The Evolution of Ethan Poe, page 30
But when Mom and I get home, there’s an ambulance in the driveway, and the paramedics are loading Kyle into it. Mom stops the car where she won’t block them, but she doesn’t even turn her car engine off; I have to do it. She races over to Kyle.
“Oh, my God! What’s happened? What’s going on?”
Dad’s standing there, and I run over so I can hear what he says. “He was in his room, Charlene. He was reading the Bible. I checked at least four times.”
“What did he do? Dave! For God’s sake, what did he do?”
“I heard this banging, you know? He was pounding the desk chair leg onto his hand on the floor.”
Mom climbs into the back of the ambulance, despite the paramedics’ protests. “I’m staying with my son!” Her voice is frightened and frightening all at once.
Dad is standing there looking like he doesn’t know what to do. I go into the house and grab his coat, and the ambulance is on the road when I get back to him. “Here.” I shove it at him. “Get in the car.”
I still have the keys, so I head for the driver’s side, and he doesn’t say anything. The siren and red lights on the ambulance make it easy to follow.
Dad tries to explain what happened, sounding confused and more frantic by the word. “He was fine, Ethan! He was fine. Just sitting up there reading his Bible. I checked and checked, even though I couldn’t imagine what he might get into. I was downstairs, watching the game, you know? And I heard this pounding. So I went upstairs, and your stupid brother is on the floor, his right hand flat, and he’s lifting the wooden chair up with his other hand and banging the chair leg down onto it. I—I didn’t know what to do! How crazy is that? God!”
He takes a few breaths, and I’m trying not to yell, Don’t call my brother stupid!
“So I grab the chair and haul him to his feet. He was crying. It must have hurt like hell. But that’s not the worst of it. Do you know what he’d done?” I venture a quick glance, and Dad’s eyes are huge with horror. “He was pounding, all right. He was pounding something into the wounds. It was shit! Ethan, he was pounding shit into his hand!” And Dad throws himself against the seat back, rubbing his face.
This news is almost too much for me. I’m having trouble focusing on the road, and all I can do is watch the red lights of the ambulance ahead while I blink like mad to keep away tears of something I can only call awe.
“Ethan, why would he do that?” Dad’s practically yelling at me now. “You’ve been at the house this whole time. Was it ever as bad as this?”
I cough to clear my throat. “No. This is new. A whole new level.” We drive in stunned silence for a minute, and then it occurs to me what Kyle must have been thinking. So I tell Dad what I know about BIID, and what Etta had said about infection. “He must have been trying to infect his hand.”
Dad doesn’t respond right away. When he does, his voice is quiet and slow. “He’s not going to get better, is he.” Not really a question. Good thing, because I don’t have an answer.
The drive could have lasted five minutes or fifty. I know now it was about thirty. Somehow I manage to park, and inside, Dad and I find Mom by her voice as she tries to explain to the medical staff what’s going on with Kyle. They’ve heard all they need to, I guess, because they push her toward us as soon as they see us.
We sit in the waiting room, silent as doom for longer than I think I can stand. Finally I get up and look out the window. It’s getting dark. Shit! I have to cancel with Max. I pull out my iPhone, start to dial the number, and realize I don’t want my folks to hear me talking to Max. Not even Mom. And certainly not Dad. I could go someplace, but what if someone comes out to talk to us when I’m not nearby? So I start texting.
“Ethan! Put that damn thing away!” Mom hisses.
“I have to cancel my date,” I say before I can form different words.
Dad sounds confused. “You have a date?”
“Not anymore.” I don’t want to go into it, and I don’t want to lie.
mm sht hit the fan cant do 2nite
Thank God, Max answers. what sht?
Problem w / kyle. at hospital now.
There’s a moment of dead air, and then, do u want me to come?
Yes! But . . . no. bad scene here. i’ll txt later.
k. I’ll be here.
I don’t know whether to be happy that Max is telling me he’ll be there for me or angry because Kyle has fucked up what would have been a really great time. It helps to remind myself how fucked up Kyle is, but only so much. I’m still staring at the last part of Max’s message when I hear someone say, “Mr. and Mrs. Poe?”
