~3~
~Chapter Three~
There is a ghost
Deep in my throat
Shoving it down
Speak and you choke
~~X~~
Every fire
Sharpens the flood
Throbbing and wild
Stained in blood
~Stephanie Schneiderman, Dirty and Clean~
When we get home, I'm relieved, tired, and just downright drained in every imaginable way.
One glance at the stairs and I know I don't have enough energy to climb to the top. As it is, I barely make it to the couch before my legs give out. Damon drops down beside me, looking equally exhausted yet contemplative like he's running on vapors trying to process some deep conceptual problem that has no true solution.
I lean on his shoulder, sighing. "Thanks for staying over—hopefully, I'll be able to sleep tonight."
"I'm ninety-nine percent sure the chainsaw sound effects you try to pass off as sinus issues are the cause of all your sleeping issues."
"If my snoring is that awful, why did you agree to spend the night?"
"Simple—if I don't get any sleep tonight, I can blame you for it. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I missed such a golden opportunity?"
I pretend to give his question serious thought. "Prince Charming… but then you wouldn't be my boyfriend and I'd get suspicious you got abducted by aliens."
"Am I supposed to be insulted by that? Because all I heard was blah, blah, blah." Damon replies mockingly.
I shrug half-heartedly. "I can't think of anything else… ask me again in the morning."
"Fine by me," he stretches lazily, kicking off his boots and swinging his feet up. "I'm going to sleep before I dream I'm the next victim in Texas Chainsaw Massacre."
"I hope he gets you in the opening credits—the pretty boys make it to the end of slasher movies way too often."
"I'll let you know how I do later—I think I'll be okay, though. Once I realize the chainsaw is really just a prop and you are the killer, I feel much better. I mean, really… no one would give you a chainsaw."
~~X~~
Gray light filters into the living room in the morning.
I prop myself up and look around. I expected my parents to be home before daybreak, but nothing seems to be disturbed. Everything looks exactly as it had before I passed out last night, and I stayed awake longer than Damon had (it was only ten minutes, but still…).
I realize how stiff my body is when I try to sit up on the other side of the couch. My arms and legs ache and I once again find myself without full range of my neck.
I regret not going to my bedroom—Damon isn't a good substitute for a pillow, and a horrible blanket, too. I had gone to sleep with his arms around me, but I didn't have to untangle our limbs when I moved, so, I feel uncharacteristically cold—even though it's summertime.
Whenever Mom and Dad aren't home, I take advantage of the thermostat accordingly. If it's cold, I'll heat the house and vice versa. Dad hates having it set to anything above or below sixty. That's another tell-tale sign they've yet to return—the temperature in the room hasn't changed since before I went to Damon's house yesterday morning.
I rub my eyes, get to my feet, and stretch. I hoped it would be enough to work out the kinks, but I still feel pretty sore as I cross the room. Before I enter the kitchen, I throw a glance over my shoulder. Damon hasn't stirred, and I happily file that fact away for later.
For the next time, he complains about not being able to get any rest when I'm around. If I didn't see the rise and fall of his chest, I might have mistaken him for a corpse.
As expected, the kitchen remains untouched. I didn't bother coming in since dinnertime two days ago, right before Abby and Rudy left for whatever appointment they had. I'm still surprised they bothered to say goodbye, as they neglected to give me my usual pizza stipend.
However, when I go to the fridge to get orange juice, I see something that hadn't been there before—one of Mom and Dad's sacred memos:
Bonnie Bear—
I know you probably won't see this right away, but guess what?
After you left, our plans changed a little.
Your dad left the room and came back in with a suitcase and flowers!
He surprised me with an extra stop!
After our appointment, we are headed to a little resort in Hampton.
We'll be home in two days.
If you need us, just call.
But it's probably better if you call Phyllis first—she'll be easier to reach.
If you need her number, it's by the landline
Love you,
Mom
I yank the paper, ripping it in the process. The part that had been fastened to the refrigerator, still hangs there, though the only words on it are my mother's pet name for me:
Bonnie Bear.
Angrily, I ball up the jagged slip of paper in my hand and drop it on the tiled floor, stomping on it with all the rage I didn't know I harbored. I make a frustrated sound, it's high-pitched and shrill, only slightly muffled as my foot creates a dull thumping sound as it hits the ground.
"Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it!" I shout to nothing in particular. It's not as if my surroundings can say anything back.
And—in an entrance that rivals Beetlejuice—Damon comes into the room, and when I hear him say, "Bon Bon," his tone confused and quiet, I turn around slowly, my plans for operation: snoring payback circling the drain. His hair is mussed, shirt wrinkled, eyes still heavy with sleep.
