Sick Kids In Love

by Hannah Moskowitz

“I know as much as you do, unfortunately,” she says. “The OR schedule depends on how long it takes the surgeons to do the people in front of him. If someone takes longer than usual…”

  “Right, but—”

  “He’ll be in as soon as we can,” she says.

  “And he can’t drink anything? He’s really thirsty. Not even like some ice chips?”

  “No, I’m sorry.” She gets a page and starts to walk away.

  I say, “Can you please give me something I can go back in there and tell him?”

  “Just tell him it’ll be soon,” she calls over her shoulder.

  “Great, thank you,” I mumble. Maybe I should get my dad down here. Have him pull some strings. I hate myself for even considering it, but…it’s Sasha.

  I head back to his room. Dmitri’s outside, just finishing a phone call as I walk up. “Is everything okay?” I say.

  “I’m trying to find a sitter who can come get the boys and bring them home, but I can’t find anyone last-minute,” he says. “Nadia’s at a friend’s house. Can you stay with Sasha until I can bring them home and…”

  “And what,” I say gently. “Leave the boys alone all night? I’ll bring them home.”

  “No, I can’t ask you to—”

  “Yeah you can, because this is what makes sense,” I say. “They’re gonna bring Sasha in soon and I can’t be with him in recovery anyway. You can. It makes no sense for you to be at home when you could be here with him.”

  “Are you sure?” he says.

  “Please? Let me help. I…I need to do something.”

  He nods. “Yeah, I know that feeling. Okay.” He takes his key ring out of his pocket and pulls one out. “And let me get you money for a cab.”

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  “No,” he says firmly, and he hands me a few twenties—a cab from Forest Hill to Chelsea is not cheap—from his wallet. “The boys will be very excited. They never get to ride in cabs.” He pushes his hair back and laughs a little. I’d never noticed how much he looks like Sasha.

  “You don’t have to worry,” I say. “I’m good with kids.”

  “I know,” he says. “And you don’t, either. Sasha… He’s gonna be fine.”

  “I know. I’ll come back in the morning and see him? I can take the kids to school first and everything.”

  “No, no, I’ll come home in the morning and take care of that. He should be okay to be alone for a little by then. And don’t you have school?”

  I wave my hand.

  “Fair enough,” he says. “But if your dad asks, I told you to go to school.”

  “Okay.”

  He smiles, then says, “Oh, you should know, typically he doesn’t do great on anesthesia. It’s because he’s so anemic, I think. It just takes him a while to get it through his system. So he’s probably still going to be pretty out of it when you get here tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  Dmitri nods.

  “I’m just…” I point at the door. “I’m gonna go say goodbye to him real quick?”

  “Sure, of course.” He steps out of the way.

  “Thanks.”

  Sasha’s on his other side now, so he sees me when I come through the door. “Hi,” he says. “What’d she say?”

  “She says soon.”

  “Morphine?”

  “No more morphine.”

  He breathes out. “Damn.”

  “I know.” I pull his dad’s chair around to the other side of the bed and take both his hands. His cuticles are red and irritated where he’s always bothering them. They’re the only part of him that isn’t ghost pale, besides the pink around his eyes.

  “I’m really scared,” I say. “I probably shouldn’t tell you that. Should just be letting you be scared.”

  He shrugs a little, winces. “I’m not scared, honestly. Just in pain. But I’m not scared.”

  “Small favors, I guess.”

  “Yeah. It’s just a thing. We’ll take care of it and… God. It just hurts right now.”

  “I know.”

  “Don’t decide I’m too much work and break up with me.”

  “Come on. Don’t do the thing.”

  He smiles. “Okay.”

  “We’re not gonna suddenly become those people because you have to have minor surgery. That’s gross. Plus, at least right now you’re still. It’s the least work you’ve ever been.”

  He snorts.

  “You just look really sick,” I say. “It’s weird. We’re not supposed to look sick.”

  “How are you?” he says.

  “No, shut up.”

  He chuckles. “Fair enough.”

  I rest my head next to his on his pillow. It reminds me of New Year’s Eve, when we lay there watching each other.

  “You should be on oxygen,” I say quietly.

  He watches me. “I’m okay.”

  I tuck his hair behind his ear. “Still.”

  He leans into my hand, closes his eyes. His cheek is scratchy against my fingers, and for a minute I really, really hate that I said I’d take his brothers home.

  But it’s what he asked me about as soon as I came in. It’s what makes sense.

  It’s how I’m part of this, instead of just being someone who’s hanging around.

  So I kiss him slowly and let him pull away to breathe. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?” he says. “That was a goodbye kiss.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you…” He looks down. “Is it too much?”

  Five days ago, he had that same look on his face when he was taking off his shirt for us to have sex. Five days ago, we were having sex.

  I squeeze his hand too hard. “No. What did I just say? Don’t do the thing. That’s not us and you know it.”

  “Sometimes I have to check.”

  “I’m taking your brothers home.”

  “You are?”

  “Yeah.”

  He breathes out. “You’re in this.”

