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I showered and dressed in clean clothes, then made the short drive to the hospital. In the emergency room, I asked about Paige, but the shifts had changed, and it took almost half an hour for me to learn the location of the room to which she’d been transferred. But the nurse could offer me no additional information.
At the main visitors’ desk, I learned where I could find my aunt, but I decided to check on my sister first. When I finally reached Paige’s room, I found her intubated and hooked to a slew of machines and IV bags, unconscious. I kissed her cheek, whispering in her ear that I’d be back, then wound my way to another wing and floor of the hospital.
Aunt Angie was awake and hooked to only an IV, but the left side of her face sagged, and that side of her body appeared strangely limp and inert. Nonetheless, half of her mouth lifted at the sight of me, her eyes glistening as I scooted a chair close to the bed so we could talk. Trying to keep things easy and light, I told her about Morgan and the trip to Florida while she nodded, almost imperceptibly, her left fingers twitching from time to time, until she finally dozed off. Then I returned to Paige’s room.
As I held my sister’s hand, I stared at the numbers on the digital machine, unsure whether they were normal or worrisome. I went to the nurses’ station and asked to speak to one of her physicians, but no one was available, since morning rounds had already been completed.
I found the silence of Paige’s room oppressive. Instinctively, I started to chatter inanely, regaling her with the same lighthearted stories that I’d told my aunt. She didn’t stir, nor did she register any awareness of my presence.
Stepping outside the hospital, I called Morgan from the parking lot. She answered on the first ring, and I updated her on my visit with my aunt. I couldn’t summon the courage to tell her about my sister. Nor did Morgan ask; somehow, she sensed that I wasn’t ready to talk about Paige just yet.
“How are you doing?” she asked, sounding genuinely worried. “Are you holding up?”
“Barely,” I admitted. “I didn’t sleep much.”
“Do you want me to come?”
“I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“I know you’re not asking,” she said. “I’m suggesting it.”
“I thought you were supposed to fly home today.”
“I am. I’m almost packed, and we’ll be heading to the airport in an hour or so.”
“Okay, good,” I murmured.
“I went by Bobby T’s last night,” she added. “I told Ray what happened. I wasn’t sure that you remembered.”
“Thank you—you’re right, it totally slipped my mind,” I admitted. “Was Ray upset?”
“I think that’s the least of your worries right now, but he said he understood.”
“Okay,” I said, my mind suddenly flashing to Paige. After a prolonged silence, I heard Morgan’s voice again.
“Are you sure you’re all right, Colby?”
After hanging up, I returned to my aunt’s room. She was sleeping when I got there, and I let her rest. When she woke, I helped her sit up and cautiously fed some ice chips into the right corner of her mouth, making sure she was able to swallow. Her speech was distorted, as if her tongue were an unfamiliar presence in her mouth, but with some effort she was gradually able to recount what happened.
When she had gone to the office that day, she noticed that the fingers on her left hand felt oddly numb, and then her vision started to blur. The room spun and tilted, she said, making it impossible for her to keep her balance. That was when Xavier came in. For some reason, he couldn’t understand what she was saying. Not long after that, Toby arrived, then Paige, and they couldn’t understand her, either. She suspected she was having a stroke—she’d seen the signs on some medical drama on television—but she had no way to tell them, which made it even worse. The entire time she was being loaded into the ambulance, she fretted over whether the effects would be permanent. I gave her left hand a soothing squeeze; her fingers curled but there was hardly any strength.
“You’ll be good as new soon,” I assured her, trying to sound more confident than I felt. I told her nothing about Paige.
“I don’t want to be paralyzed,” she mumbled, the last word almost unintelligible.
“You’re going to recover,” I found myself saying.
When she finally dozed off, I went back to Paige’s room.
Then I visited my aunt again, and that was how I spent the rest of the day. Going back and forth from one room to the other.
In all that time, Paige never regained consciousness.
Right before I left the hospital for the night, I finally managed to connect with the physicians. First up was my aunt’s neurologist, to whom I’d spoken on my drive back from Florida.
While the stroke was serious, he reiterated that it could have been much worse. Based on her recovery to that point, he still planned to release her in a couple of days but said she would likely need assistance once she got home, since walking, dressing, and other basic activities would be difficult. If I couldn’t do it—or if another family member couldn’t—it was recommended that I hire a home-healthcare worker. He added that after her release, she would also need extensive physical therapy and that he was already making arrangements for just such care. Despite all of that, he remained relatively positive about her prognosis.
I next met with the critical-care specialist who’d been called in to help treat Paige while she was in the emergency room. I was lucky to speak with him in person, as he’d returned to the hospital only by chance to retrieve something he’d forgotten, and the nurse pointed him out to me.