"Sorry," I say sheepishly, "I didn't mean to wake you up."
"I'm not mad about that—I just want to know why you're berating inanimate objects—again."
"First off," I hold up a finger. "The oven burned the cupcakes; it was in no way my fault. Those things should come with an owner's manual."
"They do," he says with a smirk.
I go on as if he hasn't commented. "And secondly, I wasn't yelling at the fridge!"
"They made a Baking for Dummies, too. And I tried to buy it for your birthday—but you were being picky."
"And you were being an ass."
"Isn't it the thought that counts, Bennett? I thought you lived for stuff like that."
"As I was saying, I was yelling at this," I bend down and pick up what's left of the pink paper and try to smooth out the crinkles.
He stares at me blankly, as if he thinks I've completely lost my mind. "That's… not any better. Actually, I think it's worse."
"Just look at it!" I grumble, shoving it into his hand.
I wait, expectantly, as he reads through the note twice. When he's finished, he glances at me and then focuses on the paper again. "Okay, that sucks… didn't your mom mention going to see Amelia with us today?"
I nod slowly, wordlessly.
She had only seen her once since she was born and only seemed mildly interested in doing so again—her answer had been a noncommittal one.
"I might like to join you, sweetie."
Of course, she had said maybe, for several reasons. One, she still seemed a little uneasy with the whole "granddaughter" thing. Two, Dad still hasn't expressed any interest in going to see her. And well, upsetting him isn't worth the trouble—which is actually something I get (to a point). He hasn't softened his opinion of my choices at all and trying to change that is a stressor that could be bypassed up to a certain point.
But a small part of me was excited for my mom to see the baby, because then maybe she'd fall in love with her just as I have and give me tips on how to not be the neurotic mess I've been since she was born. And, perhaps, Dad's acceptance would follow… leading to less of an uphill battle on my part.
Clearly, that is a pipedream that needs to be scrapped.
The other part of me is just hurt and confused. Not being able to be with Amelia feels like slow, psychological torture, and it's fucking horrible. I can't sleep well, can hardly eat if I'm particularly anxious, and I'm so scared… I just don't see why my parents don't love me like I love Amelia. How can they leave me, when I'm going through such a hard time, and not worry?
The pride I had when I just considered it a perk of my maturity level has vanished, leaving me with a wound I thought had healed after I came to terms with my grandmother's passing. Only, now, it feels bigger; the pain amplified so much that I don't know what to do with it all.
"I'm sorry, Bon Bon," Damon says gently, wrapping me in a hug so tight that it's a little hard to breathe. I know he had been counting on her, too, but to a lesser extent. He doesn't want his own parent around Amelia, so he'd put a little extra faith in Abby.
I told him it wasn't worth it, that nothing good ever came of it, but he couldn't quite let it go.
"I just don't get it… I can't stand not being with Amelia, but… they don't care about me like that…"
"I know—I feel like that, too—more than what's mentally healthy, probably, but you aren't like that, you're a great mom."
I want to argue, but I don't think I have the emotional strength to do so at the moment. "You're a great father, Damon. So much so that I still can't believe I've said it multiple times."
"Okay… that last part earns you a ditto."
"I've heard worse."
"I need to up my game then…"
We are both silent, and then, I get an idea. And it's actually something that gives me a bit of relief. My blood-related family might not care, but I have two best friends—sisters—that would love to finally meet their niece.
"Caroline and Elena should meet us instead. I'll call them so they'll be there with us for morning rounds."
"You know," Damon answers thoughtfully. "I actually don't have an argument about that. You can call Babysitter Barbie and her unwitting sidekick and Stefan can stop by when they leave."
"Okay… you're a great older brother, too, Damon."
"Tell that to Broody McBroodison."
"I don't need to; he already knows."
Caroline and Elena are waiting for us at the main entrance to the hospital when we arrive. A suggestion that Elena came up with (she said it would be easier on everyone that way, as everyone knew where the primary lot is), but I have a feeling it has more to do with the fact that Caroline filled her in on my sadness the day prior and she doesn't want to make it any harder for me.
It's little gestures like this one that makes me feel like the world—in my eyes—is trying to right all of the wrongs from the past year.
Well, maybe…
"Do you think they'll let her wear the onesie I got her?" Caroline asks as soon as we are within earshot.
I frown, I had an answer ready to go, something along the lines of, "sure, Care, the nurses are really good about taking pictures, too." But then it dawns on me: I'm not sure. I had been so wrapped up in the medical jargon, in the constant fear that she's too fragile to be safe in my arms that I hadn't really thought about the other policies since they were explained to me.
