The Offer (6 page)

What’s wrong
with her? Did I do something wrong? Is she going to die? Is she
going to be okay? What could I have done differently?

I wish Phil
was here.

I don’t
often think that. But he was there for the first year of her life
and it’s hard to forget that I used to have someone who cared just
as much about Ava as I did. Then again, if he cared, he never would
have left. Sometimes I think it would have been better if he had
just skipped town when he first found out I was pregnant, instead
of being there for that first year. He had a chance to know her –
how come he didn’t love her the way I did? I understand why he left
me. I neglected him, I became that doting, obsessed mother I swore
I would never become. But how the hell could he leave
her
?

I swallow down
the hard lump in my throat as razor-sharp memories threaten to undo
me. I have to be strong. Always so damn strong.

Because the ER
is packed, it takes what seems like forever to get the doctor to
see us. Steph yells at the receptionist a bunch of times and I
think Bram and Astrid are still milling around, even though I’m not
really aware of anything except my daughter in my arms. Ava is
still having trouble breathing and it’s only when she vomits again
that a nurse takes pity on us and leads us away from the moaning,
bandaged, sick people in the waiting room.

It’s all going
by in a blur. The doctor comes in, but all I can hear is my own
heartbeat, not his name. His face is a blank smudge. Steph holds my
arm but all I feel is Ava.

He gets Ava on
the bed and examines her. Takes blood. Asks me questions.

“What did she
eat?”

Steph tells
him pasta and cheese, I fill in that she normally has that and has
never had a reaction.

“What did she
drink?”

I tell him I
gave her orange juice with water.

Then Steph
tells him Linden gave her some caffeine-free Coke.

This was news
to me and now Steph is looking sheepish. I try my hardest to have
Ava eating as healthy as possible. Coke is the enemy, as is any
soft drink, diet or not. But I also can’t see how Coke could have
caused this. It’s not like she’s never had any in her whole
life.

The doctor
nods at that and then quizzes me more about her dietary habits and
other issues.

“She’s totally
healthy,” I tell him defensively. Then I remember the last few
trips to the doctor. “She’s been really lethargic lately. Tired.
Irritable.”

“How long has
this been going on?”

“A few months.
But the doctor, her doctor, said she’s fine.”

“Has she
always been this thin?”

“She’s got
more gangly since January,” I explain. “I brought it up with the
doctor and he said it was normal.”

“It can be,”
the doctor says. “But I think this is something else. Has your
daughter been excessively thirsty?”

That question
hits me hard. I remember being a thirsty child growing up, always
opting to drink something rather than eat, so it never struck me as
unusual that Ava is the same.

“Yes,” I say
carefully, looking over at Steph. She nods.

“Mrs—“

“Miss,” I
quickly inform him. “There is no Mr. in the picture.”

His stoney
blank face attempts a look of sympathy. “Okay, Ms. Price. We’ll
have to see what the tests say, but it looks like your daughter
might have Type 1 diabetes.”

I gasp. I
can’t help it. Steph holds my hand tight, but I’m already going
numb.

He goes on,
“And what she’s going through right now could be diabetic
ketoacidosis. Do you know what ketones are, Ms. Price?”

“The stuff
your body produces too much of when you’re on the Atkins Diet,”
Steph fills in.

He raises a
brow. “Yes. We’re going to have to take a urine test to look at her
levels and for now we’ve got the IV full of electrolytes to
rehydrate and stabilize her. But we may need to give her an insulin
injection. And if we do, you’re going to have to give her
injections every day for the rest of her life.”

I can’t
breathe. Diabetes? “But no one in my family has it,” I blurt out.
“She’s always eaten so well. There must be some mistake.”

“We’ll know
for sure soon,” he says. “But type 1 has nothing to do with diet or
history, not always. Her pancreas just doesn’t produce enough
insulin. Just sit tight and I’ll be back.”

I don’t know
how long he’s gone for. Ava is still breathing hard, though her
eyes are closed. I keep talking to her to make sure she’s awake but
she’s just too tired. The nurse assures me that her vitals are
doing a bit better and she’s not in danger anymore, that we brought
her in right on time. But still, panic and guilt weighs down on me
like a damp, dark cloud.