There’s a woman in a white coat talking to my folks. I move closer so I can hear her explaining that they’ve cleaned out the wounds and that he’ll need reconstructive surgery for the bones he’s damaged. I almost ask if it isn’t time to cut the thing off. It would solve so many problems.
Mom asks, “When will we be able to take him home?”
The doctor’s face looks odd. She asks, “How long has he been running a fever?”
“A few days, since Tuesday or Wednesday. But it was low last time I checked, maybe ninety-eight or nine. I’ve fed him ibuprofen and orange juice.”
“Well, it’s one hundred two point six now. Any idea why there are marks on his wrist beneath the bandages?” Mom looks at Dad; they both shake their heads and turn back to the doctor. “It looks as though he might have been wrapping something around it to cut off the circulation to the hand.”
Mom reaches behind her for a chair, and Dad helps her sit down. I ask, “What does that mean at this point?”
“It could have helped worsen his current condition. The fever, along with his heart rate, blood pressure, and breathing pattern, indicated he’s in sepsis, and blood tests have confirmed it. We’ve put him on intravenous fluids and antibiotics in the intensive care unit. We have to watch for organ failure and be prepared to step in quickly. We’re seeing signs of possible kidney malfunction, and he seems agitated and confused, which could mean his brain is being affected as well. I’m afraid I won’t have any more specifics for you until we’ve stabilized his condition. If we can stabilize him, we’ll assess the options.”
“If?” Mom’s voice is nearly a whisper.
“We’re doing everything we can to clear the sepsis. But if we can’t stop it, or there’s too much organ damage, it will be very serious.”
Dad’s voice is a little stronger than Mom’s, but not much. “How serious?”
“It could be fatal.”
Mom covers her face with her hands, and Dad looks stunned.
I ask, “How soon will you know something?”
“It’s touch-and-go at the moment. Once we’ve replaced enough fluids and the antibiotic has a chance to work, we’ll know more. If you want to see him for a minute or two, go in now. After that there’s nothing you can do until we see what progress is made.”
Mom stands up again; she seems like she’s determined to be strong. “I’ll stay here tonight. Dave, you take Ethan home. I’ll call if there’s a change.”
I say, “I’m going in to see him first.”
“Ethan, don’t make trouble. You and your father—”
“It might be the last time I see him alive.” I don’t know where I get the strength to say that. I should be feeling weepy and scared, and that’s all in me someplace, but right now I want to see Kyle.
The doctor says, “This way,” and we all follow.
Kyle is hooked up to more tubes than I would have thought a person could tolerate. His eyes are closed, and I can’t tell whether he’s aware of us or not.
The doctor says, “We gave him a mild sedative. This treatment is invasive and frightening. He may not respond to you.”
Mom stands by the bed and takes his left hand in hers. “I’m right here, Kyle. I’m not going anyplace.” She stops to regain some composure; her voice is tight and ragged. “We’re all pulling for you.”
I move forward. “We’ll pray for you, Kyle.” Mom looks at me, but I can tell that she can’t speak without sobbing. She just nods. And then we all stand around like dopes for maybe half a minute before Mom heaves this big sigh and heads for the door, Dad right behind her.
She turns in the doorway. “Ethan?”
“Be right there.” I want some quality time here. Not sure why. Not sure what I’ll do with it. I can’t think of anything to say, so I just stand there listening to the beeps and gurgles all that equipment is making trying to keep Kyle alive.
He wanted to lose his hand. That’s where all this started. He couldn’t see that it was really a part of himself, valid, alive, useful. In his mind it was different from him, somehow, so it seemed wrong. He tried to kill it so he could live. And just might have killed himself in the process.
I focus on the mechanical sounds, letting my mind zone out. And then, even though I’m still standing beside Kyle’s hospital bed, I’m also starting to float upward in the room, and it actually seems like I’m looking down on Kyle and me standing next to him. It’s a totally different perspective. I’ve gone Up, I guess, but I don’t know what to do with it. I close my eyes and call to Edgar.