  He gets it. Thank fucking God.

  Why do I ever think there’s a risk this boy isn’t going to get me?

  “I am in this.”

  He ducks his head into my collarbone. “Fuck, it hurts.”

  “Just a little longer, then they’ll pull that thing out of you, and you’re gonna be a loopy mess all night, and then I’ll be here in the morning, okay?”

  “My dad’s staying?”

  “Your dad’s staying.”

  “Okay.” He nods.

  “You’re gonna be fine.”

  He nods again. “I’m gonna be fine.”

  …

  “It’s his stomach?” Josh says in the back seat of the cab.

  “It’s his spleen, so, close to his stomach.” I point to where I’m pretty sure it is on my own belly. “Right here.”

  “And they have to take it out?” he says.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Can you live without a spleen?”

  “Of course,” I say. “Otherwise they wouldn’t take it out.”

  Nick says, “My friend Sam got his heart taken out.” This must be a very strange conversation for the cab driver.

  I say, “When they do that they have to put a new heart in. Sasha doesn’t have to get a new spleen.”

  “Then why does he even have one if he doesn’t need one?” Nick says.

  “Good question,” I say, though really I know why we have spleens, because I remember some from Bio and read what I could on the Uber ride to the hospital. Some people with Gaucher actually do better without their spleens because cells build up there so quickly, but it’s still not like the appendix or anything that literally does nothing. It helps with your immune system, and since Sasha already has a crappy immune system from being so anemic…this is probably
going to make things harder, forever.

  But I’m not about to tell the kids that.

  It’s way past their bedtime, and they’re both asleep before the cab even gets into Manhattan. I wake them up once we’re parked and guide them to the elevator and up to their apartment. Nick’s so sleepy that he’d walk into walls if I’d let him. I have them brush their teeth and get into bed, and as soon as they’re asleep I realize how tired I am.

  I think about sleeping in Sasha’s bed, but it just feels so disrespectful, plus it’d be really embarrassing if Dmitri came home in the morning and found me there. So after I text my dad, explaining what’s going on, I start setting up a little bed on the couch, just as the sound of a key in the lock makes me jump about a foot.

  It’s Nadia. “God, you scared the shit out of me,” I say.

  “Sorry.”

  “I thought you were at a sleepover,” I say.

  “I was, but I…” She shrugs. “I felt like I should be home.”

  Sasha will be disappointed. He’s been so happy she’s making friends. But any friend who doesn’t understand leaving because your brother’s having surgery is probably not a friend she needs to have.

  “Why are you here?” she says.

  “Oh, I’m watching your brothers. Or I was, I guess. I can go now that you’re here.”

  “You don’t have to,” she says, so clearly my offer to leave sounded as sincere as it felt. I just don’t want to go home right now, even if it is closer to the hospital. I don’t want to deal with the fifty questions my dad’s already texting me. I just want to be here with three people who already understand everything, even if they are kids. And be close to Sasha’s stuff, even if he’s not here.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “It’s good he’s at his hospital,” she says. She sets her stuff down on the coffee table. “It sucks when he has to go to the ER and they don’t know him or anything.”

  I nod. “Plus my dad’s in charge there, so if anything happens…”

  “Yeah, that’s good.” She breathes out heavily. “I talked to my dad and told him I’d get the boys to school tomorrow,” she says. “So you don’t have to worry about that.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  She shifts her weight from foot to foot. “You don’t have to be worried, okay?” she says. “Sasha always gets through everything.”

  “Yeah. And a splenectomy’s an easy surgery.”

  “It is?”

  “Yeah.”

  She nods. “That’s good.”

  I smile at her. “Yeah, it is.”

  She clears her throat. “Are you gonna go see him in the morning?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He has kind of a hard time every time they have to put him under, so you should be prepared for that.”

  “Your dad told me already,” I say.

  “Okay. Good. Well, um…I’m gonna go to bed, I think. Thanks. For getting the boys home.”

  “Of course.”

  “Night, Ibby.” She goes to her room and shuts the door.

  I really love that girl.

  I turn off the lights in the living room and the kitchen and crawl into my makeshift bed. I hear all those noises you always hear when it’s quiet in a place you don’t know: a clock ticking, the hum of the refrigerator, traffic outside that’s a different frequency from the traffic at home.

  I wonder if he’s in surgery yet.

  I wonder if they’ve called his mom.

  What time is it in Tanzania?

  They probably wouldn’t want to wake her up for this. For all of them, this is just a thing, like Sasha said. It’s just something that happens. They’re tired, but they’re not scared.

  I’m scared, but honestly I’m surprised how much of me is just tired.

  He hates being in pain.

  I try to sleep for what must be an hour, but every time I close my eyes I see flashes of scalpels and Sasha’s miserable red eyes. Finally I give up and go to his room. I pretend like I’m just going to get one of his T-shirts to sleep with, but as soon as I’m in there, I curl up in his bed and bury my face in his pillow.

  Cinnamon.

  How are you feeling?

  I’m fine. How’s Sasha?

