I’m always annoyed with Mom for babying me as if I’m some fragile bird, but the truth of it is, I am fragile. One more minute in there and I would have passed out. Three more and I could have died.
Tucker leads me through back hallways until we reach the service entrance. Dull streetlight shines an orange circle on the cracked pavement. A garbage bag flaps against the side of a chipping, stained Dumpster. I shiver as it occurs to me that someone attacked me—someone wanted to hurt me—and I didn’t even call the cops.
No one even suggested it.
Clayton pulls around the convertible. He hops out and tosses the keys to Tucker. I climb inside, and Tucker shifts into drive.
My phone buzzes in my purse.
I dig it out and find the home screen full of texts from Ethan, wondering where I went. And at the bottom, a text from a blocked number.
Cheaters always get caught. Don’t make me tell you again.
Sound funnels away.
Someone from the Society was here. At the event. Someone I shook hands with, danced with, talked to.
I drop the phone into my purse as if it’s on fire.
“Hope?” Tucker’s voice pierces the fog. “Are you okay?”
I look across at him. The bright lights of the electronic dash carve sharp angles into his face. There’s a deep frown etched into his brow. But is it real? He knew I was going to that bathroom, and he was the first to arrive.
I swallow. “Sorry. I’m okay. I’m fine.”
The car purrs to a stop in front of my apartment. Tucker hops out, leaving his door hanging wide, and gives me his arm.
“I’m good from here,” I say. “You should get back. Your dad will wonder where you went.”
“You were attacked, Hope. I’m walking you in.”
“Seriously. My mom would just freak out and never let you near me again. Just go.” I push him toward the car. He looks pained, but I wave and climb the steps, and he finally gets back in his car.
I take a deep breath before I go inside, ready for all hell to break loose. Then I twist the doorknob.
“Hope? Is that you?” Mom says as I enter. She rounds the corner of the living room. She pales when she sees me.
“I’m fine, I’m okay,” I start, but I don’t know why I bother. I saw myself in the mirror, I know how I look.
“Jenny!” Mom calls. There’s a panic in her voice that sets my nerves on edge. It’s the voice she uses only in dire emergencies.
“I’m okay, Mom. I just got tired, that’s all.”
“Yes?” Jenny appears in the living room in a pair of plaid boxer shorts and a T-shirt.
“Call Dr. Aguiar on her after-hours number,” Mom says. “Tell her to meet us at Children’s.”
“I don’t need to go to the hospital,” I start, but my protest is weak, unconvincing. I guess after all the craziness, it feels so good to be taken care of that I can’t even fight it anymore. The next thing I know, I’m bundled in the back of the rental car as Mom screeches through traffic toward the hospital.
Dr. Aguiar is there when we arrive. Her hair is uncombed, and she isn’t wearing any makeup. I feel inexplicably guilty.
“Nice dress,” she says by way of hello.
I sort of forgot I was still wearing Farrah’s gown. I must look utterly ridiculous in the ER, full of piss-drunk people and snotty, crying kids. But I don’t change, no matter how dumb I must look. The hospital gowns are bad enough, with their wide-open backs and paper-thin material, without my being braless on top of it.
I submit to the usual battery of tests, and the whole time Mom struggles to gulp down tears and breathe normally. Jenny doesn’t make any snarky remarks, and I know how badly I must have worried them. I almost spill everything, the whole sordid truth about what got me here, but the text I got keeps my mouth firmly shut.
After what seems like forever, Dr. Aguiar comes into the room with a clipboard.
“Well, your numbers are a little off—sodium’s low, but not quite low enough to warrant IV replacement. We’ll have to bump up your supplements. Your lung scan showed some diffuse haziness in the left lung, but it’s not markedly different from the last scan done in April. Overall, you’re looking pretty good. Tired, but good.”
Mom lets out a staggering breath.
“Now the question is whether to admit you,” Dr. Aguiar says.
“Please, no.” I know how this goes. If I get admitted, I’ll be here for days, at the very least, and when I go home, I’ll be on lockdown. “Mom, please. I can’t. I’ll be able to rest better at home. It’s so loud in here, and the food is awful.”
Mom purses her lips.
“How about this,” Dr. Aguiar says. “Why don’t you go home, and I’ll see you first thing on Monday in my office. If anything changes, just call and we’ll have a room ready for you.”
I swing a desperate look to Mom. She nods, and I sink into the mattress.
The ride home from the hospital is quiet.
We’re almost at Iberville when Mom finally speaks. “You know what this means, right?”
I do. But she tells me anyway.