by Callie Hart
I wonder if I’m in there somewhere. I wonder if there’s a point in the crisscross madness of those creases where one line meets another and something changes for him. Life suddenly takes on a different meaning. I know my life changed irrevocably when I met him. That change is burned deep inside my very being—in my mind, in my heart, and in my soul. Seems only fair that there should be some mark of it upon Zeth’s body, too.
I press the pad of my index finger against the pad of his index finger, barely touching them together. For a moment, our fingerprints connect and it seems symbolic. We are two different people, so vastly, incomprehensibly different, and yet we are also the same because we’re more than the sum of him as person, and me as a person. We’re forever joined in this life. We are two sides of the same coin. Two halves of one whole. I defy anyone to tell me this isn’t true.
My belly twists, a strange, slightly unsettling feeling fluttering in the pit of my stomach, and I close my eyes. It feels like the tiny life that’s getting to work inside of me wants its presence to be felt right now, in this moment, while I’m musing over thoughts of Zeth and me together. Because now there is another way that we’re joined, and I’m only just beginning to understand how special this new joining of our bodies and our souls actually is. A child. A baby inside me. Half of me, and half of him. God, what a complicated mess this is. Of course, it’s way too soon for the baby to be moving. I won’t feel him move for weeks and weeks, and yet even so, the mind is a powerful thing. It can trick you into believing all sorts of things if it wants to.
Zeth frowns, his bottom lip twitching, the dragons in his dreams giving him hell, and my heart feels like it’s about to brim over. I love him so goddamn much. I never knew it would be possible to care about another person this deeply. If I give birth to this man’s child, if I get to hold his son in my arms, I get the feeling I’ll be dazzled by the entirely new depths of love I’ll experience for the very first time. An amazing, powerful, bottomless kind of love; I see it on the faces of new mothers every day in the maternity wards.
That look is wonderful and frightening all at the same time. I’m not sure I’m prepared for it. If I could only know—
Cold blue light flashes, splitting apart the dark. The peaceful moment is shattered. My cell phone on my bedside table starts shrieking, and Zeth, lost to sleep a second ago, is upright, his eyes wide, shoulders tensed, muscles coiled, ready to explode into action. His chest is heaving, and so is mine. The surprise of the loud ringtone blaring out into the thick silence has my heart slamming like a trip hammer in my chest. Zeth’s gaze locks onto me, and then he’s leaning his naked body over mine, as though he’s shielding me.
“You okay?” he asks. “I didn’t think you were on call.”
“I’m not.”
He reaches over me and picks up my phone, handing it to me. I don’t recognize the number on the screen. It’s a local Seattle number, but not one I remember seeing before. “Sorry, I’ll go take this downstairs. Go back to sleep.”
Zeth wraps an arm around my waist, drawing me close to him as he lies back down in the bed. “Take it here. I don’t want you going anywhere.”
“Okay.” I feel him kissing the back of my neck and my shoulder blades as I pick up the call. “Hello?”
“Miss Romera? Doctor Romera? Have I got the right number?” The woman on the end of the phone is breathing hard, panting as she tries to get her words out. “Please, dear god, tell me I dialed it right.”
“Yes, this is she. Can I help you?”
“Yes, ma’am. My name is Wanda. I live next door to Mason. He gave me your business card in case anything happened with his little sister. I’m watchin’ over Millie tonight, see, and she went to bed just fine a couple of hours ago. Everything seemed normal, but I heard her fall just now, and she’s havin’ a seizure, a bad one, an’ I don’t know what to do. It won’t stop. Please, Miss. You gotta come. You gotta come and look at her.”
“Hang up the phone and call 911 right away, Wanda. Call for an ambulance. I’ll meet you at the hospital, okay?”
“You won’t come here?” The poor woman sounds terrified.
“I can’t treat her properly at your place, Wanda. I don’t have the drugs she needs. Call 911. I’m leaving right now. I’ll see you at the hospital.”
