Page 110 of Top Scorer
The applause that follows is so enthusiastic, the walls shake. I can barely swallow around the lump in my throat. Ligaya is wiping at her eyes, clutching the gifts against her heart, laughing through the tears. I’ve seen her command rehearsals, wrangle chaos, coax miracles from kids who didn’t believe they had it in them. But watching her now—loved, celebrated, glowing under the spotlight—I’ve never been prouder in my life.
It happens in a blink.
Anyone who isn’t obsessed with watching every expression of Ligaya Torres would have missed it.
I don’t miss anything.
The wince that tugs her nostrils spikes my alertness. The sharpening of her jaw, like she’s gritting her teeth, launches me into action. I rush to the front. By the time I get there, she’s already backstage, away from the auditoriums’ eyes.
“Are you OK, Ms. Torres?” One of the kids asks, his voice high-pitched from puberty or from anxiety, it’s hard to tell.
“Tristan!” she calls to me. I hold her up by her elbows. Her skin is clammy.
She turns to the kids. “I’m fine! Great job tonight, guys. Thank you for—”
There’s no finishing that sentence once I lift her up and start walking past the cast and crew.
“I’ll make sure she gets her gifts, guys! Get changed,” Toby instructs the cast, appeasing the dramatic gasps we leave behind. He catches up to me and tugs my shirt.
“This way. There’s an elevator behind the next hallway. You’ll never get through the throng by the costume closet.”
“Let me down,” Ligaya says weakly.
“I will in the car. You need to get off your feet.”
“They are so swollen.”
I look down and her ankles have disappeared.
The journey through the school hallway, to the parking lot, on the road catching every fucking stop light, and up the hospital ramp is both the fastest and the slowest path of my life. Every second is too long and yet, in a blink, I’m parked in front of the ER doors.
I don’t let her walk. Ligaya’s legs are badly swollen around the ankles, the straps of her sandals cutting into her skin. Scooping her up, I try to keep my own body from stress. Her hands are clampedaround my neck, trembling. The backs of her thighs are sweaty against my forearms as I carry her in.
“She’s been fine all day,” I blurt at the triage nurse. “Now her ankles are twice the size they should be. Her hands, too.”
The nurse doesn’t waste time. Clipboard forgotten, she waves us straight back. The antiseptic smell hits me hard, my stomach lurching.
I should’ve noticed sooner.
I should’ve done something faster.
They get Ligaya onto a bed, cuff inflating around her arm with a hiss. I hover at her side, palms slick with sweat, knee bouncing, organs squeezing so hard they ache.
The ER doctor enters. “I’m Dr. Richards. You did the right thing bringing her in. Sudden extreme swelling, especially this far along, can sometimes indicate preeclampsia. We’ll also check for DVT.”
“What is DVT?” I ask, although terror makes my eyes prickle while I wait for the answer.
“Pregnancy increases the risk of blood clotting because the growing uterus can slow blood flow in the pelvis and legs.” His voice is calmly professional, like he didn’t just smack me on the face with the wordsblood clotting.
Preeclampsia. DVT. These aren’t terms I want anywhere near the mother of my children, the woman I love. My knuckles ache with how hard I’m gripping the bed rail. Ligaya shifts, propping herself to the side.
Dr. Richards addresses Ligaya. “Your blood pressure is elevated but not in the severe range. We’ll run labs and keep you on monitors for a few hours. If you were fine today—”
“I was fine all day!” she protests.
“In that case, you caught it early. We’re simply monitoring now.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, though my temples continue to pound.
