The next time she woke up, Josh was there, and her mother, looking like hell.
“Hi, honey,” Josh said, leaning forward. “You’re intubated, so don’t try to talk. You have pneumonia, and your lungs collapsed. But you’re better now. Just take it easy.”
“You almost died,” her mother wept. “Oh, honey, you almost died. I couldn’t live if you died! Don’t you know I already lost your father? Please don’t die!”
Josh didn’t take his eyes off her, but his perfect lips twitched, and she knew what he was thinking . . . Shut up, Donna. Or maybe he did actually say it.
She squeezed his hand. “It’s been four days,” he said, and oh, she loved his voice. “They kept you sedated so you could breathe better. But you’re okay.” He kissed her hand. “I love you.”
She fell back asleep.
They extubated that day or the next . . . time was slippery in the hospital. She was exhausted in a way she’d never felt before. Even moving her eyes or smiling took effort.
She had almost died. There was no avoiding that fact. It slept with her there in the hospital, amorphous no longer, but a sharp steel blade. It was real now. She woke up thinking about it, and she took it with her to sleep, and it was there in the foggy places in between.
Josh was always by her side. Always. Jen and Sarah were there often, and her mom, who cried a lot. When she was a little more alert, Darius brought Sebastian in, who was fascinated that her bed could go up and down with the push of a button.
Her voice was raspy, and she was given milkshakes that tasted grainy, nothing nearly as good as an Awful Awful from Newport Creamery, she said, so Josh went out and got her one. She’d lost weight, apparently. She’d always been curvy with a little tummy Josh said was the sexiest thing on earth . . . that tummy was flat now. Weird.
She’d had pneumonia, the resident told her. Nonobstructive atelectasis, bilateral . . . in other words, two collapsed lungs thanks to pneumonia combined with IPF. Her O2 sat was so low they intubated her and fought the pneumonia with IV antibiotics.
Dr. Bennett came. She’d been in daily, apparently, but Lauren didn’t remember. Her presence was reassuring; she projected an air of calm, like . . . like Florence Nightingale, or a homesteading wife from long ago who’d put a poultice on Lauren’s chest and a cool cloth on her head.
“I’m so glad you’re better, Lauren,” she said, pulling up a chair next to Josh. He needed a haircut and a shave, but damn, he was so handsome. Lauren smiled at him, reassured when he smiled back. “We almost lost you,” Dr. Bennett said.
“Yeah,” said Lauren, her smile dropping. “It felt that way.”
Josh gave her a sharp look.
“This kind of episode is going to happen from time to time,” the doctor continued. “The absolute best thing to do is get in to see me the second you feel any additional difficulty breathing. Even if you’re imagining it, or it’s caused by a weather change, I want to see you. No toughing it out, because every time you get sick, you lose a little lung capacity, and it’s gone forever.”
“Gotcha,” Lauren said.
“And, Josh, you have a background in medicine to some degree, right?”
“Sort of.” His voice was flat.
“I’d like to teach you to listen for changes in her breath sounds with a stethoscope.”
“Yep. Fine.”
“We can play doctor,” Lauren said to him.
He didn’t smile back. Not even a flicker.
“I’ll be in tomorrow,” Dr. Bennett said. “Keep up the good work, and I’ll see if I can discharge you.”
“Thank you,” Lauren said. Then she fell asleep.
* * *
SHE SENT JOSH home later that evening so he could shower, take a walk with Ben Kim (Yoda to his Luke Skywalker, Lauren always said), see his mom and bring Lauren the dinner Mrs. Kim had made for them.
She also needed some time alone. Once the sweet nurse left after taking her vitals, Lauren closed the door, got back in bed, and took a few slow breaths.
She didn’t have asthma. She wasn’t someone who coughed a little more than usual. Her lungs were not going to get better. She would die from this disease. She didn’t know when, but she did know how.
She was terminal. It wasn’t if . . . it was when. It was coming. A decade, or a half, or a year or a month, but last week, she and Death had wrestled, and this time—this time—Lauren had won.
Barely.
Her lips trembled. She swallowed and considered the facts.
Her life would be short.
For a few minutes, that was all there was. She would die young. She would not grow old. This kind of feral fighting to breathe, these hospitalizations would happen again and again until she lost. Until she died.
Her eyes filled with tears.
At the sound of footsteps in the hallway, she looked up, expecting Josh.
It wasn’t Josh. It was a father, carrying a small, heartbreakingly thin child with no hair, no eyebrows and a cannula in her nose. Lauren knew it was a girl because she had on a flowery hairband. The little girl didn’t lift her head from her father’s shoulder, but she saw Lauren and smiled. Instinctively, Lauren waved.
Then they were past her doorway.
As quickly as she could, Lauren got up and went to the door, dragging her IV pole with her. She looked down the hall, but the little girl and her father were gone.
“You okay, Mrs. Park?” the nurse asked.
“Um . . . a little girl and her dad just went past?”
The nurse nodded. Her eyes filled with tears.
“She didn’t look so good,” Lauren said, her own tears falling.
“I can’t discuss another patient,” the nurse said, but her mouth wobbled, and Lauren knew.
The little girl was terminal, too.
Lauren stood there, leaning against the doorframe on her weak and shaking legs, for as long as she could.
* * *
WHEN JOSH CAME back, shaved, adorable, smelling delicious and holding food, they ate, him sitting on the foot of her bed. Sumi had made that fabulous sticky chicken with sesame seeds, and Steph had contributed grilled brussels sprouts and mashed potatoes with sour cream to put some meat on her bones, Josh reported.
When they were done and Josh had cleared the plates, Lauren patted the bed again. Josh sat down, kissed her hand and then looked at her. His expression grew somber.
“So, honey,” she began, holding his hand tight in hers. “I think we need to talk.”