THIEF: Part 4
Authors: Kimberly Malone
THIEF
Part Four
KIMBERLY MALONE
All Rights Reserved
. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
“Kidney failure.”
Dr. Brody nods as I repeat his words.I know what they mean, and I’ve heard him say them at least ten times now, describing my diagnosis.But somehow, they still don’t make sense.
“But I’m healthy,” I sputter, as though this illness is a sentence, and I can talk my way out of the whole thing with good behavior.“I eat right, exercise...I haven’t been sick or anything.”
“Renal failure is a tricky thing,” he says, a little too casually.Like he’s telling me I forgot to change the oil in my car or something.“People can lose up to 90% of their kidney function without a single symptom.But when it finally makes itself known…it hits big.”He flips through a sheaf of papers.“Your blood work doesn’t point to anything like lupus or HIV…have you ever used drugs?”
I glance briefly at Alex, biting his thumbnail in the chair next to my bed, then back at Dr. Brody.“Define ‘drugs.’”
He sighs, like he’s half-annoyed, half-amused; I know I’m not in a position to be a smart ass, but it’s all I can think to do.This feels surreal, like I’m dreaming all of it.Only the pain in my stomach, the rolling nausea hitting me every five minutes, and the swelling in my feet and hands—and, I suspect, my face, though I’ve yet to summon the courage to seek out a mirror—tell me this is definitely real.
“Drugs,” Dr. Brody says in a patronizing tone, “like intravenous street drugs.Heroin.”
“No,” I answer.I make my voice as fake and cheery as his.
He waits a minute, pen poised over his clipboard.“Care to tell me what you
have
done?Even if it was years ago.Just to try and get some answers here about what's causing this.”
“Pot,” I say flatly, staring at him, and fold my arms across my chest, the wires from my heart monitor snagging on my gown.“Ecstasy.Acid.Mushrooms.”For a moment, I flashback to my couch-surfing days: waking up mid-afternoon, when my friends got home from school and we’d crowd together in someone’s basement, taking turns with whatever we could get our hands on.We’d been the kind of kids addicted to the high itself, just always wanting to be fucked up, because we thought the world was too hard sober.I think of the time none of us could score anything, so we shared bottles of Robitussin from my friend Whitney’s medicine cabinet.It made us sleepy and silly, like doing shots of whiskey while getting a morphine drip.
When I moved into my own place and stopped everything but the weed, I’d kind of missed that life.Then it just made me sad, remembering how we used to be.How we thought lying around doing nothing, feeling nothing, was better than going out there and living.
Right now, though, part of me wants to go back there again.Get fucked up and feel nothing, just for a little bit.Just until I forget everything.
Dr. Brody clears his throat, snapping me back.“That it?”
“Cold medicine, on occasion.When I was a kid,” I add.“We, uh...my friends and I, we'd sniff glue and shit sometimes.”I feel myself blushing ashamed.“But just a couple times.”
“Might have played a role,” he says, as if I don't feel shitty enough.“Any family history of kidney failure?”
“No.”
“Parents still alive?”
“Mom died of a stroke this summer,” I answer, looking away.I try to sound like I don’t care, but it’s still not easy saying the words out loud.
Dr. Brody, to his credit, seems to soften.“Sorry to hear that.”
I shrug.
“And your father?”
“I don’t know him.Like, I don’t even know who he is, much less if he’s still alive.”
The doctor nods, clicks his pen, and sighs again.“We’ll take a biopsy to find out for sure, but I think your renal failure was caused by a genetic condition, or maybe a strep infection that went untreated.It’s uncommon, but it happens.”
“I haven’t had strep since I was a kid.”I remember the last time I got it perfectly, actually: I went to the nurse’s station at school, got no answer at home, and since Jane—the only other person authorized to pick me up—was living in Chicago, I had to lie on that papery, crinkly bed until dismissal, then ride the bus home with a fever and kids screaming in my face.When I got home, there was a bottle of sore throat medicine and a note.“Hi, baby!” it read, my mom’s swirling handwriting exaggerated, probably from alcohol.“Got the school's message, but was headed out.Bobby and I will be back late.Take some of this medicine in the meantime—if you’re still feeling sick tomorrow, we’ll go to the doctor.Love, Mom.”
She didn’t get back until three a.m., after I’d thrown up twice and cried more times than I could count.She got me a hot fudge sundae on the way to the doctor’s office the next morning, her version of an apology.I remember the flare in my throat from all the sugar, letting it melt in its container by her air vent as the sun came through the windshield.We never talked about it again.But I remembered it well, and often.
“Nine,” I say now, quietly, more to myself than anyone else.“I was nine the last time I got it.”
Dr. Brody nods again.“To your knowledge, maybe.It probably happened a few weeks ago, and was just mild enough for you to write it off as nothing.Then it progressed to something much worse.The other possibility could be genetics, like I said.We’ll see.”
“Can she get better?” Alex asks, suddenly.It’s the first time he’s spoken in the hour or so I’ve been awake, other than a shaky “Hi” when I opened my eyes.
“If it is what I think it is,” Dr. Brody answers, “we’ll treat with antibiotics to get rid of any remaining infection.But if the damage to her kidneys is too severe, or if it
is
a progressing cause…”He looks at me.“…you’d need dialysis.”
