by Nicky James
“Fashion,” I mumbled, resenting the quip clearly labeling me as a child.
“Fashion? Really? What area, or are you doing a basic art degree right now?” Iggy untucked one of my arms from the restraint and guided it to my head. He pressed my fingers to the thick gauze covering my wound and held his overtop. “Hold this tight for me. I need to check your blood pressure and run your vitals again before we arrive.”
I complied while he wrapped a cuff around my other arm.
“Design,” I said, watching his mouth turn down as he studied the machine.
“Fashion design? Huh. Plans to move to Hollywood someday?”
“Why are you frowning?”
His gaze flashed briefly to mine, and he forced a smile. It was strained. “Just concentrating.”
The cuff released my arm, and Iggy jotted notes on a pad. Next, he pressed two fingers to the pulse on my wrist and stared at his watch.
“How are you feeling?” he asked when he finished and jotted more notes.
“Fine. Why?”
“Are you dizzy, nauseous, blurred vision?”
I didn’t answer because it was yes to all three, and none of it had to do with my trip down the stairs.
Iggy frowned at my silence, but he didn’t push. Instead, he peered out the small back windows on the vehicle. “We’re almost there.”
He took over doctoring my head wound, pressing hard enough I winced. The ambulance jolted to a stop, and Iggy bounced up to unfasten the locking mechanisms on the stretcher as his co-worker came around and opened the doors. Together they got me out of the vehicle and through the sliding glass doors at the ambulatory entrance to the emergency room.
Closing my eyes made the world spin faster, so I found a focal point and breathed through the nauseating movement. A man in a white lab coat appeared at my side, and Iggy spoke all that technical jargon at him. Most of it went over my head, but I caught the word pallid and understood when Iggy said, “BP ninety over sixty. Checked on arrival at the scene and again in transport. No change. Heart rate fifty-eight.”
In a small room where I expected to be unstrapped and moved to a bed, everyone stood around talking. The doctor finally approached and guided me through a number of checks. Wiggle your fingers. Wiggle your toes. Bend your arms. Make a fist. On and on to determine if I needed to be sent to X-ray.
It was a long while before I was removed from the stretcher and helped onto a bed. Iggy collected his instruments while his buddy used a spray to wipe down their stretcher.
The doctor had disappeared for a minute, and Iggy stopped beside my bed. “Will you be okay?”
“I’m a big boy now. Not ten anymore.”
Iggy licked his lips and paused before saying, “Yeah, I can see that.”
Our eyes locked and held. There was something unsaid behind his gaze, and a small, stupid part of me pretended he was looking at me that way, but I knew it was my ten-year-old kid dreams talking.
He opened his mouth to say more but closed it again, shaking his head. That was twice he’d held his tongue. Shuffling, he ran a hand over his shorn hair and glanced at where his partner was finishing up.
“I gotta run. It was good to see you again. Well, not good, because of this.” He waved a hand over my battered body. “But… anyhow. Maybe I’ll see you around. Take care.”
“Thanks.”
He joined his partner, and they disappeared down the hall. A small part of me regretted not getting to see that smile one last time. The one that had solidified my questions about my sexuality when I was ten and may or may not have stirred a little interest in me again ten years later as we rode to the hospital.
Iggy freaking Rojas. What were the odds?
My heart did a little excited skip as I remembered those days of falling over my feet, loving him as only a kid with a life-consuming crush did.
Simpler days.
Chapter Two
Arden
Silence was too much to ask for. At twenty years old, the hospital had no right to contact my parents unless I asked. However, when I didn’t show up at home after classes let out, the texts came in droves.
Initially, I ignored them because getting stitched stole my focus, then I ignored them because, honestly, I didn’t want to explain myself. When my older sister, Bryn, texted, I knew my mother had reached the end of her rope.
Bryn didn’t live at home anymore, so if Mom had reached out to her, it was because she was ready to send out the cavalry and knew Bryn was the one person I might respond to.