I had filed the information in two categories: life and death matters and everything else. Fashion is definitely an everything else deal—well, until now, but this is Care and I should've been more prepared for this sort of thing.
The walk to the NICU vaguely reminds me of how the three of us used to go to almost everywhere in school with each other (if our schedules allowed). But the nurses in bright-colored scrubs and doctors dressed in white coats stick out now—because the thoughts stirring in my brain make little sense.
It's normal, in a way, because I've spent the majority of my life with Caroline and Elena, and the knowledge that I've been able to push my problems to the back burner in order to solve theirs, clashes with the reality that they view me differently. Like I'm fragile.
"She'll love me the most… I'll be the cool aunt… sorry Elena, Amelia will want to get styling tips from me."
Damon snorts. Probably because he's made quite a few comments on Care's trendy clothes. "Great—just perfect. It's what I've always wanted—to go broke from buying Caroline-approved onesies," he pauses, makes a face, and shakes his head. "God, what the fuck is happening to me?"
"Personal growth," I tell him with a small—rather smug—grin. "Tell me, has your heart grown three sizes yet?"
He stops, ponders my question. "No, but I'll let you know if I get the urge to talk in platitudes or act like Stefan… I'm not sure which one is worse." And then he smirks, his voice decisive when he says. "Definitely Stefan."
Elena swats Damon on the arm, frowning.
She doesn't have time to argue the opposite because we've finally reached our destination. As we prepare to visit Amelia, I instruct my best friends to dump the entire dispenser of sanitizer on their hands. Once the nurse informs them of the procedures, we are permitted into the room.
The NICU is much less populated than it had been the other day, but that persistent beeping of the equipment still rings loudly in my ears.
As we approach Amelia's incubator, Caroline gasps, but I can't tell if it's from horror, shock, or awe. "She's so tiny…" her gaze falls upon the tiny card that displays her information. "Is she really only two pounds?"
"Yes," I answer dejectedly. I'm always hoping that I'll come in and see a four transcribed on her chart, but I know I won't. It took a decent chunk of time for her to gain the half pound that rounds out her current weight—that she hasn't needed to be on a ventilator for a full twenty-four hours and they'll tell me everything I need to know, making sure I'm a practical expert on all things micro preemie and let us take her home.
Sure, that isn't going to be the house I grew up in, but she'll be safe, cared for, and loved. Her home will be wherever Damon and I are… until he has to leave again.
But it's highly unlikely that all of that will occur before the end of the summer, so all the worries and hopes connected to this particular fantasy mean nothing at the moment.
"Oh, Bon… she's even cuter in person!" Elena smiles at me warmly.
I wonder how much truth there is to that. Amelia still doesn't quite look like a baby. Damon calls her a better-looking, smaller version of E.T. sometimes—because she does. And if I hadn't been aware of Damon's inherent love for sci-fi, I'd think it was an insult.
But I do, and any lingering uncertainty is always erased when I watch the way he looks at her.
His expression is always the same: reverent. As if he's never seen a more perfect representation of everything good in the world.
Damon opens his mouth, ready to comment on how she gets her looks from him but hesitates when he realizes it can be construed negatively if either girl points out her alien-like appearance.
They wouldn't have paid any attention to him, anyway. Their focus is on Amelia, just as I know it would be. Care is crooning at her, holding the bag up, as if the baby would understand what's going on. Elena's watching from a bit of a distance, a warm expression on her face, marked by a half-smile as if she already knows she'll have to wait an ungodly amount of time before Caroline will finally move aside to get a better look.
But Elena's hopes are dashed in an instant.
The monitors beep wildly, signaling a problem, causing Care to jump back. She drops the gift bag and kicks it out of the way as she rushes to my side. Elena's face falls, eyes going wide as her hands fly up to cover her mouth.
I can't bring myself to look over at Damon, who had hung back while my best friends got acquainted with their niece. The last time something like this happened, I could not do anything—I was frozen in my spot. This time, I don't allow myself the time to think about it. Before Amelia had been fine, the equipment just malfunctioned.
This time, however, a bitter sense of dread tells me that this issue isn't an easy fix. I whirl around, making a mad dash for the nurse's station. Thankfully, I don't have to go much farther. The doctors and nurses are already rushing over to Amelia.
Amidst all the commotion, I hear someone, one nurse—Lucille, who is usually the person who gives me updates when I call—tells us that we need to leave the area.
I don't move from where I stand for a moment, as I can't shake the feeling that I'd be more like Abby if I did exit the room—I refuse to be someone who leaves her daughter's side when she needs me. But Damon takes me by the elbow and leads me away, Elena and Care close behind.
