Should I Stay?

Chapter 9

Mom once snuck me into a casino.

We were going on vacation to Crater Lake and we stopped at a resort on an Indian reservation for the buffet lunch. Mom decided to do a bit of gambling, and I went with her while Dad stayed with Louis, who was napping in his stroller.

Mom sat down at the tables. The dealer looked at me, then at Mom. I watched Mom play, mesmerized. It seemed like we were in there for fifteen minutes but then Dad and Louis came in search of us, both of them grumpy. It turned out we'd been there for over four houres.

The ICU is like that. You can't tell what time or day it is or how much time has passed. There's no natural light. And there's a constant soundtrack of noise and the talk of the nurses.

I'm not entirely sure how long I've been in here. A while ago, the nurse I liked with the Britisch accent said she was going home. ''I'll be back tomorrow, but I want to see you here, sweetheart,'' she said.

I thought that was weird at first. Wouldn't she want me to be home, or moved to another part of the hospital? But then I realized that she meant she wanted to see me in this state, not dead or somthing.

An social worker is at my bedside now. She is looking through my chart and talking to one of the nurses who normally sits at the big desk in the middle of the room.

It is amazing the ways they watch you here. If they're not waving penlights in your eyes or reading the printouts that come tumbling out from the bedside printers, then they are watching your vitals from a computer screen. If anything goes wrong, one of the monitors starts bleeping. There is always an alarm going off somewhere. At first, it scared me, but now I realize that half the time, when the alarms go off, it's the machines that are bahaving weird, not the people.

The social worker looks exhausted, as if she wouldn't mind crawling into one of the open beds. I am not her only sick person. She has been shuttling back and forth between patients and families all afternoon. She's the bridge between the doctors and the people, and you can see the strain of balancing between those two worlds.

After she reads my chart and talks to the nurses, she goes back downstairs to my family, who have stopped talking in hushed tones and are now all engaged in activities. Gran is knitting. Gramps is pretending to nap. Aunt Willow's playing sudoku. My cousins are taking turns on a Game Boy.

The boys and Sophia left. When Zayn and Niall came back to the waiting room after visiting the cafitaria, they found Sophia total wreck. She seemed so embarrassed that she wanted to go home. Liam was going with her. Niall and Zayn also went after thirty more minutes.

Actually, I think having Sophia there probably helped. Comforting her gave everyone else something to do, a way to feel useful. Now they're back to feeling useless, back to the endless wait.

When the social worker walks into the waiting room, everyone stands up, like they're greeting royalty. She gives a half smile, which I've seen her do several times already today. I think it's her signal that everything is okay, or status quo, and she's just here to deliver an update, not to drop a bomb.

''Lucy is still unconscious, but her vital signs are improving,'' she tells my family. ''She's in with the respiratory therapists right now. They're running tests to see how her lungs are functioning and whether she canbreath without the ventilator."

''That's good news, then?'' Aunt Willow asks. ''I mean if she can breathe on her own, then she'll wake up soon?''

The social worker gives a sympathetic nod. ''It's a good step if she can breathe on her own. It shows her lungs are healing and her internal injuries are stabilizing. The question mark is still her brain''

''Why is that?'' she interrupts.

''We don't know when she will wake up on her own, or the extent of the damage to her brain. These first twenty-four hours are the most critical and Lucy is getting the best possible care.''

''Can we see her?'' Gramps asks.

The social worker nods. ''That's why I'm here. I think it would be good for Lucy to have a short visit. Just one or two people.''

''We'll go,'' Gran says, stepping forward. Gramps is by her side.

''Yes, that's what I thought,'' the social worker says. ''We won't be long,'' she says to the rest of the family.

The three of them walk down the hall in silence. In the elevator, the social worker attempts to prepare my grandparents for the sight of me, explaining the extent of my external injuries, which look bad, but are treatable. It's the internal injuries that they're worried about, she says.

She's acting like my grandparents are children. But they're tougher than they look. Gramps was a medic. And Gran, she's always rescuing things: birds with broken wings, a sick beaver, a deer hit by a car. Gran couldn't bear to see it suffer, so she rescued it. Part of me suspects she thought it was one of her angels.

Still, when they come through the automatic double doors into the ICU, both of them stop, as if repelled by an invisible barrier. Gran takes Gramps's hand, and I try to remember if I've ever seen them hold hands before. Gran scans the beds for me, but just as the social worker starts to point out where I am, Gramps sees me and he strides across the floor to my bed.

''Hello, pupking'' he says. He hasn't called me that in ages, not since I was younger than Louis. Gran walks slowly to where I am, taking little gulps of air as she comes.

Maybe those wounded animals weren't such good prep after all.

The social worker pulls over two chairs, setting them up at the foot of my bed. ''Lucy, your grandparents are here.'' She motions for them to sit down. ''I'll leave you alone now.''

''Can she hear us?'' Gran asks. ''If we talk to her, she'll understand?''

''Truly, I don't know,'' the social worker responds. ''But your presence can be soothing so long as what you say is soothing.'' Then she gives them a stern look, as if to tell them not to say anything bad to upset me.

I know it's her job to warn them about things like this and that she is busy with a thousand things and can't always be so sensitive, but for a second, I hate her.

After the social worker leaves, Gran and Gramps sit in silence for a minute. Then Gran starts prattling on about the orchids she's growing in her greenhouse. I notice that she's changed out of her gardening smock into a clean pair of corduroy pants and a sweater. Someone must have stopped by her house to bring her fresh clothes.

Gramps is sitting very still, and his hands are shaking. He's not much of a talker, so it must be hard for him being ordered to chat with me now.

Another nurse comes by. She has dark hair and dark eyes brightened with lots of shimmery eye makeup. Her nails are acrylic and have heart decals on them. She must have to work hard to keep her nails so pretty. I admire that.

She's not my nurse but she comes up to Gran and Gramps just the same.

''Don't you doubt for a second that she can hear you,'' she tells them. ''She's aware of everything that's going on.'' She stands there with her hands on her hips.

I can almost picture her snapping gum. Gran and Gramps stare at her, lapping up what she's telling them.

''You might think that the doctors or nurses or all this is running the show,'' she says, gesturing to the wall of medical equipment. ''Nuh-uh. She's running the show. Maybe she's just biding her time. So you talk to her. You tell her to take all the time she needs, but to come on back. You're waiting for her.''