Before I can even try to convince myself that Bat is with me, I’m scared shitless by sudden loud noises all around me. Kyle’s machinery is going berserk, and I barely have time to realize that a sharp smell is my own fear before people come running over. Someone shouts “Coding!” and pushes me out of the way. Mom tries to get to Kyle, but they stop her. Dad and I stand off at a distance and watch helplessly as people in white and blue surround Kyle so that we can’t see him. I don’t know exactly what they’re doing, but one thing’s for sure: If they don’t succeed, Kyle will die.
Someone draws a curtain across to hide where Kyle is, and now all we can do is listen. The only thing I remember is “Clear!” and a loud pop. And then again. And again.
And then nothing.
The doctor’s voice says, “Damn it! I will not lose this kid!” There’s one more Clear! And another pop, and then a wave of something rolls over me, and I know they’ve saved Kyle before I hear the electronic heartbeat sound start up. Dad helps Mom over to a chair in the hall, and I have to lean against the wall or I might fall. My brother just nearly died a few feet from me.
A nurse peeks out to make sure we know Kyle’s pulled through. “The doctor will be out in a minute to talk to you.” And she disappears again. My eyes stare at the place where she was standing, and my ears hear Mom sobbing behind me.
I’m still standing there when the doctor pulls the curtain aside. She nods to me, her face looking tight and strained, and I follow her to where my folks are waiting. Dad’s sitting beside Mom, holding one of her hands.
“We managed to pull your son through that crisis,” she says to my folks. “But it’s my opinion that we don’t have very long before the next one. The sepsis is starting to clear, but it damaged his kidneys. They’re just about gone. Dialysis will help temporarily, but he needs a transplant. I can’t pretend that kidneys are easy to get, and of course we need a donor who’s a good match. In any case, we need to finish clearing the sepsis first.”
Dad asks, “What options do we have, then?”
“It’s possible that a family member could be a good match. If so, we could take just one kidney and give it to Kyle. Both Kyle and the donor would need to be monitored after that to make sure all is well with the one kidney, and both people will need to avoid extreme activities, but these cases are usually very successful. If we have a good donor, his chances of survival increase dramatically. But I must warn you that there’s still a chance we’ll lose him. His blood tests show that his liver is in good shape, considering his general condition, but it could go next, or something else could fail before his system is clear.” She glances at her pager, which has gone off. “This isn’t about him. I’ll let you talk about this for a few minutes. Page me when you’re ready to talk about how to move forward.” She nods at each of us and heads down the hall.
Mom looks up at me. “We all need to be tested, then. Any objections?”
I swallow. This isn’t something I’ve ever considered. Obviously. I have no doubt that donating a kidney, or anything that deeply buried inside you, would be a painful ordeal with a lengthy recovery period. And it sounds like it would change your life. It’s not something I’ve been planning on.
But Kyle is dying.
Poles. Always those fucking poles, bouncing me back and forth.
I barely hear Dad’s voice say, “Charlene, yes, of course. But Ethan should be the last one considered. If one of us can do it, I say we should.”
Reprieve? Maybe? I’m ashamed that my mind goes next to what the testing will be like, if it will be painful. All I can do is nod.
When the doctor appears again, Mom takes over. “We’ll all be tested. Ethan is our last choice, but if he’s the only match, he’ll do it.” I haven’t exactly agreed to this, but this doesn’t seem like a good time to protest. “And when you give Kyle the kidney, I want you to take off his hand.”
“That might not be necessary. He’ll certainly lose two of the fingers, but there might be enough viable tissue—”
“I’m going to say this again, and it’s not up for discussion. Take the hand. You know very well he has BIID, and you know very well that he’ll keep damaging that hand as long as it’s on his body. We’ll be back here in a month, he’ll be in worse condition, and the donated kidney will have been wasted because Kyle will die. The hand comes off.”