The blinds are drawn so I can't see what's happening, and I turn my head at an extremely uncomfortable angle to see if I can see in between the cracks.
I can't.
"I don't know what happened," Caroline is saying. "She looked fine… and then all of a sudden that thing went off."
"I think that was the pulse oximeter," Damon says, voice even and devoid of emotion.
"In normal speak, please," she chirps, playing dumb. But Caroline has a pretty good idea of what that means. One, because she's watched every available episode of Grey's Anatomy. And two, because she's very astute—able to learn very quickly and to use context clues to fill in any gaps in her knowledge.
"It measures oxygen saturation, at least, that's how I understood it."
"From what?" Care demands, because she knows a reliable source when she sees one and Damon doesn't have a great track record with being straightforward. Everything he says has a layer of sarcasm to it.
Sarcasm that is absent right now. Besides, I remember having everything explained to me before we left the hospital without her. "He's serious," I tell her, my own tone hollow.
"Crap—but she'll be okay… right?"
"I don't know," I say, and this time, my voice cracks when I get to the end of my sentence.
Damon sighs, as if the answer is right in front of our faces, even though it's not. "Yes—don't think like that. She's fine."
Elena's frowning at me, peering at me with that worried look again. "Bon?"
"Hm?" I turn my head ever so slightly, so I don't have to face her concern.
She approaches me with caution. "Hang in there—okay, I'm sure it'll be alright."
If only she sounded as sure as Damon always did.
"Okay," I murmur weakly, slumping against the wall.
I rest the back of my head on the window, taking deep breaths as I stare up at the fluorescent lighting, counting the ceiling tiles in an effort to distract myself from the anguished tightness constricting my lungs. My hand finds Damon's at some point, our fingers intertwine, and I know I won't have it in me to let him go anytime soon.
~~X~~
What feels like hours later—which in reality, had probably only been one—a doctor emerges from the NICU, and keeps his hand on the doorknob when he sees he won't have to go far to find us.
I've had may conversations with this man, and I've really grown to like him. His name is Jerome Wilson, and he's a member of Amelia's team of specialists. He's an older man, around sixty, with lines on his face, age spots on his tanned skin, and graying hair. He's so compassionate, choosing his words carefully and with such confidence that I never have to wonder if he's coddling me because of my age. He has a no-bullshit way about him, one that even Damon doesn't mind.
Well, he did at first, because he can't help himself, but once he saw how dedicated this man is to his job, how serious he was about making sure Amelia—and every other child in his care—gets to leave safe and healthy, Damon dropped his usual defiant attitude and actually listened to what he had to say.
I study him, hoping to find a sign that there is good news to be given. Only, I can't really be sure. Dr. Wilson looks somber, but not devastated. I am not confident to say this skews things in one direction or the other. Adrenaline races through me at such a high speed that I can't really think too clearly.
"Bonnie, Damon?" he gestures for us to follow him down the wide corridor, out of the earshot of the other visitors and hospital personnel
We end up inside a small meeting room.
It's furnished with a black couch, desk, black chairs, potted plants that look like they were made from wax, and wood-paneled walls. Dr. Wilson takes a chair on the side opposite the little sofa and encourages us to sit as well.
"Amelia is in stable condition," the older man informs us.
I let out the breath I'd been holding since I saw him exit the NICU. "Thank God!" tears spring to my eyes, but I notice he doesn't seem to be in a celebratory mood.
"Then what was wrong?" Damon asks, and he sits up straighter, on high alert, bracing himself for the oncoming storm that I still hope won't hit us.
"Pneumothorax—which basically means air from her lungs got stuck in her chest wall, which led to her lung collapsing under the pressure."
A ton of bricks comes raining down on me. That's not good… that's fucking awful… my mind races as I try to think of how she could be stable with a condition like that.
Sensing our mutual uncertainty, Dr. Wilson goes on. "It's an air leak in her chest. And that makes it hard to breathe—it creates pressure that makes it difficult for the lungs to inflate, so, they deflate. In this case, the right lung."
"But she's okay?" I ask pathetically, anxiety high, my heart pounding against my ribcage, my own breathing quick and shallow.
"For now, yes. We inserted a tube in her chest in order to release the extra air. This condition is common in premature babies due to how underdeveloped their lungs are; and since she hasn't been able to be without the ventilator, she was highly susceptible to it."
"And what's the outlook?"