I stare back.I try to look as tough as I’ve looked all along, like this whole thing is just a waste of my time, but this part scares me.I can’t hide it.“Forever?”
“Yes.”Dr. Brody answers so bluntly, but with a hint of sympathy in his expression.“Unless, of course, you got a kidney transplant.But let’s wait till the biopsy comes back.Who knows?It might be something we can clear up in a few days, or a tumor we can remove with surgery.”
I reflect his hopeful smile back at him, but his tone has a slight edge, almost a question.He doesn’t believe himself; I’m sure as hell not going to.
“Sit tight,” he tells me, as though I’ve got a choice.“The nurse will be here in a few.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Alex says, oh-so-polite.I mumble a thank-you too, if only to avoid seeming like a bitch in front of Alex.
When it’s just us, I turn on the television.
Wheel of Fortune
gets us through the silence, at least for a little while.
“Erin,” Alex says, at a commercial.He glances at the TV.“Could you turn that down a little, please?”
I do.
He scoots his chair closer to my bedside.“Um…look, I—I don’t know what to say here.I’ve never been in a situation like this.With anyone.”
“Don’t say anything.”I study my fingernails, but my fingers are so puffy and bloated, it makes me depressed.I put them in my lap and look back at Alex.“I mean, there’s nothing to say.Not till we know what’s going on, at least.”Biting my lip, I pause, then correct myself: “’Til I know what’s going on.”
“I’m not leaving, Erin.”
“Alex.”I look him in the eye.“Seriously.”
“Erin,” he says again, “I’m not leaving.I promise.”
“You don’t have to stay.My aunt will be here soon, and my friend—um, my cousin…whatever she is, is coming tomorrow.”I hold up my hands, finalizing my point before I start babbling.“Point is, I have people on their way to help me out.I don’t want you to feel obligated.”
“I wouldn’t stay if I didn’t want to.”He reaches for my hand.I cringe at how fat my fingers look next to his, but he acts as though he doesn’t even notice.“And I know you’ve told me not to say this, but I don’t care, I’m saying it anyway—I’m sorry.”He holds up his finger, silencing my interruption.“This completely, totally…sucks.You said shitty things happen to everyone, but I feel like an awful lot has happened to you lately.And as someone who’s never had anything shitty happen to them—”
“Knock on wood,” I interject, and he gives me a look that makes it clear he doesn’t appreciate the joke.
“—I have to say sorry.Because I feel…I don’t know.Guilty.”
“What?”I’d reel back a little, if I wasn’t propped up in a hospital bed.“Why?”
He shrugs.“I just do.Why do bad things happen to some people, and not others?”
“Karma, maybe,” I joke.Actually, I’m only half-joking.I wonder what kind of karma, if any, Silas is experiencing right now.I’m surprised to find I believe in the notion even a little.Then again, a lot has changed about me since summer.
“Look, I get it,” he says, letting go of my hand.He seems to think better of it and takes it again, this time with both of his.“You’re using humor as, like, a defense mechanism.Can’t say I blame you, or that I wouldn’t be doing the same thing.But I want you to know…you can tell me what you’re feeling.”
“Can we not?” I snap, suddenly angry.I pull my hand away with more energy than I really have.“Can we not do this whole sensitivity, touchy-feely thing right now?If I want to be defensive, I’ll be defensive.And like I said, you don’t have to stay.You aren’t my boyfriend.”
Alex looks stricken, just for a second.Then, he sits back, nodding.“You’re right.”
Instead of feeling satisfied hearing I’m right, I’m disappointed—for some reason, I think I was hoping Alex would fight back, just a little.
Silas would.
“I’m still not leaving, though,” he adds, and when I look at him, surprised, he smiles just a little.
“Well…thanks, I guess.”
“You’re welcome.I guess.”
We go back to
Wheel of Fortune
, sitting in stalemated silence.
A few minutes go by.The contestants on the show are kind of stupid, their guesses way off even though the puzzles are obvious.Still, Alex and I don’t venture our guesses.It’s like we aren’t sure of anything at all right now.
A nurse’s cart rolls and clanks in the hall; I hear some teenagers laughing, on their way to the cafeteria.
“What’s your aunt look like?” Alex asks, studying his nails before biting another arc off his thumb.“I could go down to the lobby and look for her, if you want.”
“No, it’s all right.”I think of Jane’s heels clacking, her Old Hollywood voice and perfume reaching you long before she does.“Besides, you’ll know when she’s here.”
He raises an eyebrow to this, but doesn’t ask a follow-up.
There’s a brief knock on the door, and then a large, friendly-faced nurse enters.Another nurse, male, follows.
“Ready, hon?” she asks, unhooking some machines.“Gotta take you to the OR for a biopsy.”
“Will they put her under?” Alex asks.
The nurse shakes her head.“It’s just a little cut in the skin—they’ll numb the area, get a sample, bandage her up: boom, done.”She shoots me a smile.“Back here in no time.Ready?”
Like I have a choice.I nod at her anyway, glancing at Alex just as they wheel my bed through the doorway, and he’s out of my sight.
Suddenly, I’m afraid.Not of my diagnosis, which still doesn’t feel real; not of the surgery, which I choose to believe really is no big deal, like the nurse says.I’m scared that Alex will listen to me—that when I come back and have to wait for the worst, he’ll be gone, and I'll be alone.