Bryn: You better answer me. Mom is having a cow.
A nurse entered with a blood pressure machine, and I groaned. I’d been at the hospital for two hours, and they’d hooked me up to that bloody thing three times among others.
I typed a quick message to Bryn, letting her know I was alive and dropped my phone on the bed beside me.
“When can I leave?” I asked the nurse as she stopped beside my bed.
“Soon. The doctor wants to see your lab results first. Shouldn’t be too long.”
“Why are you fussing about my blood pressure? It’s low. It’s always low. I get it. Story of my life.”
She eyed me from under dark bangs as she wrapped the cuff around my arm. “It’s lower than he likes to see it, so Dr. Grant has asked we monitor it closely. Can I get you something to eat? Are you hungry?”
I didn’t miss her subtle scan of my rail-thin body or the pinch in her brow. She’d probably already labeled me like the rest of the world. It would either be: too poor to eat regular meals, or like my family, a clear case of undeniable anorexia.
It was neither, but I wasn’t about to correct her.
Her suggestion of bringing me food rose the hairs on my arms. A familiar lump lodged in the base of my throat, and I swallowed a few times to force it down.
“No, thank you.”
“Are you nauseous?”
Only because you mentioned food.
“Concussions can cause nausea. It wouldn’t be abnormal,” she explained.
I stored that piece of useful information away for later.
“Yeah. Nauseous.”
She didn’t believe me. Stranger or not, I’d seen that questioning look enough times over the years to recognize it.
“When’s the last time you ate, sweetheart?”
Seriously? How old did she think I was?
“Lunch at school.”
Lies were second nature, and they slipped easily off my tongue. I couldn’t tell if my family and counselor believed me any more than this nurse, but most days, I didn’t care. What was she going to do? Call me out? It would only perpetuate more lies.
She finished recording my poor numbers on a chart and reached inside a pocket on her scrubs. She withdrew a few packs of individually wrapped saltine crackers and tossed them on the bed beside me.
“Since you’re nauseous. These might help. I’ll be back shortly.”
I stared at the curtain where she disappeared before picking up one of the packages of crackers. Too bad they weren’t name-brand because saltines were among the handful of foods I could manage.
But not yellow box brand.
And not without knowing their expiration date.
I tossed them into the garbage beside my bed, ignoring the gnawing ache grating the walls of my stomach. I hadn’t eaten at lunch. In fact, I hadn’t eaten since the previous night when I’d managed five crackers before my brain took over, my throat closed up, and they threatened to come back up.
No wonder I was so lightheaded and dizzy today.
Shivering, I tugged the sleeves down on my hoodie, covering my hands. The overhead vent blew cold air directly over my area. Why did they keep hospitals so damn cold anyway? Teeth chattering, I snagged my phone to see if Bryn had responded.
Of course she had. Who was I kidding?
Bryn: That’s marvelous that u r okay.
Bryn: Answer me or I will hunt you down!
Bryn: Arden! Heeeeelllllloooooo?!?!?!?!?!
How was I the younger child? Despite my irritation, my mouth on the right side lifted into an almost smirk.
Arden: God u r annoying. I’m at the hospital. Can u pick me up? I think I’m being discharged soon, and I need a ride.
At least I hoped they would discharge me soon. I sensed a lot of hoop-jumping in the near future, and I wasn’t sure I could do it pleasantly enough to slink under their radar. The longer I sat, the more weighted my body and the more I wanted to sleep.
Bryn: WTH why r u at the hospital? Is everything ok?
Arden: Fell at school. It’s nothing. Can u come?
Bryn: ya omw. Should I text Mom?
Arden: No. Leave it. I’ll explain when I get home.
Before Bryn showed up, Dr. Grant pushed through my curtained area while studying a clipboard.
“How are you feeling, Arden?”
“Fine.”
Lies.
He peered over the top of his glasses and scanned me. “Dizzy?”
“No.”
More lies.
“Tired?”
“No.”
“What month is it?”