"We'll monitor her heavily over the next few days and go from there. If anything changes, you'll be informed of everything, of course, but I'm hoping that no further intervention will be needed. Worst-case scenario, she may require thoracic surgery, but at the moment, that is our last option. Catching these types of issues is key—and you acted quickly—which was excellent. I am confident—though that's not a guarantee, mind you—that she'll recover, though she may have some long-lasting effects. Trouble breathing after strenuous activity, for sure—but that's manageable."
"Thank you," Damon says, shaking Dr. Wilson's hand firmly. For a moment, I think my boyfriend mistakes it for a flotation device, something to keep him from going under.
To be fair, however, I end up doing, and feeling, the exact same thing.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to finish my rounds. Please don't hesitate to ask any other questions—as always, Lucille can give you the latest updates, have a wonderful night, you two. Get some rest, you need it as much as Amelia does—don't forget that."
"We won't," I assure him.
"Good."
He gives as an abrupt nod before leaving us alone, sitting on the lumpy couch trying to process the new information.
"She's alive and it sounds like whatever they did is working."
"Yes… but she isn't any closer to coming home with us." I'm shaking so much I don't trust myself to stand up.
"But she will—she just has to get stronger first. And she'll do that, too—she's related to you, after all."
"And you," I quip.
"That's how I know she'll get through it—her parents are the most stubborn people on the planet."
"People don't usually see that as a good thing."
"Because they're idiots," he says, kissing my forehead. "They're jealous of me because I'm so strong-willed."
"You mean us, right? Not just you?"
"Not that time," he replies with a smirk.
I try to open my eyes, but it feels like my eyelids are glued together. My head is heavy, thoughts fuzzy and jumbled. My brain registers the fact that something needs my attention, but I can't figure out what it is. The talking gets louder and more demanding. I finally gather enough strength to sit up, getting my bearings slowly but surely.
Damon is standing over the incubator. I sigh, swinging my legs over to the other side of my chair. Given the current circumstances, Damon and I opted to spend the night here. The hospital has rather nice accommodations for families who wish to stay longer than the typical visiting hours, but space is limited, so we have to take turns with the other parents. Thankfully, Lucille didn't have anyone signed up for tonight, so it had been relatively easy to secure our spot at the last minute.
"Is everything alright?" I ask sleepily, rubbing my eyes.
"Uh-huh," Damon murmurs. "Just thought I should check on her… I don't know how you can sleep on that thing." He nods at my chair.
Honestly, I'm not too sure of that myself. I've been so out of it the past few days, I've been able to doze off in the most uncomfortable places—couches, the backseat of an SUV, this chair—only to wake up feeling worse than I did before I got to sleep.
"Why don't you sleep on the cot—that's what it's there for."
Damon shrugs. "I'm fine. Besides, I'm getting all the one-on-one time I can. By the time I come home, I'm pretty sure Blondie will try to monopolize her."
"Good point—she has a real issue with sharing."
"She may actually be more controlling and uptight than you."
"I'm going to remember you said that" I tease, trying to read his facial expression. He looks deep in thought, like he can't get past something.
Like he's stuck.
I stand up, feeling like the tin man before Dorothy saved him, and walk over to Damon. "You'll have plenty of time to make memories, Damon. Even ones where Caroline isn't hogging her."
"I know—I just don't want the ones I leave with to be depressing. I'm already fucked up as it is; I don't want to actually feel like a horrible person for trying to do the right thing."
"But you're not… and that's coming from someone who used to hate your guts."
"I think you secretly always loved my guts," he says, glancing my way.
"When I imagined them outside your body, maybe," I concede, putting an arm around his shoulder. "But I guess that counts as the same thing."
"I'm offended by that…"
"You thought the same thing about me."
"Only when you were being all judgy."
"And look at us now," I tell him. "We're inseparable."
He looks at me glibly. "Yeah, now I'm constantly wondering, 'what would Bonnie think?' People are actually starting to think I'm a good person—I actually mean that. If I have to start being nice all the time because of you, you'll owe me big time."
"When will you admit that I have no influence over your morals?"
He purses his lip, gives it some genuine thought. "Never—I have too fun teasing you."
"And when Amelia asks you morally ambiguous questions?"
"Why would she do that—that's your specialty. Like I said, I'm the cool one."
"If you say so, Damon," I brush his words off, despite my verbal response.
Something tells me that Damon will be far better at the whole "teaching life lessons" deal. I know I can't possibly live up to the example Grams set, but Damon?
I have faith in him.
First off, I want to say thanks for reading. This particular chapter took quite a bit of research and fact-checking and I tried to keep the medical info as accurate as possible. However, for the plot's sake—certain aspects are skewed to better fit the story's timeline, but I'm hoping that most explanations are still factual despite that.
