Page 4 of Puck Block

I loathe hospitals, and anyone close to me knows it. Taytum is pretty much the onlyperson I’d ever make the sacrifice for, which is becoming a nuisance, considering this is happening more and more lately.

By the time her brother and I make it outside her hospital door, he nods to her doctor, who is someone I now know on a first-name basis. Which isn’t a bad thing at this point because, in a couple of seconds, he may become my doctor too. My pulse is alarmingly high, and if the annoying beeping sounds in the hallway don’t cease, I’m going to snatch his stethoscope and plug my ears so I can hear nothing but the echoes.

“She’s sleeping,” Dr. McCarthy says, coming up beside Emory.

Doubtful.If I know Taytum as well as I think I do, she’s fake sleeping to get out of any conversation regarding her health.

“Let me guess.” Emory crosses his arms. “She’s refusing whatever you’re trying to sell her.”

The doctor sighs dramatically. “She’s my most stubborn patient. Her nonchalant behavior regarding her diabetes concerns me.” He scratches his head. “I want her to wear a glucose monitoring system at all times to track her sugar. Once we can be certain that the insulin is the correct dosage for her body, then she can use an insulin pump, and her forgetful moments will be a concern of the past.”

My assumption is that Taytum isn’t necessarily being forgetful.

She’s in denial.

Emory has his phone in his hand as he’s listening, likely typing everything out so he can repeat it back to his parents. “And what will an insulin pump do?”

I answer for the doctor. “Automatically inject the insulin at the right times and with the proper dosage. There is less risk ofhigh and low sugars.” Dr. McCarthy stares at me, and I shrug. “I like to do research.”

He seems to take my answer with pride and continues, “Until we can be certain her blood sugar is staying in range with the glucose monitor, I don’t want her driving. Her levels are unstable, and they really shouldn’t be, since her body has reacted to the insulin perfectly fine. I think it’s her.”

The longer Dr. McCarthy talks, the higher my blood pressure goes.

Part of me wonders if he can see my pulse beating against my neck. He’s probably about to call some code so the nice people in the white coats will pick me up and lock me in the psych unit for my near panic attack from being in a hospital.

He steps forward and pats Emory on the shoulder after looking at me for a second too long, in my opinion. “See what you can do. I’ve always been a big advocate for listening to my patients, but their safety is my number one priority.”

Emory nods and dials his parents as soon as Dr. McCarthy walks away. I escape into Taytum’s room–anything to put me farther away from the annoying reminders that there are numerous patients hooked up to machines keeping them alive.

The door shuts quietly behind me, and I stop just as it hits me in the back. Seeing her, even in a hospital bed, cools the sweat trailing down my back.

I’ll blame it on the rush from practice, but it’s very clear that it’s due to the anxiety of being here. I’m like this every time I come to a hospital, and every time, I deny it until I’m blue in the face.

Taytum’s blonde hair lays in waves around her face, and I drop my eyes to her wrist, seeing the scrunchie there. She must have pulled it down in the midst of being wheeled up here, since she was clearly at practice if her tight, pink leotard has anything to say about it. Her ballet shoes are thrown onto the floor, andI smirk at the hospital gown that is bundled up beside the worn pair.

Refusing to wear a hospital gown is typical Taytum behavior.

“I know you’re not asleep,” I say, walking closer to her bed.

The faint beeping of the machine she’s hooked up to pulls my attention just as Emory opens the door and stomps into the room.

“Shh.” I put my hand up. “She’s asleep.”

I’ll throw you a bone, Tay.

She may act like she hates me, but she can't deny that I have her back from time to time.

“Mom,” Emory lowers his voice. “Taytum is sleeping right now, but I’ll lower the volume and put you on speaker because Ford is in here. He can probably help.”

I shoot Emory a look because he knows I hate it when he puts me in this position, mainly because he knows I’ll do anything his parents ask of me.

I owe them, even if they refuse to acknowledge it.

“Hi, Ford.”

I lean toward Emory’s phone. “Hey, Ma.”

I have two mother figures in my life: my Aunt Jo, who I call Mom, and then Emory and Taytum’s mom, who I call Ma most of the time. Neither one signed up to mother me but they both rose to the occasion anyway, and I know it hasn’t always been easy.

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