Good Lord. “April.”
“Day of the week?”
“Thursday.”
“Ten times ten.”
I scrubbed a hand down my face. “What is the point of these questions?”
“Assessing your focus and concentration.”
“By asking stupid questions? Get to the point.”
Dr. Grant breathed deeply and tucked the clipboard under his arm before approaching my bed and sitting on the corner.
“How much do you weigh, Arden?”
Here we go. “Not enough. I’m aware.”
“What happened at school today?”
“We’ve been over this. I was knocked down the stairs.”
“Any chance dizziness, weakness, or confusion played a factor in your tumble?”
“Nope. Just got knocked by a guy twice my size. Physics. The smaller man will tumble every time.”
He deliberated before tugging the clipboard from under his arm. “I got your blood tests back. I get the sense these numbers I’m seeing aren’t news to you.”
“I’m anemic, I’m aware.”
“Your red blood cell count is low enough to be alarming. Low enough, I’d like to run further tests.”
“My doctor is aware. My parents are aware. Everyone and their dog is aware. I’m in counseling. I’m being treated. Can I please leave?”
My fingers twitched as I leveled him with a look of irritation. There were enough people in my life trying to fix me. I didn’t need more. He didn’t know the half of it. No one did. But I was tired of playing the game with the people who were in my life. I didn’t need more worried professionals who felt the need to remind me of the risks of not eating.
It would mean more lies. And I was so fucking tired of it all.
“I can’t make you stay. Although I’m sure you’ve heard it all before, I feel obligated to let you know that eating disorders are a very serious matter. They can lead to severe health complications and even death if they aren’t treated properly. Your numbers are concerning. Your blood pressure is low. I’m betting if I ran more—"
“Thank you. It’s not necessary.”
He nodded and pursed his lips like he wanted to say more. Deciding against it, he indicated to my stitches just above my temple. “Those are dissolving. Take an over the counter pain medication if you get headaches, and I’ll have the nurse give you a pamphlet to read so you know the signs to look for that may indicate trouble.”
“Thank you.”
Bryn’s copper mane poked around the curtain and caught my eye. The knot in my chest loosened a smidgen. Saved by the sibling!
Despite the relief at seeing her, I didn’t smile. Waving her in, I cut my gaze back to the doctor who passed a look between us and bowed out of the room.
Bryn noticed my head right away, and her emerald eyes widened. “Oh, Mylanta! What happened? Are you hurting? How many stitches? Did you get in a fight? Were you punched? That looks painful.”
Her tiny fingers grazed the side of my head, brushing my thin, blond hair aside so she could examine my injury. I waved her hand away and scowled.
“I’m fine. Someone shoved me down the stairs at school, and I knocked my head. It’s nothing.”
“Someone shoved you?” Her voice squeaked, and she stepped back, cheeks flushed with her anger. Bryn couldn’t hide any emotions. Her fair complexion glowed crimson whenever she was angry or embarrassed, and her doe eyes carried so much expression she could have been an actress.
“It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal. Are you being bullied? Did you lip off to the wrong person? When did this happen? Did a professor see? Did they arrest him? It was a him, right? Tell me you didn’t get assaulted by a woman. Not that it couldn’t happen, but—”
“Please shut up. I have a headache. Possibly a concussion.” I waved a hand dramatically around my stitched noggin.
She lowered her voice a fraction but plowed on. “Should we call Phoenix? He’d totally kick someone’s butt if you needed him to. Although, Mom and Carrie would probably have a fit if he wound up with a black eye for his wedding. Maybe we don’t call Phoenix.”
“Phoenix wouldn’t kick anyone’s ass for my benefit anyhow. Believe me.”
Bryn smacked me on the shoulder. “Language.”
“Okay, Mom. Can we just get out of here?”
“Are you allowed to leave?”
I glanced at the door and shrugged. “I think they’re bringing me pamphlets or something. Maybe I need to wait a minute.”
“Want me to check?”