I hang up, and Zeth’s already swinging out of bed. He rifles in the chest of drawers, tugging out clothes. “I’ll drive you,” he tells me, as he pulls on underwear, a t-shirt and jeans.
“It’s Millie, Mason’s little sister. Can you see if you can find him?”
“Sure.” He texts something quickly as I get dressed and rush downstairs. His phone chimes as we’re hurrying out of the house. “Mason’s not picking up. Michael’s gonna hunt him down. He’ll find him and bring him to the hospital.”
Zeth drives down the mountain like a maniac. Thank god he does. I would never have the courage to speed so fast through the corners and take the hairpin bends at such a crazy clip, but Zeth’s an expert driver. He’s been involved in enough car chases by now that he could probably make killer money as a rally driver. Once we hit the city, things have to slow down a bit, but he knows the quickest route to St. Peter’s and he doesn’t take any prisoners as he ducks and weaves past the other cars still on the roads.
He pulls up outside the emergency entrance to the building and lets me out, then screeches off, tires smoking as he goes to find somewhere to park.
“Dr. Romera? What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were off sick?” The young nurse at the desk seems confused.
“Millie Reeves? Has she been brought in yet?” It’s been twenty minutes at least; the ambulance should have arrived and brought her in by now. The nurse—I’m pretty sure her name is Anderson—checks the iPad screen in front of her, frowning.
“Reeves, Reeves, Reeves. Ah, yes, a second ambulance had to be sent to the scene. They should be arriving any moment.”
“A second ambulance? What the hell happened to the first one?”
Anderson shrugs. “Some kind of engine trouble. I’m not sure.”
Ambulances are checked and maintained every day. There’s no way a vehicle should have broken down. Something like this could mean the difference between a patient living and a patient dying. I’m filled with dread. If the EMTs didn’t get to Millie on time, she could easily slip into a coma and die.
“Shit.” I leave the front desk, and I run to the closest supply closet, grabbing a set of scrubs. No one says anything further about me not being on shift. I shouldn’t be treating anyone right now. I’m not allowed to storm into the hospital, get changed, and then start messing with patients; that’s not how the system works. Chief Allison isn’t in the building, though, and I must look frantic and harried because the nursing staff and other doctors keep any objections they might have to themselves.
The ambo still hasn’t arrived by the time I’ve changed and gone outside to wait for Millie. Damn it, this is taking too long. Zeth appears by my side. “Michael’s still looking,” he says. The crash team waiting on the ambulance cut wary sideways glances at the huge, tattooed guy now waiting with us. I forget how imposing he must look to people when he first meets them.
“Okay. Fuck, I hope he gets here soon. She’s going to need him.”
“She’s got you,” he says. “That’s more than enough.”
Lights and sirens, then. An ambulance screeching into the car park, hurtling towards us at seventy miles an hour. The driver slams on the brakes just in time, bringing the vehicle to an abrupt stop less than a meter from the hospital entrance. Chaos ensues.
The EMTs jump from the van, shouting out Millie’s stats. Her tiny body is transported out of the ambulance and rushed inside. I run with the crash team, taking in everything the EMT is shouting: erratic pulse. Pupils fixed and dilated. At least seventeen minutes of continuous convulsions in the field. Famipentol administered, to no effect. Maximum dosage limit reached.
The famipentol should have knocke
d the seizure on the head. Millie should be awake by now. We can’t give her any more. If we do, not only could it cause severe damage to her internal organs, but it could also send her into coronary failure as well. It can’t be risked.
“Push sodium valproate. Someone page neuro, tell them what’s going on. We need a consult right away.” An intern, one I don’t recognize, takes off down the hall, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum as he skids and disappears around a corner, on the hunt for a phone.
We take Millie into a procedure room. Standard protocol is observed. Millie’s hooked up to a heart monitor. Her levels are recorded. I have a nurse push clobazam, but that doesn’t seem to have any effect, either. Millie remains on her back on the gurney, the heels of her feet hammering against the padding and the sheet, head tipped back, jaw locked, eyes rolled up into the back of her head. She’s in trouble. Big, big trouble. God, she looks so tiny and helpless as the seizure continues to contort her fragile little body. This episode has already lasted too long. Wanda called me forty minutes ago at least, and for a six-year-old to be seizing like this for such a long time? I don’t want to think about what it means. I can’t even think about it, because if I do I’ll have to admit the truth: that I know all hope is lost.
