiling. "I'm fine. It was just an insulin issue." She turns back to face me. "You can't baby me every time this happens, Lisa."
My jaw clenches at "baby me." "I'm not babying you, Irene. I'm loving you. I'm taking care of you. There's a difference."
She closes her eyes and shakes her head. "I'm so tired of having this same conversation over and over."
Yeah. So am I.
I lean back in my chair and fold my arms over my chest while I stare at her. Her refusal of help has been understandable up to this point, but she's not a teenager anymore, and I can't understand why she won't allow things to progress with us.
I lean forward, touching her arm so she'll look at me and listen. "You need to stop being so hell-bent and determined to have your independence. If you don't take better care of yourself, these brief one-night hospital stays will be a thing of the past, Irene. Let me take care of you. Let me be there for you. I constantly worry myself sick. Your internship is causing you so much stress, not to mention the thesis. I understand why you want to live a normal life and do all the things other people our age do, like go to college and have a career." I pause to run my hands through my hair and focus on the point I want to make. "If we lived together, I could do so much more for you. Things would be easier for both of us. And when things like this happen, I'll be there to help you so you don't convulse alone on the bathroom floor until you die!"
Breathe, Lisa.
Okay, that was harsh. Way too harsh.
I roll my neck and look down at the floor, because I'm not ready for her to respond yet. I close my eyes and try to hold back my frustration. "Irene," I sign, looking at her tear-soaked eyes. "I . . . love . . . you. And I am so scared that one of these days, I won't be able to walk out of the hospital with you still in my arms. And it'll be my own fault for allowing you to continue to refuse my help."
Her bottom lip is quivering, so she tucks it into her mouth and bites it. "Sometime in the next ten or fifteen years, Lisa, that will be your reality. You are going to walk out of the hospital without me, because no matter how much you want to be my hero, I can't be saved. You can't save me from this. We both know you're one of the few people I have in this world, so until the day comes when I can absolutely no longer take care of myself, I refuse to become your burden. Do you know what that does to me? To know that I've put that much pressure on you? I'm not living alone simply because I crave independence, Lisa. I want to live alone because . . ."
Tears are streaming down her cheeks, and she pauses to wipe them away. "I want to live alone because I just want to be the girl you're in love with . . . for as long as we can draw that out. I don't want to be your burden or your responsibility or your obligation. The only thing I want is to be the love of your life. That's all. Please, just let that be enough for now. Let it be enough until the time comes when you really do have to go to the ends of the earth for me."
A sob breaks free from my chest, and I reach forward and press my lips to hers. I grip her face desperately between my hands and lift my leg onto the bed. She wraps her arms around me as I pull the rest of my body on top of hers and do whatever I can to shield her from the unfairness of this evil, goddamned world.