~28~
~Chapter Twenty-Eight~
And I've seen your flag on the marble arch
And love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
~Jeff Buckley, Hallelujah~
On Monday, something changes.
I'm not exactly sure what is different, though. I just feel off-kilter.
My morning routine is not the issue, as I do everything I normally would: wake up, shower, eat, pack up my stuff, engage in a verbal battle of wits with Damon, and begrudgingly allow him to drive because my ankles hurt to much to walk to school.
It's not the weather. There's no snow in the forecast, much to everyone's dismay. The sun is out, and it is a bit windy. The cold is so bitter and sharp that I wear a scarf, gloves, and hat, along with my heaviest winter coat.
All of my schoolwork is completed—I even went the extra step of reviewing all of my projects and homework twice as opposed to my usual one. Just to be sure, I take a quick inventory before Damon pulls out of the driveway.
I've got my messenger bag, my sweater, my wallet, keys… I touch my head… hat's on. I shove my gloved hands in the pocket of my jacket, feeling around for my phone until my fingers wrap around it.
I didn't forget to get dressed or brush my teeth…
"You're acting weirder than usual," Damon remarks, keeping his eyes on the road.
"I am not," I say, but I don't sound very sure of myself.
"Denial isn't just a river in Egypt, Bennett…"
"So, you have been paying attention in class!"
His eyes flicker over to me. "Don't try to change the subject…'
"Is that Margot Robbie in a bikini?" I point to a random spot through the windshield.
"What's wrong?" Damon asks and I feel frustrated by his persistence.
It's not something I can put into words… I don't know what the problem is—or if there really even is one to begin with.
I answer the only way I know how. "Nothing. I'm fine."
~~X~~
On Tuesday, I feel worse.
My stomach hurts. I couldn't eat breakfast this morning, as my throat is still raw from all the puking I did last night. My body is aching, and my feet hurt even more than they did after a particularly intense cheer practice.
To top it off, I'm also experiencing lightheadedness. Every time I move, I have to convince myself that the room isn't really spinning.
And no one believes me when I say I'm doing great.
"Okay—that's it!" Care exclaims, slamming her fork on the table. "I'm taking you to the nurse!"
"No!" The pit of dread in my stomach grows larger at the mention of going to the nurse's office. I don't want to have to worry about if her glances at me are judgmental or worse if something is wrong.
I don't dare think to deeply about the more awful of the options. I can't. So, I just reiterate what I've been saying all morning, "nothing is wrong. I'm okay."
"Then why do you keep putting your head down?"
"I'm… tired." I say lamely.
"Okay, if you won't see the nurse, I'm going to go find Damon!" Caroline pushes herself up from her seat, arms braced on the tabletop.
That isn't an option either. Damon's meeting with recruitment officers right now. That's why he hasn't been bugging me with nonsensical text messages the past hour—thank God he's has some social etiquette.
"No—he's not here. You can't get a hold of him. He's being a responsible adult!"
"I'm getting Stef, then." Elena announces. "Are you going to be alright for a few minutes without me?"
I know she's addressing Caroline, but I respond anyway. "I'll be okay…"
"Says the real-life embodiment of the walking dead," Care retorts, coming around to sit next to me.
She scoots as close to me as she possibly can without being directly on top of me and throws an arm around my shoulder.
Instinctively, I lean into her, and she holds me upright as another wave of nausea passes over me.
"Bon… I'm actually pretty concerned about you," and she's not kidding. The overly confident air she speaks with isn't audible now.
"Don't be. This is normal."
"I don't know if it is," she replies, voice barely above a whisper.
I shift to the side, showing my friend that I no longer need her support to remain sitting up. I place my arms in front of me (just in case I'm mistaken). "See? I'm all good. It's just the stench of three-day-old meatloaf in the air."
Smile. Laugh for emphasis.
"You are going to need to do better than that," Care nods at my strained facial expression.
I shove a spoonful of applesauce from Elena's abandoned lunch into my mouth. "This is delicious!"
"Why didn't you get your own?"
"I forgot my wallet."
"I would've bought it for you."
"I didn't want to impose."
Caroline eyes me suspiciously. "That sounds like something you would say if you were in your right mind…"
"See? Fine!" I squeak overzealously.
"I'll let Stefan be the judge of that," she declares, sliding over to let him sit beside me.
"You have a medical degree?" I ask him.
He chuckles. "I guess you can call me Doogie Howser."
"Who?"
Stefan turns to Caroline. "It used to be a show my parents watched together—one of the only shows they both liked. The main character is a kid doctor."
"Sounds… campy."