Somewhere in
the back of my head, I’m aware that Steph is here with me, dolled
up to the nines and she’s missing her husband’s birthday party. But
I’m also afraid to tell her she should go, afraid that she will,
that I’ll be alone.

So I don’t say
anything and she stays right by my side.

The night
stretches on and on. The doctor comes back.

It’s bad
news.

Ava has Type 1
juvenile diabetes. It takes a moment to sink in and even though
there is some relief that there is a name for what’s wrong with
her, I realize that this damn name – diabetes – has a world of
connotations.

A disease.

No cure.

My little
girl.

Suddenly I’m
filled with so much rage with my current doctor that he never
suspected, that he never had her tested.

“She’s quite
young,” the doctor says, catching the fire on my face. “Usually it
happens from around eight to ten years old. She’s going to be fine
and live a long healthy life as long as she gets her shots.”

“And how much
do those cost?” I can’t believe I’m blurting that out.

He rubs his
forehead. “If you aren’t insured, it’s about $300 for a month’s
supply. That’s for the insulin. You’ll also need needles, an
insulin pen when you’re on the go, and a blood sugar monitor.”

I can’t even
fathom what the hospital bill is going to cost me, let alone $300 a
month to keep Ava alive. Obviously there is no alternative – I’ll
pay it. But I don’t know how, and that, that scares me more than
anything.

Steph has her
arm around me and she’s saying words of comfort, telling me she’ll
help, but I could never let her do that. I can’t even comprehend
anything right now.

The doctor
injects Ava with insulin on her stomach, showing me how to do it. I
force myself to concentrate, to break through the fog and pay
attention. Ava doesn’t seem to notice, she just squirms a little
but still appears to be asleep. Steph pays attention too, telling
me she might have to do it one day if I can’t.

And
then, maybe out of the kindness of his jaded heart, the doctor puts
a vial of insulin and a package of needles into my hands and tells
me this will do her well for a month. He also writes Ava a
prescription and tells me I still need a monitor but he quickly
shows me with the one he has how to use it to make sure her levels
are normal. He adds that I can have a nurse or a diabetes educator
to show me again how to do it all when we’re later settled at home,
plus help with overhauling her diet.

It’s a lot to
take in and I’m not sure how much that I do. I know I have to see
Ava’s doctor and give him a piece of my mind and hope that he can
explain again just what the hell I have to do.

Ava is kept
under observation for a few more hours. Time goes slow under the
night sky and especially under the glow of a hospital’s fluorescent
lights.

Ava is
starting to look like her healthy self, though. She’s still
sleeping but her skin is a normal color and her breathing is
normal. The nurse tells me she can go home with me in another
hour.

I look at
Steph who seems almost white with fatigue.

“Please go
home,” I tell her. “I love you so much for being here, but I’ve got
it now.”

She gives me a
soft smile. “Okay. But only with your honest blessing.”

“It’s honest,”
I tell her. “And tell Linden I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your
fault,” she says, getting up from the chair and stretching her arms
above her head. “And tell Linden yourself. He’s been here for
hours.”

“What?”

“In the
waiting room with Bram.” She frowns. “I told you but I guess you
didn’t hear me…or notice where I’ve been going every five
minutes.”

I shake my
head. “And Bram is still here? With that blonde Swedish thing?”

“Ha,” she
says. “She lasted two minutes and made Bram drive her to her
friend’s place. Not that I blame her. I am surprised Bram came
back, though. I’m going to see if he can drive me and Linden home
and then come back for you guys.”

“No,” I say
quickly, not wanting to have anyone else do anything special for
me. “That’s okay, I’ll cab it.”

“Nicola,” she
warns, pausing at the door. “Money spent on cab is better spent on
your daughter. Besides, he has your car seat. I’m sure it will be
fine. Call me in the morning, okay, sweetie, and send Ava my love.
I’ll come by and bring her something nice and the two of us can go
over the medication again. I’ll take you to Target. I’m sure they
have good deals at their pharmacy. If they don’t, we can at least
pick up some cheap beer.”

After the door
closes behind her, I feel the coldness of the room and fragility of
the night. I’m eternally grateful that Steph was here, but now that
I’m alone with Ava, I feel like I can finally be myself and feel
the feelings I buried deep during the night.