Dr. Mike Margate, head of neurology, shows up almost immediately. He assesses Millie, his movements confident, however the look on his face is far from it. “Left pupil’s blown now,” he says. “Could be an early sign of brain herniation. We’re not going to know what’s going on in there until we give her a scan, but we can’t keep her still for that.”
Dr. Hamid, a new member of the intern’s program, looks wrecked by this news. “What about sedation? Can’t we knock her out?” he asks.
Margate sends a glance my way. “Dr. Romera? Care to explain to Dr. Hamid why sedation is a bad idea in this case?”
“She’s already had everything we can give her. Her system’s flooded. If we sedate her, it’s going to be too much for her body to take. Her respiratory system will fail.”
“Exactly.” Margate runs a small wooden paddle up the sole of Millie’s right foot, waiting to see if her body responds in anyway. It’s difficult to tell if there’s any natural reaction, since her body is still shaking so violently. He frowns then, bending down, peering closely at the side of Millie’s ankle. “When did this show up?” he asks. “Does she have any other marks on her body?”
It takes me a second to see what he’s pointing to: a tiny red mark on the inside of her leg, just above her ankle. It looks like a rash, though the mark appears to be on its own. Hands are on Millie, then. Four people quickly cut her pajamas from her body, leaving scraps of the Power Puff Girls printed fabric scattered on the floor. Everyone pores over Millie’s tiny frame, scanning for more red marks.
I see one low on her ribcage, again all by itself. “There. Shit.”
An intern raises his hand, a wary look on his face. “Does this mean…does this mean bacterial meningitis?”
Margate shakes his head. “Not bacterial. Check her charts. Is she on Lamictal?”
I already know that she is. “Yes,” I answer. “For sixteen months.”
“Then that’s it, people. Things just got officially worse. She’s probably got aseptic meningitis. Let’s get her under right away. We’re gonna have to roll the dice on this one after all, I’m afraid. We’ll only be able to fight the swelling in her brain if she’s unconscious. She’s going to have to be monitored around the clock, though. You,“ he says, pointing at an intern. “Do not leave this child’s side.”
“But my shift’s up in thirty—” He stops talking when Margate looks up at him, pinning him with a look of fury. “Yes, sir. Of course. I won’t leave her.”
“Good. Get that scan immediately, people. I want to see what’s going on inside that head of hers.”
Margate leaves. Millie’s still shaking on the gurney. We won’t be able to get her sedated quick enough. Her body needs a break from the constant beating its taking. When I look up, about to start ordering people into action, I notice Zeth standing in the doorway of the procedure room. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, and his expression is dark to say the least.
We’d never normally allow a civilian to observe like that, but he’s not your average civilian. He wasn’t panicking like most people would have been. He didn’t say a word. He kept his mouth shut and he watched, by the looks of things, and he didn’t interfere. Margate didn’t even remark on his presence as he left the room, which means he probably thought Zeth was another doctor or something.
I take hold of him by the arm as the nurses wheel Millie out and up the corridor toward the elevators, where they’ll then take her for an MRI. “Don’t you want to go home and wait for me there? It’s the middle of the night,” I say.
He follows Millie with his eyes as she’s taken away. “I’ll wait here.” His voice is flat, monotone, and cold. “You shouldn’t even be here. You’re gonna need a ride when you’re done.”
“Michael could always run me back later.”
Zeth shakes his head. I can tell by the stoic, emotionless way he’s holding himself that he won’t be swayed on the matter. He doesn’t blink until the elevator doors have closed and Millie’s out of sight. “What’s gonna happen to her?” he asks. “Best guess.”