"Neil Patrick Harris is in it," he says with a shrug.
"You're just saying that because Elena made you sit through Gone Girl after I recommended it to her."
The younger Salvatore faces me once more. "You look not-so-good."
"Did you learn how to give compliments from Damon?"
"Worse—my dad."
"I just look like a blimp," I tell him.
Elena places a firm hand on my shoulder. "No, you don't. You're exaggerating."
I sigh heavily, eyes moving to each of the faces staring back at me—all of them lined with worry. "Let's compromise."
"How?"
"If I don't feel any better by the time the next class lets out I'll go to the nurse—promise!"
Care and Elena look torn.
Stefan looks like he disagrees with me completely, but no one can come up with an argument strong enough to sway me.
So, I guess I won this round.
~~X~~
On Wednesday, I stay in bed. My mother took one look at me when I woke up and ordered me to go back to my room.
I was so shocked at how adamant she sounded, so woozy and out of it, that I followed her directions without protest. A glance at my clock tells me that it is only five 'o clock and I vaguely remember getting up earlier than that to puke (twice).
She is so worried, that she comes in to see me before going to work. She kisses me on the forehead, brushes my hair off my clammy face.
"Feel better, Bonnie Bear…"
"Thanks Mommy," I say, reaching up to hug her.
"I left a note for you to hand in to the secretary tomorrow—that way your absence won't be unexcused."
I probably should tell her that the only documentation with the ability to do that would have to come from a medical doctor—something she used to be aware of when I was in grade school—but I guess her lack of involvement in the day-to-day workings of my world made her forget about that.
However, I'm too hopeful that this act of kindness will be a step on the road to repairing my relationship with my parents, that I don't say a word about it.
~~X~~
On Thursday, I convince myself that a day of rest made all my problems disappear.
And yet… I still have a nagging feeling that proclaims the opposite. It's probably the acetaminophen I took when my discomfort became too much for me to push away.
I know I'm not supposed to rely heavily on it (according to the many Web M.D. articles I pored over) but I couldn't take it anymore. When I was getting ready for school this morning, I figured the best way to take care of my ever-present issues would be to dull them.
But, midway through the day, I notice the effects of the medication wearing off.
Which sucks, because my next class is math and I'm going to need to work a little harder to make up for the instruction I missed.
I try to focus on the string of numbers on the paper in front of me, but I can't. Something just doesn't feel right. Again—but more prevalent than before. I shift in my seat, pencil hovering over the math problems I've yet to solve. I'm running out of energy, which leaves me more rundown than before. The light on and off cramping has become more constant and painful. It's beginning to verge into dangerous territory.
"Is there a problem, Bonnie?"
I try my best to sound normal. "No, Mr. Gerard. I'm doing fine."
He is one of the teachers who likes to lament about what a waste of intelligence I've become. I doubt he would be too tolerant of the issues I'm trying to keep in check. A little voice urges me to ask him for the nurse's pass. I contemplate it, the words on the tip of my tongue, but I can't seem to vocalize it. Calculus has never been my favorite subject but it's never downright torturous like it is right now.
At some point, my eyes wander from my paper and over to the clock. I feel like I'm waiting for a bomb to detonate. Five minutes left, I tell myself. I chew on my lip anxiously, tapping my pencil on my desk and my feet on the floor.
When the bell sounds, I am the first one out of my chair. I freeze in my spot when an even sharper pain stabs me in the abdomen. Fuck. When it passes, I shove my textbook and worksheet haphazardly into my bag, wincing each time I take a step forward. When I finally make it to the hallway, I put all of my weight on the doorframe. My knees go weak and the only thing keeping me upright is my hold on the wall.
I don't even notice Damon's presence until I hear his voice.
"What's wrong?"
"Just cramps," I say breathlessly. "I'm fine."
"I don't think so." He places a supportive hand on my elbow. "Come on, we are going to the nurse."
I shake my head vigorously. "I don't think the school nurse is equipped to deal with this."
"Do you hear yourself? She's definitely better equipped to deal with it than us. She has a degree."
For once, I can't really argue with Damon.
It feels like an eternity before we actually make it to our destination. Damon basically has to carry me over to the small cot in the corner of the room. He sits on the chair directly next to me, hands clasped tightly in his lap. He's a bundle of nerves. I never thought I would see him so out of sorts. If it didn't feel like an entire football team was tap dancing on my stomach, I would give him a hug.
"Bonnie, on a scale of one to ten, how bad is the pain?" The nurse sounds sweet, but there is an underlying layer of concern there.
I grimace. "Eight."
"Have you had any changes in vaginal discharge?"
