Chapter 6 - TOMMY’S WORST NIGHT
Tommy was septic.
Not dying.
Not safe.
There is a terrible space between those words where families live hour by hour.
The oncology team moved fast.
Cultures.
Antibiotics.
Fluids.
Monitoring.
I was not his nurse.
That mattered.
I was his sister.
For once, I let the professionals work.
Tommy looked at me at three in the morning.
“You’re doing the face.”
“What face?”
“The nurse face where you think if you stare hard enough you control mortality.”
“Very funny.”
“Wasn’t a joke.”
I sat down.
He closed his eyes.
Then:
“Did you leave Scarface alone?”
“Liam?”
“Whatever.”
“He has another nurse.”
Tommy smiled faintly.
“You like him.”
“I will unplug your monitor.”
“Ethics violation.”
Even half-dead he was annoying.
Good sign.
At six, Leo appeared outside the room.
I nearly hit him.
“What are you doing here?”
“Delivering this.”
He held out my duffel.
I had left half my clothes at the mansion.
“And?”
“Nothing.”
“No money?”
“No.”
“No envelope from Liam?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Leo looked offended.
“He said you’d react like this.”
Of course.
Then Leo handed me one thing.
My paperback.
The same one I had been reading the first night.
Inside, Liam had written on a hospital receipt:
Finish the chapter.
I laughed so suddenly I cried.
Tommy opened one eye.
“Definitely like him.”
“Sleep.”
Tommy stabilized after forty-eight hours.
The trial paused temporarily.
Then resumed when medically appropriate.
No dramatic instant remission.
Weeks passed.
Then one morning his oncologist said:
“We’re seeing a response.”
I asked her to repeat it.
She did.
Response.
Not cure.
Response.
I went outside and called Liam.
Why him?
I still do not know.
He answered immediately.
“How bad?”
“Good.”
Silence.
Then:
“Good?”
“Good.”
Tommy was responding.
Liam exhaled.
I realized he had been expecting disaster because that was what hospitals meant to him now.
I said:
“He’s not out of danger.”
“I know.”
“But good.”
“Yes.”
Then he asked:
“Are you coming back?”
That was the dangerous question.
“To work?”
Pause.
“Yes.”
Lie.
We both heard it.
I returned three days later.
The mansion felt different.
Not because it had changed.
Because I had.
Liam was in the rehabilitation room.
Sunlight everywhere.
The blinds open.
Physical therapist beside him.
He was standing between parallel bars.
Shaking.
Sweating.
Furious.
He took one step.
Then another.
His injured leg barely tolerated weight.
He sat hard in the wheelchair.
Everyone around him started praising him.
He snapped:
“Stop.”
Silence.
I entered.
“Agreed.”
He looked up.
“Nora.”
The therapist escaped immediately.
Coward.
I walked closer.
“How’s Tommy?”
“Responding.”
Relief crossed Liam’s face.
Real.
Then I nodded toward the bars.
“How’s the dramatic resurrection?”
He glared.
“I took two steps.”
“Congratulations.”
“I said stop.”
“That was not applause.”
He almost smiled.
Then:
“Doctors say I may never walk normally.”
“How tragic.”
His eyebrows lifted.
I sat.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes.”
“I also know walking isn’t proof you’re recovered as a person.”
He stared.
That was still difficult for him.
Then:
“What if this is it?”
“The chair?”
“Cane.”
“Pain.”
“Limitations.”
I shrugged.
“Then this is it.”
He looked offended.
I continued:
“And you build a life around the body you have.”
“You improve what you can.”
“Adapt what you can’t.”
“Then keep going.”
He was silent.
No inspiration.
No promise.
Reality.
Finally:
“You’re terrible at comfort.”
“I’m excellent.”
“Debatable.”
Then he asked:
“Will you stay?”
This time I knew exactly what he meant.
I answered anyway:
“Until you no longer need a nurse.”
His expression changed.
“That is not what I asked.”
May you like
“I know.”
And I walked away before I answered the question underneath.