“No. Just sit and try not to flap your mouth so much. Or at least flap quietly.”
Bryn dropped onto a chair and stuck her tongue out with a wrinkle in her nose. So mature. And they said boys matured late. There were days my twenty felt ancient compared to Bryn’s twenty-two. But our paths in life weren’t the same. Hardship and profound grief did that to a person.
“Did you tell Mom I was here?”
“Ha! Are you kidding? I do not want to be in the middle of that one. I told her you would be home soon and you were okay. Which I see now was a big fat lie, and I’ll have to atone for my sins.”
If only that were a lie. Our parents didn’t tolerate lying.
“Sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
A few minutes later, the judgmental nurse returned with a booklet of papers. I caught her not so discreetly checking the garbage pail beside my bed before our gazes locked.
Yeah, I dumped your stupid crackers. Deal with it.
“You’re good to go.” She glanced at Bryn and offered her a sweet smile before leaving again. I guess I’d earned my place in her disgruntled child books.
Bryn hopped up, and I took my time standing, ensuring the world didn’t tilt out of line. The last thing I needed was to fall again before I left the hospital.
We inched down the busy hallway, and I couldn’t help scanning for a certain paramedic, even though I knew he wouldn’t be around.
I half wished my oldest brother Phoenix and I were on better terms so I could ask about Iggy. Not that it mattered. Phoenix would see right through me, and I’d earn a lecture. I got enough of those from Mom and Dad.
No thanks.
Bryn’s driving put Mario Andretti to shame, and I couldn’t help white-knuckling the dash while she whipped around cars only half paying attention to the road. She tipped her rearview mirror and squinted at her reflection, checking the traffic with less and less frequency as she scowled.
“I woke up with a zit. I have a date tomorrow night. How is it that I haven’t had a zit in three years and today I get a doozy right on the end of my nose? See it.”
“Bryn! Watch the road. You’re gonna have more than zit problems if you cras
h us.”
She rolled her eyes and glanced back in time to slam on her brakes so we didn’t rear end a white Volvo.
My heart took up permanent residence in my throat. For once, I was glad my stomach was empty.
“I’m not coming in with you,” she continued. “If I come in, I’ll be made to stay for dinner. If I stay for dinner, I’ll be expected to attend mass this evening. If I have to attend Mass this evening, I’ll probably get sucked into helping with the soup luncheon on Sunday. If I help with the soup luncheon on Sunday then—”
“Old Mrs. Massey is in a nursing home now. You’re safe.”
Bryn flipped her head around and gawked. “Really?”
“Yes. Road, Bryn! Please, pay attention.”
She huffed and turned back. “Fine, I’ll come in with you, but don’t mention I have a date tomorrow. I don’t need Dad’s lectures.”
“As if.”
Dating in my family was tricky. My parents were strictly religious and adhered to more rules and carried more outrageous beliefs than we could keep up with. Namely, pre-marital sex, use of birth control… being gay.
When Bryn pulled into the driveway, neither of us were surprised to find Mom out on the stoop waiting. Her periwinkle dress, white knitted shawl, and pearl necklace would have made June Cleaver proud. Even her golden blonde hair was swept into an updo more suited to a night at the royal ball.
A soccer mom she was not.
“Brace yourself,” Bryn said as she cut the engine.
I climbed out of the car with a slight tremble in my legs. One that had nothing to do with upsetting my mother and everything to do with practically starving myself. I knew it couldn’t be stopped with sheer willpower, so I shoved my hands in my pockets as I followed the walkway to the front door, hoping to look more put together than I felt.
Bryn trailed behind.
I stopped one step down, allowing my mother the higher ground on the landing as she attempted to glare a hole through me. Twenty years old, but in that moment, I didn’t feel a day over fifteen. I refused to meet her gaze, staring instead at an ant inching his way across the concrete path as I formulated lies, ready to launch my counter attack the minute she opened her mouth.
Mom snagged my chin and tipped it up, angling my head to examine my stitches.