I don’t want to tell him the truth, but I also don’t want to lie. I hesitate, and then say, “Her outlook isn’t good. She’s so young. With such a violent, prolonged seizure, and the likelihood that she’s developed aseptic meningitis, chances are she’ll either…just stop breathing when we put her under, or her brain will have swollen to the point where there’s nothing we can do for her.” It feels like bad luck to paint such a grim picture of the next twelve hours, but trying to create a different image altogether will only serve to get my own hopes up, and that’s dangerous. Zeth clears his throat.
“She’s so small. I didn’t know his sister was so young. He’s been taking care of her all by himself.”
“Yeah. Since she was a baby.”
Turning his back on the elevator, Zeth straightens his shoulders, inhaling deeply. “I’m not hanging around in the waiting room. I’m coming with you.”
“You can’t. This is a hospital, Zeth. People can’t just wander around wherever they like. It’d be a madhouse.”
“Are you going to report me to security?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow.
“No, of course not. But—”
“All right. Well until someone says something, I’m with you. The moment I’m asked to leave, I’ll go. Until then, I’m your fucking shadow.”
There’s nothing I can say that will change his mind now. I’ve learned to pick my battles with this man. If letting him observe what happens with Millie means I’ll be able to claim a victory for myself at some other time, then so be it. “Urgh. Fine. But you’re going to need scrubs or something.”
Zeth, for a fleeting second, looks charmed by the idea of scrubs. I find him a clean set in the residents’ lounge, and he quickly strips down and puts them on. Upstairs on the neuro ward, Millie’s already been put under. Only the soles of her bare feet are visible from inside the MRI machine. I leave Zeth in the control booth with a very frightened looking resident at the computer, observing the scan as it progresses, and I head out to find Margate. I need to know what he’s thinking—if there’s anything further that can be done while we’re waiting for the results of the MRI to be compiled. I’m halfway down the hall when an alarm starts wailing and the door to the MRI room flies open. The resident who was studiously fixated on the stills flashing up on the screen in front of him, doing his best to ignore Zeth a moment ago, is now racing toward me, face white as a freshly starched sheet.
“She’s coding. She’s fucking coding,” he gasps.
We run.
Thankfully the resident’s turned the MRI off. We slide Millie out of the narrow tube, and she is still, and cold, and worryingly blue. “She’s not breathing. Arrh
ythmic tachycardia. Fuck. Her heart’s giving out. Go get the paddles.”
The resident does as I command. A second later, I have defibrillator paddles in my hands and Millie’s hospital gown is open, exposing her pale, almost translucent skin. The intern Margate told not to leave Millie’s side hugs the wall by the door, watching with terror in his eyes.
The defibrillator makes a high-pitched whining noise and then an alarm sounds, signaling that it’s charged. “Clear!”
The resident throws his hands up. I plant the paddles on Millie’s little chest, and I administer the charge. Her body jumps, her muscles tautening and releasing in quick succession. The heart rate monitor beside the gurney continues to shriek, the peaks and troughs of Millie’s heart beat spiking erratically. It didn’t work. Damn it, it didn’t work.
“Still arrhythmic. Charge again.” I won’t stop until she stabilizes.
The defib whines. I call clear. I shock her again.
Still nothing.
I do it again. I increase the voltage beyond what is safely recommended for the body of a little child. I feel like I’m swimming under water, not breathing, dying for oxygen, and yet I know I can’t come up for air until I save the little girl in front of me.
Still, nothing.
“Dr. Romera, we have flat line.”
“Charge to five hundred. Clear.”
“Dr. Romera—”
“I said charge to five hundred!” I can hear the monotone pitch of the flat line alarm on the heart rate monitor, but I refuse to accept it. I refuse to acknowledge it. I know all too well that the defib won’t work if Millie has no pulse at all—how can it regulate her pulse if there isn’t one to begin with?—but I can’t give up now.
The resident standing by the defib looks uncertain. He must read the desperation in my eyes, though, because he does as I tell him to and he punches in the new voltage.
I shock Millie. Her head bounces on the gurney, her blue lips parting slightly, the tips of her tiny teeth showing, and still the heart rate monitor remains the same.