  —Luna Williams, 17, dancer

  Doing all right, thanks for asking. It was a long night, but it’s gonna get easier from here. Always does. Easier and easier until it’s not, right? I’m sorry, I’m not making any sense. Is there coffee on this floor?

  —Dmitri Sverdlov-Deckler, 39, father

  You know what? It’s gonna be a good day. I can tell. So you can go ahead and jot that down. I’m feeling like it’s gonna be a good day.

  —Yvette Laurence, 27, surgical nurse

  Sore. Next time, you think you could start the night in a bed instead of on a lumpy couch? You don’t stop having arthritis just because your boyfriend’s spleen falls apart, remember?

  —Claire Lennon, 17, dead

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Isabel?”

  I startle and open my eyes. Nadia’s standing over me.

  And I’m sleeping in Sasha’s bed. That’s awkward.

  Oh God, right. Sasha.

  I sit up as quickly as I can, even though it makes every joint I have scream in protest. “Hey,” I say.

  “Hi. I don’t know if you drink coffee or anything? I don’t know how to make it.”

  “No, it’s fine.” I can’t find my phone. I must have left it out in the living room before I came in here to sleep. “Any news?”

  She nods. “He’s awake, sort of. Dad said he had a rough night, kept waking up really confused and in a lot of pain, but that’s kind of standard for him… He’s always really groggy for a long time. He’s mostly just sleeping, Dad said.”

  “He’s okay?”

  “Yeah, he’s good.”

  I breathe out and sink my head into my hands. She laughs a little.

  “You get used to it,” she says. “That’s probably hard to believe right now.”

  “It’s not, actually,” I say. “You guys make it seem possible.”

  She shrugs. “I’m gonna take the boys to school before my first class,” she says.

  “You sure? I can do it.”

  “No, I know where their school is and everything. It’s just easier.”

  “Okay. I have your dad’s key, so I can lock up.”

  “Are you going to the hospital?”

  “Yeah, I just need to take a shower first,” I say.

  I don’t take a shower. I take a bath, and I tell myself I’m going to be quick and I’m only going to stay in for as long as it takes for my joints to relax a little, but I end up closing my eyes and thinking back to the first time I did this. How strange it felt, and how new Sasha was. He was just this boy whose tub I was using. He wasn’t…

  Everything was so simple. People don’t tell you that being patiently miserable can be a lot less work than being happy. Miserable is just a baseline. Happy, there are always steps. There is always so much that can go wrong.

  He’s just this fragile thing with swollen organs and bird bones, walking around for breaking and being loved.

  I just want to stay in the tub, just for a minute.

  How can loving someone as much as I love him be this delicate?

  My wrist throbs in the water.

  We’re so delicate.

  I can’t wait to see him, though.

  …

  He’s got a room, now. The woman at the front desk—same one as last night; doesn’t she sleep?—gives me a tag with 319 and “Alexander Svedler-Deckler” on it. Close enough.

  When I get to the third floor, though, Kayla, a nurse I’ve known for as long as I can remember, holds up her hand to me the second I get off the elevator. She’s
on the phone, so I have to stand at the desk waiting for her to get off it, and she doesn’t seem to be in any sort of hurry. I try to look pleasant and not like I want to strangle her.

  Finally she hangs up. “Are you here to see Sasha?” she says.

  “Yeah.”

  She leans over the desk and scrunches up her face. It’s that face you give a little kid when you’re about to tell them something they don’t want to hear and you’re hoping they don’t throw a temper tantrum. “His dad wanted me to tell you that it might be better if you come back tomorrow.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s having some trouble with the anesthesia—”

  “I know that,” I say.

  “—and he’s a little agitated right now. I think his dad was worried it might upset you.”

  “I’m not a child,” I say. “I’m not going to get my feelings hurt if Sasha isn’t nice to me when he’s drugged up the morning after surgery.”

  “Why don’t you just come back tomorrow?” she says. “He’ll be in better shape by then.”

  “That’s the point,” I say.

  She sighs. “Look, I’m just passing on the message.”

  “Did Dmitri say I can’t see him?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then I’m gonna go.”

  She rolls her eyes and sits down. “Go ahead.”

  Sasha’s blanket on the floor is the first thing I notice. There’s a nurse standing at the foot of the bed, and Dmitri’s standing up next to him, both hands on Sasha’s arm. Sasha was in the middle of saying something, but he stops when I come in. He squints at me like he hasn’t seen me in years. “Isabel?”

  “Hi,” I say. “What’s going on?”

  “I need to get out of here,” he says.

  Dmitri says, “He’s pretty confused.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “I’m not confused,” Sasha says, and he kicks his feet. I’m guessing that’s how the blanket ended up on the floor. The nurse tries to hold his feet down, but Sasha tries to sit up, and not in a nice, gentle, post-surgical way.

  “Hey hey hey.” I come to the side of the bed Dmitri’s not on and put my hand on his shoulder. “You’re gonna rip your stitches if you do that.”

  He pulls his arm away. “Let go of me.”

  Dmitri says, “He doesn’t mean—”