The Bonnie that's not writhing in excruciating pain recoils at the question. Thankfully, I'm not exactly in my right mind now. "Just this morning."
"Was it watery or bloody?"
"The first one."
The room becomes tense and it's absolutely suffocating. I know that I'm not going to like what Mrs. Burton says next. I can't stop it, though. Her words come barreling at me like a freight train.
"We need to get you to the hospital. Fast."
I do my best to block out the ambulance ride. The mixture of terror, regret, humiliation, and torment that overwhelms my entire being when a few freshman stare at me as I—along with several medics—exit the building.
Everything happens so quickly after I'm loaded into the back of them ambulance that forgetting most things about it isn't that hard of a struggle.
Bits and pieces come to me at random times, like the beeping noises and the voices of the paramedics firing off questions and statements that I can't really remember the answers to, but I attribute them to a bad dream.
A nightmare.
But then, I register the dull pain in my wrist from the I.V. someone stuck in my arm. The foggy beeping that resumed when I was rushed into the hospital room. The ebbing cramps and my parents, who are talking with my doctor.
My eyes are closed.
I'm keeping up the pretense that I haven't woken up since after I heard someone sigh in relief while another doctor announced that I was out of the immediate danger zone, that they were able to stop the pre-term labor.
That statement both scares and calms me down at the same time. The very real situation I found myself in rattles me to the core. I've just entered the second trimester and the baby is nowhere near developed enough to be breathe on her own.
But, I don't have to face that. Whatever medical intervention they implemented to stop my most dreaded fears from coming true had worked.
And she's alright—well, alright considering the circumstances.
I figured if things weren't said directly to me, I'd have a more accurate understanding of what happened and why. If I cut out the need anyone may feel to express empathy, like having to address a nervous teenager, the things I hear won't be sugarcoated.
"… we gave her a cortisone shot… it will help the baby's lungs mature at a faster rate…"
"I see… the fetus isn't viable yet then?" That's dad, responding to the explanation being relayed.
"… well, with today's technology, the baby would have a much greater chance of survival, but we typically don't induce labor unless the mother's condition would cause harm to her or the child."
"Is Bonnie okay?" Mom.
"Yes, I'd still like to keep her for a few days, run a few more tests to see if we can determine the cause behind the pre-term labor, but she should be perfectly fine."
"And the…" Mom hesitates. "… fetus?"
My father grumbles something under his breath.
"We're hoping that the baby will stay put for another few weeks. It's likely that she won't reach forty weeks, though. The ultimate goal is for your granddaughter to have a short stay in the NICU—but it's likely she'll be there for some time."
"Granddaughter…" Dad repeats, as if that were the only word he could catch.
"Yes—the chance of the baby's survival are good, but the earlier she is born the greater the chance of survival."
"Thank you for the information, Dr. Hadley."
"Of course, Mrs. Bennett. When Bonnie wakes up, someone will be in to explain things to her."
"Yes, thank you." My father echoes.
"You're welcome, Mr. Bennett."
I hear the doctor's footsteps get farther and farther away. Once she has rounded the corner, my parents being discussing something in hushed tones. The only part I can make heads or tails of is the grumpy sounding 'fine,' Dad huffs when the conversation comes to a close.
And then the door clicks, and I know they've left me alone.
The hospital room is white.
White walls, stiff white sheets and blankets, white linoleum flooring. The only pops of color come from the gray-and-black monitoring equipment, the yellow curtain that separates me from the other bed in my room (which is unoccupied), and the pink chairs across from where I'm currently lying.
It also smells heavily of bleach and what I can only describe as sickness.
I hate it.
So, I search for something to take my mind off of my predicament.
The small television attached to my bed resembles an old computer monitor. I fiddle with the channel buttons and find out only a handful of shows aren't accompanied by a blocky picture.
It's when I've settled on watching an old Golden Girls re-run that the door opens again.
I assumed it would be a nurse or a physician, but neither guess is correct.
It's Damon.
A very rattled, very scared-looking version of Damon.
His hair is sticking out in different directions, his face flushed, mouth set in a straight line, broad shoulders tense. He remains in the entryway, giving me a once over.
"I heard you were begging for me," Damon says in his usual smart aleck tone.
"You wish."
"I mean, I've heard you do it before. Rather loudly, I might add."
If looks could kill he would've dropped dead. I worked long and hard to perfect my glaring abilities and I'm damn good at expressing my disapproval of my boyfriend's commentary. My fingers twitch slightly. And by the looks of it, Damon's never been more grateful for the lack of projectiles in the area.