Dad moves to stand behind Mom and a little to the side, like they’re forming a wall of resistance in case the doctor protests again. I move so I’m on her other side. We haven’t talked about this at all, but I know Mom is right. I know this is the only way to go.
I can tell the doctor wants to argue, that she wants to try to save most of his hand. But she only said it might work, and she must realize that hand will kill Kyle. Because finally she just gives one quick nod.
They herd us off to take blood samples, which isn’t too bad. We’ll have to come back tomorrow for more testing: X-rays, EKGs, CT scans—all kinds of crap. At least it doesn’t sound painful.
The ride home is silent. I don’t dare ask if I can drive, and actually I’m kind of glad to be alone in the backseat, anyway. There are so many things bouncing around inside my head that my brain hurts. I don’t even want to call Max and tell him what’s going on. Not yet. I’ll do that later. Right now I just want to be left alone.
I might lose a kidney. They might cut me open, cut out one of my kidneys, and sew it into Kyle’s body. Just the idea grosses me out, and yet I know I’ll do it if I have to.
I think.
We all move around like zombies at home. I help Mom make tuna sandwiches for dinner, and she makes hot cocoa, which I love. I can barely taste it.
When I go upstairs, the first time since Mom and I got home and found an ambulance in the driveway, I see Kyle’s door has been broken down. He’d probably locked it before he started pounding shit into his hand, and Dad had to force it open. It’s too dark to see inside. I sniff experimentally but don’t detect anything nasty. It’s too much for me, just the same; I turn away and go into my own room and call Max.
He picks up immediately, and his voice is serious. “How’s your brother?”
“It’s an ugly situation.” I tell him the first part of the story. It just tumbles out. He’s quiet, listening, saying Holy shit or Oh, my God from time to time. Then I get to the worst part. “Kyle coded. They had to do that electric thing to get his heart started again. And now he’s on dialysis. Kidney failure. I might... one of us might have to give him one of ours.”
“Holy shit! Oh, man, Ethan. I—that’s beyond fucked up. I don’t know what to say.”
“No one does. It’s like a cemetery here. No one’s talking. My dad says if he or Mom can donate, they’ll do it, so it’s me only if they can’t. But we all have to do the tests. They took blood today, and we have to go back tomorrow morning for X-rays and shit. They’ll know by the end of the day who it’s gonna be, and they’ll do the surgery Monday.”
“What if it’s none of you?”
Ah, that. I knew there was something we’d all been avoiding. No wonder no one wanted to talk in the car, over dinner, after dinner. I don’t respond, and finally Max says, “Sorry. Bad question. One of those bridges you don’t want to think about crossing.”
I nod, like he can hear that. “Also, Mom’s making them take his hand off.”
It’s Max’s turn to be silent. And, really, there’s no good response. I suppose that’s for the best doesn’t cut it somehow. Neither does That’s a terrible idea.
Finally Max says, “Well at least he won’t be trying to hurt himself anymore, right?”
“Right.” Unless he decides some other body part is possessed. But that’s not a place I want to go right now. Or ever.
“How did it get this bad? You didn’t see any of this coming?” I have to bite my tongue to stop a sarcastic comment like Sure we did; we didn’t do anything because it was kind of fun to watch. The fact is, I’d been wondering the same thing. Why didn’t we see this getting so bad? Why didn’t anyone tell Mom to watch for a fever? Should she have called a doctor as soon as she knew he had one? Could just a couple of hours today with something tight around his wrist have done enough damage to matter? If not, why didn’t anyone see the marks before, or if they did, why didn’t it ring any bells?
I’m so busy biting my tongue I don’t respond, and Max says, “That was a dumb-ass question, wasn’t it? It does seem like it got super-bad super-fast.”
He’s right about that. But there’s more to this. “Yeah, but you know it’s been a hell of a week. Mom knew he had a fever, but it wasn’t much, and what with the damage at Brearlys’ and at school, and the guys beating us up . . . well, beating you up, and the town hall and Mom getting hung in effigy and Two getting shot. . . .” My voice trails off. It really has been a hell of a week.
