“I’m OK,” Jubilee says, and I can’t tell if I imagine it or if her eyes flit over to me for a second. “When can I go home?”
“Well, your heart’s pumping fine, but I don’t like that lingering wheeze you’ve got there,” he says. “You’re not really out of the woods yet. Anaphylaxis can reoccur up to seventy-two hours after the event—and yours was pretty severe. According to the EMT’s report, you were already unconscious when they got to you.”
She gives a slight nod.
“I mean, if you have someone to look out for you, I’d be more inclined to release you.” He looks up at me, as if he’s finally noticed me standing there. “Are you family?”
I start to shake my head no, just as Jubilee says: “Yes.”
The desperation in her eyes is so fierce, I immediately change the direction of my head to an up-and-down motion. “I am,” I say. “Her . . . cousin?”
She bobs her head, mimicking mine. “He is. He can look after me.”
“Ohhh-kay,” says the doctor, then walks closer to Jubilee. “Listen, who’s your allergist? I checked with Dr. McCafferty’s nurse and he doesn’t have you on file.”
She shakes her head no.
“Someone else?”
She gives her head another small shake.
“Jubilee! You need to be working with somebody. There have been so many advances with allergies the past few years. Maybe you could work on getting this thing under control somehow. Where do you get your scrip for EpiPens? Don’t tell me from some quack online.”
“I don’t—” she starts, her voice cracking. “My Epis are expired.”
The doctor has a visceral reaction and I think he might come out of his skin. “You don’t have Epis? Jesus! I’d rather you said you were getting them online.”
She doesn’t respond.
The doctor stares at her for a beat and then looks at his watch. “Jubilee, at the very, very least, you need to get Epis and a bracelet. The very least.” He fixes her with a look. “I’m serious. I don’t want to see you in here again.” He pauses, as if for dramatic effect. “I can’t imagine you’d be this lucky a second time.”
It works. On me, anyway.
And then he’s gone, and I’m left standing there, eyes locked with Jubilee’s, the air heavy between us. There are so many questions, but I know the answers are none of my business, so I just wait, hoping maybe she’ll speak first. She doesn’t. The only sound I can hear is my heart thumping like a dog’s tail in exuberant greeting. I wonder why it’s doing that. I wonder if she can hear it, too.
“Well, cousin,” I say, smiling in an attempt to smooth over the awkwardness. “Can I give you a ride home?”
WHEN I GET back to Aja’s room, there’s a woman standing outside the door. Clad in casual black slacks, a gray blouse, and slip-on shoes, she resembles other visitors I’ve passed in the hallway, save for the official-looking lanyard draped around her neck and the briefcase she’s carrying. Regardless, I don’t recognize her, so my first thought is that she’s got the wrong room.
“Excuse me,” I say as I brush past her and reach for the door handle.
“Mr. Keegan?” she asks.
I stop. “Yes?”
“Latoya Halliday, medical social worker here on staff,” she says, sticking her hand out toward me.
Oh, right, the nurse mentioned this. “Come on in,” I say, giving her proffered hand a gentle squeeze and then reaching back to the doorknob. “We’ll see if he’s up.”
“Oh no, I was hoping to talk to you,” she says. “Privately. I’ve already spoken to Aja.”
I take a step back. “You did?” I ask. “I mean, that’s legal, without me being there?”
“Standard procedure,” she says, echoing what the nurse said earlier.
I narrow my eyes. “Standard procedure for what, exactly?” I ask. “Do you visit every child that gets admitted to the ER?”
“No,” she says, shifting her eyes to the door and then back at me. “Just when it’s deemed necessary.”
“Deemed necessary by whom?” I feel like I’m missing something, like I’m not getting to the root of the issue with my questioning, but I’m caught off guard and my mind is swirling.
“Why don’t we go have a seat, Mr. Keegan?” She nods toward a bench in the hallway.
Without much choice in the matter, I follow her like a puppy on a string. When we’re settled, she looks directly at me, and I sense a shift in her tone. “Our concern is that Aja’s fall wasn’t an accident.”
As her eyes search mine, I realize immediately what she’s inferring.
“Oh no, no. He wasn’t trying to kill himself.” And then I stop. I’m not sure how to explain what he was doing.
She presses her lips together and her face mutates into a canvas of concern.
“I understand this is difficult, but if you could just answer a few questions for me . . .” She looks around, as if expecting someone to materialize in the hallway. “Is there a Mrs. Keegan? Is Aja’s mother . . . involved?”
“No,” I say. “His parents died a few years ago and I adopted him. I’m . . . um . . . divorced.” Even though it’s common, I hate saying it out loud. It’s like announcing I’ve failed. That I’m a failure. “Wait—this is all in his file. Don’t you have it?”
“In New Jersey? There was nothing on him.”
“Oh, right. We just moved here.”
She gives a curt nod and then gets back to the matter at hand. “Have you noticed any depressive or strange behavior from Aja in recent weeks?”
I knead my jawline, last night’s lack of sleep finally catching up with me. “How so?” I ask.
“Spending an abnormal amount of time in his room and/or bed, withdrawing from friends, withdrawing from you, idealization of things that could harm him, like guns, explosives—”
I nearly choke on a bubble of laughter and begin clearing my throat to disguise it. The woman looks at me funny.
My phone rings and I finagle it out of my pocket. It’s Stephanie. My ex-wife rarely calls, but it will have to wait. I silence it.
“Nothing out of the ordinary from his usual behavior,” I say, composing myself. “Look, I’m afraid this has all been a big misunderstanding.”
“And I’m afraid you don’t understand the seriousness of what your son is going through,” she says, an edge to her voice. “Is there a history of mental illness in his family?”
“No,” I say firmly. Then I pause. The truth is, I don’t know anything about Dinesh’s and Kate’s parents and grandparents beyond the little they told me about them.
“Trouble at school? Any bullying?”
I hesitate, thinking about his three-day suspension and Jagger, that hulk of a fifth grader. “A minor misunderstanding. Once.”
The phone buzzes in my hand. Stephanie again. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Let me just . . . real quick—” I slide my finger over the screen and put it up to my ear.
“Stephanie, sorry, I’m in the middle of some—”
“It’s Ellie.”
My heart drops as I stand up. I look at the social worker and hold up my finger. “Can you give me just one minute? I’m sorry. I’ve gotta—” I walk off down the hall without waiting for a reply. “What’s wrong? Is she OK?”
“She’s fine. I just thought you should know . . . well, she got suspended.”
“From school?”