Only the tears
don’t come. Nothing does. I’m either in shock or just too tired to
take in the enormity and futility of the situation—this damn,
horrible situation.

It’s around
3am when the nurse comes in, checks on Ava and with a big smile,
tells me it’s time to go home. She unhooks her from the IV and I
put her back in her clothes, her dress already cleaned by the kind
nurse.

I gather Ava
in my arms, holding her up and in a slumber state she wraps her own
little arms around my neck. I take a long moment to just breathe
and let my heart swell.

When I step
out and walk down the halls, I’m shocked to see Bram sitting in the
waiting room. He’s sleeping in his chair, but he’s there when he
has no reason to be.

I take a
moment to stare at him. His legs are stretched in front of him,
still in that same slick suit from earlier, though now I notice he
has the world’s ugliest socks on. It actually throws me off a
little – they are brown and yellow with what looks like the Loch
Ness monster on them and totally don’t jive with his expensive suit
(Armani, by the looks of it) or the fact that he’s in his
mid-thirties. His head is back, his thick throat exposed, his eyes
closed. He looks like he’d be in the throes of ecstasy if it
weren’t for the fact that I can hear him snoring lightly.

I go over to
him and peer down at his face. I’ve never really stared at him like
this before since I never wanted him to catch me looking – his ego
might chalk it up to something more than it is.

Though,
I guess, he has a right to be impressed with himself. It’s a good
face. Dark, arched brows, that firm and wide jawline, perfect lips
that stretch into the perfect grin, sly grey eyes that always seem
on the verge of telling you a secret but don’t just to toy with
you. He’s like a big cat, a very,
very
big one.

But big cats
are dangerous and so are playboys. I straighten up and clear my
throat.

His eyes snap
open and he blinks a few times at me. “What time is it?” He looks
at Ava. “She’s okay?”

My mouth
twists. “She’s okay for the moment.” I pause. “I’m sorry you had to
wait. I was happy taking a cab.”

“Hey, my
sister-in-law asked me to drive you home and I’d do anything for
family,” he says, getting to his feet. “I’m glad your little one is
okay, though.”

I nod, unable
to say more. We leave the ER and go to his car in one of the lots.
Once Ava is all strapped in and we’re on the road, I want to thank
him for the ride but everything is caught in my throat.

“Are you
okay?” Bram asks as I repeatedly clear my throat.

“Thank you for
driving me,” I manage to say, my voice nothing more than a
whisper.

“No worries,”
he says. His expression turns grave in the passing lights. “But are
you okay?”

I nod again,
trying to give him a reassuring smile, but the pressure behind my
eyes and nose builds and I feel everything crumbling down from the
inside out. I look away out the window, and for the second time in
two days, I know I’m going to completely lose it.

The tears come
first, then the sobs that squeeze the breath out of my lungs. I
want to cry just for the fact that I’m crying in front of Bram of
all people, someone I barely know. But I’m really crying for the
hopelessness, the frustration, that never-ending feeling of why me?
A pity party, I know. I have them all the time. Except now I feel
fear for myself, for Ava, more than pity. Fear that I won’t be able
to get through it without majorly overhauling my life.

Bram doesn’t
say anything, which I guess is good. He just ignores me and I hope
he can pretend I’m not there. He keeps driving.

And then I
start talking. The moment I open my mouth, I know it’s a mistake,
but there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

“I got fired
yesterday,” I say in between sobs. “A week away from my health
insurance kicking in. My rent went up in my shitty, fucking
apartment. My car doesn’t work. Now Ava’s sick. She’s really sick,
and I have no idea how I’m going to pay for anything, how I’m going
to help her get better, how I’m going to be a good mom. A good mom
would have her life together but I don’t have anything. I’m
just…useless. I can’t keep a job. I got an education in something
passionate, not practical. I have nothing going for me but her and
I don’t know how I’ll even keep her alive. I mean, I didn’t ask for
this responsibility, I didn’t ask for it. But I promised I would
take care of her and it’s like the world is testing me every moment
it gets.” I pause and try to think of something positive to stop
the tears, but there is nothing. “The insulin will cost me $300 a
month. How can I pay for that when I could barely pay my rent
before, let alone now without a job?”