Page 36 of Deep Gap

Wincing when I put my foot to the ground, I turn to hobble back to the training center for sodium bicarbonate to relieve the sting and a bandage. Mac is coming out the back door, approaching me. I wave to him with a shaking hand and a tingling sensation starts at the base of my neck. The prickles wash up over my head, blurring my vision. Beads of sweat dampen my armpits as my knees go rubbery. My eyesight is like focusing through a pinhole camera. Mac is running toward me now. Then everything fades to black.

“Greer!” Byron yells.

There’s a thick fog between my ears.

Gasping, I wake with a jolt. I’m lying on the ground. Mac’s thumb is on the tip of a yellow auto-injector, his grip tightly wound around the plastic shell. I roll my head, feeling nauseous. There’s a second, empty tube next to me and my leg aches with the ferocity of being sliced by a knife.

I rub my thigh, feeling for blood. Yet, all I come back with is an idea of where the hole the needle made in my pants is.

Karen has the back of her hand to her face. She’s crying. Byron’s still calling my name. Mac’s telling them I’m alive. I don’t remember dying. I don’t remember anything at all until the paramedics arrive and I hear the words bee sting.

And about then—while the medics are scraping me to a stretcher and Byron lets go of my fingers—I wish my stupidity had killed me.

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“You’re lucky your boss saw you collapse.” The ER doctor tells Greer. “I’m writing you a script for epinephrine. Keep it with you at all times. No more beekeeping without full protective gear.”

Greer doesn’t even nod. She keeps her eyes on her lap, grating the skin on her thumbs away like sheet a of sandpaper, unable to look at anyone. When I tried to sit at the edge of her hospital bed and coax her eyes to mine, she cast them away. So my ass is riding another uncomfortable chair. Meanwhile, Karen hovers by Greer’s bedside, agreeing to everything the doctor is saying.

“Is she a candidate for venom immunotherapy? Mac had the shots after he was stung by multiple bees and swelled up.”

“If Greer wants a referral, she can request it from her primary care.” The physician shrugs off Karen’s mothering.

“I’ll just avoid the whole thing, thanks.” Greer pipes up.

Based on the blank expression on her face, she means all of it; immunotherapy, the prescription the doctor offers, the hives, the bees, and everything else that makes her happy.

When the doctor is done giving Greer advice on taking it easy over the next twenty-four hours, it’s Mac who yanks the curtain around the metal track, closing the four of us off from the rest of the emergency room. He’s read her apprehension correctly too.

He places a hand over the thin sheet, atop her knee. “We’ll get you what you need. Take the rest of the week off. You’ll probably feel worse later if your stomach troubles keep up.”

Greer vomited in the ambulance.

“You too,” he says, retracing his comforting palm in an about-face. “I don’t suspect you’ll want to leave Greer anyway, so you’re off tomorrow as well.”

“She should come home with us.” Karen insists, brushing Greer’s limp blonde hair off of her shoulder. “Reconsider, sweetheart. We have plenty of room.”

“Karen, don’t.” Her husband responds to her aggressiveness. “I know you think you’re helping, but Greer will be more comfortable at Byron’s with her things.”

The light in Karen’s effectual smile fades. Bringing Greer home from the hospital was the first step toward getting Greer to move.

The nurse brings in discharge papers. Greer can get dressed. Karen wants to help, but Mac is firm when he says it is time for them to go. He wants to check the hives. Karen stubbornly disagrees. She plants herself like a tree. Forgetting my presence is of any consequence, she doesn’t agree to leave until she’s persuaded Greer to call if she needs anything. Then she repeats a reminder to Greer that she’ll be over in the morning.

Our ride home is silent. Though not as unsteady on her feet as I would’ve anticipated, there’s a precariousness to Greer. She’s slow getting out of the car and taking those first few tentative steps to our front door. I prop her up under my arm, my palm attached to her waist, and walk with her to her room. Mac’s input that Greer needs to be surrounded by familiarity guides my actions, pulling back the covers and tucking Greer into her bed.

I plan to be gone no longer than it takes for me to find a clean shirt, wash the grass and grit off my forearms, and get her a glass of water. Returning to Greer’s room in under three minutes, I find she’s up, stuffing clothes into a duffle. It’s pink with worn appliquéd bows and hearts that are cracked and lifting. I saw the bag when Greer moved in, but how did I not notice it resembled what a child would pack in for a slumber party?

“What are you doing?” I still her hands as she shoves a stack of clothes from her drawer into the last open cranny. There is no way the bag is zipping shut.

“I shouldn’t be here!” she yells, her voice still raspy from her throat constricting.

I huff, mocking Karen for the thought she’s put in the forefront of Greer’s mind. “Why not?”

“I made a mistake.”

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