"Your mom gave me an update." He says after a long moment of silence. "She told me you were feeling better."
"I am—kind of. I'm sorry." I avert my gaze.. "The doctor said she'll be okay—that the outlook was favorable but she's probably going to have to spend time in the NICU. They won't know what exactly needs to be done for her until…" I trail off uncomfortably, grimacing. "… I'm sorry."
Damon pulls up a chair next to my bed and clutches my free hand tightly. "Why do you keep apologizing? I didn't realize sorry was in your vocabulary."
"It's my fault Damon, that's why!" Tears begin to roll down my already tear-stained cheeks. "I was so stressed out, so concerned with school and showing my father up that I didn't pay attention to anything!"
He kisses me on the forehead and wipes my tears away. "Sometimes these things happen, Bon Bon. You're not always in control of everything."
"She could have died!"
"But she didn't. It'll be okay—the survival rate for preterm babies her gestational age is like, ninety percent."
"You're a statistician now?"
"By Google's standards, yes. I needed something to do when the Duggars went to a commercial break."
"You're amazing Damon Salvatore, absolutely amazing."
He smirks. "You're not half bad either. I love you."
My eyes widen like saucers and the corners of my mouth go up slowly. "I love you, too, asshole."
My eyes burn when I exit the hospital.
I have vastly overestimated how weird it would feel actually adapting to the real world again. The sun is shining brightly, the blue of the sky looks especially vibrant, the grass as green as can be. The air feels brusque against my skin and refreshing in my lungs.
When I push myself out of the wheelchair I almost fall backward. I hadn't realized how stiff my legs had become. My father catches me before I get too close to the ground. He keeps his hand around my arm, holding me steady while we wait for Mom to return with the car.
I had insisted on walking over to the parking space myself, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. I'm to go on bed rest immediately. No running, dancing, jumping, or skipping. Walking is okay as long as it's to the bathroom and right back to my bed.
I already hate it and I haven't even gotten home yet.
When my mom pulls in front of the hospital, my father helps me into my seat before climbing into the back. Things were slightly less tense between us, but I still feel like I'm skating on thin ice. I suspect that's because Dad hasn't really forgiven me for anything, that he's only acting less upset because of how stressed Mom seemed, which she is covering up by saying—and doing—far more than usual.
"When we get home, I'll make you dinner and bring it up to you," my mother is saying. "Your friends will be over with your missed work, too. Would you like them to eat with you? I'm making your favorite."
I don't want to eat anything, really but I know I have to. And my mom is being so kind... I can't say no.
"That sounds great, Mom! Thank you!"
My parents continue on with their small talk as I stare out the window. I hadn't really noticed how beautiful it looks outside. I imagine sitting in the open field inside the park, writing in my notebook about what I see, the things I want my daughter to learn to appreciate.
I also can't wait until I am allowed to move around as I please, but there are more important things to deal with now. For now, I'll have to settle for walking up the driveway and right into my bed
Not ten minutes after Mom brings me my dinner, do my friends make their way into my bedroom. First comes Damon, who plops right on the foot of my bed, putting his socked feet right next to my bed. He puts his own plate on the tray and stretches.
Elena and Stefan follow him in, hand in hand and sit down on the floor, up against the pillows that Dad had thrown on the floor in order to give me space on either side of the mattress.
Enzo and Caroline are the last to enter. My former lover interest has a few of my textbooks in one hand and Care carries in more plates of food. I hadn't been expecting a dinner party and I try not to stress over people spilling things in my bedroom.
Or the fact that Enzo has shown up. In my home. Even though I hate his guts.
"Thank God you're home!"
"We're so glad you are okay!" Elena says and Stefan pats her back.
Enzo leans over to give me the books. Damon waves his foot in Enzo's face and he immediately backs up. "Go away, I can't believe you just showed up here. Do Mr. and Mrs. Bennett know you're a scum bag?"
"Apparently not—" Care snaps. "That's why he texted Tyler about it and got here before us."
"Get out." Damon seethes. "Now. Before I make you." he props himself up slightly, eyes darkened and filled with rage.
"Fine. I just wanted to tell Bonnie that I'm glad she's home now,"
"You said it—now leave."
Enzo looks at me wistfully. "I mean it, Bonnie."
I don't say anything as Stefan escorts Damon's one-time friend out of my bedroom, down the stairs, and out of the house.
When Stefan returns, I relax a bit, though the fact that Enzo didn't stay away bothers me.
To lighten the mood, I swat Damon's foot away from my head and glare. "Your feet stink."
No added stress is on my list of doctor's orders. I keep that in mind as I look around me, grateful for the people I consider family.