The lady slips the tray into an empty slot inside the cart and heads out.
Cole slides next to me and says, “So, back to you liking Rex.”
“Whatever. Nobody’s even thinking about that boy like that,” I say, imagining the first kisses fact as a tattoo on the back of my thigh.
“Rex Carrington! His name is Rex Carrington!” he practically shouts.
“Give your sister a break, why don’t you,” Daddy tells Cole as he ducks under the doorframe. The doorframe actually looks taller than his reddish-brown fade by a few inches. But being six-foot-seven, he’s had enough headbutting experiences to instinctively duck whenever it’s a close call. He walks around to the other side of the bed and gives me a kiss on the cheek. His face, usually smooth, is rough with bright, patchy stubble. “How are you feeling, Angel-face?”
Angel-face? I haven’t heard that name since I was, like, eight. Hospital or not, we are not about to revive Angel-face. “Not dying or anything,” I answer. “Carli is still good.”
“Got it,” Daddy says, with a single nod of his head. “I spoke to the doctor in the hall. If we schedule the surgery soon, you could be back as early as two weeks.”
Back home? I think. But the surgery isn’t that serious. Back to school? But that would be way too long. Then I realize he’s talking about basketball. Of course, he’s talking about basketball. He’s always talking about basketball. “Yeah?” I reply, close my eyes, and pretend to be tired from all the drama of passing out.
I forgot to tell you about that. At the basketball tournament earlier today, I had a gallbladder attack. Yes, a gallbladder attack. Apparently, in rare cases, sixteen-year-olds can have them. Basically, the pain of a gall stone passing through my bile duct was so intense that it made me faint. And now the doctor says my gallbladder has to come out.
“Hey, Mom,” Cole says.
I open my eyes and see Cole giving Mom a hug. Dang, he’s so much taller than her now. I guess I’m taller than her, too—barely. Cole only passed her last year but has grown five inches since. Now he’s almost catching Daddy. I swear the boy has gotten taller since dinner last night.
“Oh, did y’all win?” I ask Cole. He had a basketball tournament today, too. Caught up with all the gallbladder stuff, I’d forgotten to ask him about it. I try to be super supportive because he can get down on himself about still playing on JV. It’s normal for sophomores to play on JV. Me making varsity three years ago as a freshman is not the norm.
Cole doesn’t answer me. He’s still hugging Mom. Cole loves hugs—good-morning hugs . . . good-night hugs . . . happy-to-meet-you hugs . . . happy-to-see-you (even though I just saw you five minutes ago) hugs . . . sorry-you-had-to-spend-the-last-three-hours-detangling-your-hair hugs . . . sorry-you-spilled-water-all-over-your-magazine hugs. He lets go of Mom but still doesn’t answer me. He’s staring at her.
Mom walks over to me, and Daddy backs up toward the window. He doesn’t speak to Mom and Mom doesn’t speak to him. Mom’s eyes are red and puffy, like she’s been crying for a long time. Clearly, they’ve been fighting.
Mom pinches my big toe, poking up from underneath the thin hospital bedding, and briefly wiggles it around. Then she pats my left leg—shin, knee, thigh—as she walks closer to the head of the bed. “Gallbladder attack, huh?” she says. It’s crazy; even with puffy eyes and no makeup, she’s still beautiful.
“That’s what they tell me,” I say, staring at her. It’s weird. She’s my mom and I see her every day, but her beauty still strikes me all the time. She’s tall and slim and has a teeny-weeny ’fro that makes her face, with its high cheekbones and thick lips and dark glowing skin, pop . . . even on what seems to be a sad, shitty day.
“Must be hereditary. I had to get mine removed in my late twenties.”
“For real?” I say, and a forgotten memory of me running my fingers over a scar on her stomach rushes to the front of my brain. I was super young, probably like five.
“Yep, had a gallbladder attack when I was in New Orleans, furniture shopping for a client. Passed out in one of my favorite little antique shops. Had to get rushed to the hospital just like you, you know.”
“No, we don’t know. Why didn’t you ever tell us about this?” Cole asks, but it sounds more like an accusation than a question. He’s clearly still worried about Mom. The boy needs to relax.
Mom shrugs. “I don’t know. Guess it never crossed my mind.”
“While you’re telling things, would you be so kind as to tell everyone what you decided today?” Daddy says in his lawyer voice. He goes from leaning on the windowsill to standing up straight, like he’s readying himself to approach the witness. I hate when his lawyer side comes out . . . always acting like someone’s on trial. But this is not the courtroom. We are not his clients. And Mom is not on the witness stand. He can save the drama for work.
Mom ignores him, not even turning around to look at him. When she’s pissed, she doesn’t curse or shout. She ignores.
And Daddy hates it. “Barbara, please answer the question.” Now he’s standing with his hands behind his back, in serious lawyer mode.
She turns around and gives him a look. “Derek, this is not the time or the place.”
Cole walks around Mom and stands by the head of my bed. Mom and Daddy never fight like this in front of us. They save their fights for behind bedroom and car doors, mostly about Mom working so much.
I wonder if this is about her opening up that new boutique. It’s going to be similar to the one already attached to her interior design offices, only bigger. It’s been in the works for a while, but she’s been waiting on the right time to tell Daddy. Cole doesn’t know about it, either. Can’t tell him anything unless you want the whole world to know.
“Barbara, you’re the one who wants this. So go ahead and tell them.” His emotions are starting to get the best of him and he’s falling out of lawyer mode.
“For fuck’s sake, can somebody please tell us what’s going on,” Cole exclaims, his voice super high and shaking all over the place.
No one corrects Cole about his language. Mom and Daddy are too busy staring each other down.
The door swings open. “Now that the whole gang is here,” Dr. Williams says, walking in, tossing her long gray locs over her shoulder. But she doesn’t finish her sentence. She’s noticing the tension in the room, and we’re all noticing her notice the tension in the room. Can’t get any more awkward. She looks down at her clipboard through her rectangular, red-framed glasses like she’s reading something (she knows she’s not reading anything) and looks back up.
Then she starts talking about the surgery. Yes, the surgery. That’s what she’s here to discuss—what the laparoscopic cholecystectomy (gallbladder removal surgery) will involve.
Four tiny incisions around my belly button.
A tiny video camera, which she will insert into my abdomen via one of the incisions.
A video monitor (not tiny), which will display the inside of my abdomen via the camera.
Surgical tools, which she will use to remove my gallbladder from my abdomen while watching the monitor.
Insane, right? But apparently it’s no big deal. I should be able to leave the hospital a few hours after surgery. And I’ll only take about two weeks to recover.