“Do Something, Bertie!”

 

 

Tabitha and Howard were in the emergency room waiting area when Mom and I showed up. Tabitha was crying. Taking Howard’s hands, Mom said, “What do we know?”

Looking dazed and desperate, Howard said, “Mac’s in a coma. The doctors rushed him straight to the operating room.” His voice was breaking. “They said he has internal bleeding, a punctured lung, and other injuries.”

They hugged. Howard sobbed. A nurse piloted the four of us to a bank of elevators. Riding up to the fifth floor, Tabitha shot me an evil look, so I kept my gaze locked on the floor numbers. If there had been an escape hatch in that elevator, I would’ve taken it. My future stepsister wanted to throw me off the hospital roof. I didn’t blame her.

The car opened to a big sign that read Surgical Intensive Care Unit. Howard signed in at the nursing desk. The rest of us claimed nearby chairs. I sat by myself, pretty sure that my face was a billboard for guilt and regret. Did everyone know what I had done to Mac by stupidly kicking the ball across the street? It sure felt like it. I had done rotten things before, but this was rottenness on a whole other level. Dark and distressing possibilities struck me like a karate kick to the teeth, one after the other. WHACK! What if Mac was paralyzed? WHACK! Or brain-damaged? WHACK! Or put on life support? WHACK! Or, the harshest kick of all, he died? WHACK!

Even if Mac completely healed and woke up, I would still be “that” girl. Stained and rotten forever. Nothing after today would ever be the same. If my great-aunt Tillie gave me another tarot card reading, every card she flipped would be Death.

Mac was in surgery for five hours. Tabitha didn’t look at me once that entire time. She was pretending I didn’t exist.

A surgeon in blue scrubs, Dr. Myles Carson, came to talk to us. He said that the surgeries had gone well, but Mac had a “long and difficult road ahead.” First, Mac needed to wake up from his coma—he was not sure when that would happen—and then they’d worry about things like physical therapy when his broken bones healed: a broken leg, a broken arm, a broken hipbone, and four broken ribs. But Dr. Myles was far more worried about the injury to Mac’s brain than anything else. It was life-threatening, he said.

“The swelling in Mac’s brain is restricting blood flow,” Dr. Myles said. “If his brain doesn’t get enough blood, there could be permanent damage.” He looked at Tabitha and at me before continuing in a hushed tone. “I drilled a small hole into Mac’s skull to drain excessive cerebrospinal fluid through a shunt and a catheter.“

Each new detail made me sicker with worry. I wanted to curl up and die like how spiders die. Become a shriveled papery thing that could be blown across the room with a gentle puff of air.

“Does Mac have a chance of making a full recovery?” Howard asked the doctor.

Dr. Myles gave Howard a sympathetic nod, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Anything is possible, Mr. Morton. But at this point the odds are not good, I’m afraid. These next few days will be critical. Let’s try to remain positive.”

Howard and my mom gave each other a horrified look. Howard rubbed the creases on his forehead and sighed. Mom grabbed his hand. Directly behind them was a soda machine. My eyes narrowed. The LED readout blinked, and then a bizarre message scrolled. Do something, Bertie! Do it now!

I looked around, wondering if anyone else had seen the flashing words. No one had. What did it mean? What could I do?

Dr. Myles was about to leave when an ice-cold shiver shot through my bones. Quick as a cobra, I grabbed the surgeon’s arm. And these words popped out of my mouth, loud and direct. “Don’t tell us you’re afraid, Dr. Myles. Tell us you will find a way to heal Mac, understand? You will save Mac’s life!”

Howard, my mom, two nurses, and nearly everyone else in that part of the ward stared at Dr. Myles and me. Dr. Myles’ jaw dropped, and he slipped a pen into a coat pocket. “I will do everything I possibly can to save your brother, young lady.”

He broke free and marched away. Howard gazed at me in a new way. “Thanks for that, Bertie. Those words needed to be said.”

I don’t know what made Tabitha angrier, that the doctor thought I was related to Mac, or that her father was being nice to me. Now, she stopped pretending I wasn’t there. Shaking her head, she blurted. “No, no! No Dad, don’t thank her.” Tabitha pointed a finger at me. “She’s the one who kicked the soccer ball across the street! This is all Bertie’s fault!”