Golden's Rule. C. E. Edmonson

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ a gurney who stared at the ceiling and groaned with every breath. I don’t even think he was in pain or anything. He was just groaning. Maybe that was his way of protesting against what was happening to him.

      I understood how he felt. I wanted to groan myself.

      In the CT room, some space-age-looking equipment was set up, similar to what I saw on the school trip to the planetarium. I focused on that while another nurse pushed an Iv into the same vein used to take blood. “Just a little pinch, dear.” Then before I knew what was happening to me, I was put on a platform that slid into a machine that completely encircled my head. “Don’t move, dear.” A liquid was injected into my arm and the machine began to spin, whirring like the sound of birds’ wings, first to the left, then back to the right, finally making a sound that reminded me of bees in a hive.

      Being in there was one of the worst experiences of my life. I felt so utterly alone, so cut off from everyone in the outside world. Almost like a living robot. And it didn’t take just a minute, like X-rays in a dentist’s office. By the time the machine stopped, I felt like I was the victim of a cave-in. Don’t move? It was all I could do not to jump off the table and run away from the machine that was trying to devour me headfirst.

      I was feeling dizzy when I finally got to my feet, but the unit was already being prepared for the next patient. My mother was arguing with the X-ray technician, who wanted us to go back to the emergency room. The scans, she told him, would have to be read in this very unit by a radiologist, so returning to the emergency room was pointless. Therefore, we’d be sitting in the small waiting area until that radiologist made an appearance. Then she handed him her business card: Abigail Moore-Bergamo, Attorney at Law.

      “Hospitals,” she told the man, “have certain obligations with regard to their patients, obligations that are best honored. We’ll be in the waiting area.” It was a small victory but, as Coach Stover taught me, every win counts.

      I held my tongue until we were sitting next to each other on plastic chairs, the kind with a little depression that never really fits your bottom. “What kind of obligations do hospitals have?” I asked. The question was sincere. I mean, I couldn’t demand my rights if I didn’t know what they were, right? But Mom was a step ahead of me.

      “I have no idea, but at least he didn’t call security,” she said, and we both started laughing. For me, the laughter was a kind of release of all my pent-up nerves. For Mom, the laughter turned into tears that suddenly streamed down her face. Finally, she swiped at her eyes. “Don’t you worry, baby. Whatever happens, we’ll get through it together.”

      Okay, so it’s just what you’d tell a little kid, which a day before I definitely didn’t want to be. But it worked. I felt better—at least until Dr. Rosenberg came into the waiting area holding a sheet of X-ray film. Then my nerves began to act up again. It was worse than getting back results for a test you weren’t prepared for.

      Dr. Rosenberg was a younger man, most likely still in his twenties. Like Dr. Sandoval, his eyes were red, his eyelids swollen. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in a week. Still, he did manage to smile as he introduced himself.

      “Would you like to discuss this in private?” he asked my mother.

      Mom’s response was quick in coming. “No,” she announced as she moved over to allow him to sit between us. “We’re in this together.” She flashed me a brave smile.

      Dr. Rosenberg sat down. “I don’t want to sugarcoat what I’m about to tell you, because it’s serious.” He turned up the X-ray to reveal what was obviously a brain—my brain—and pointed to a white patch on the left side. “This disorder might be some sort of inflammation, or even multiple sclerosis.” Then he paused briefly. “But the most likely cause is a brain tumor. An MRI will tell us for sure.”

      He went on for several minutes, but I didn’t hear a word. There was a voice inside my head, screaming so loud I couldn’t hear anything else. The voice’s vocabulary consisted of two words: brain and tumor. And that’s all I heard as we made our way out of the hospital and drove home.

      Brain tumor, brain tumor, brain tumor. Can you hear me now? Can you hear me now? Brainnnnnn Tuuuuuumorrrrrrrrrrrrr.

      I felt like I was floating, like my mind had left my body and was off alone somewhere, trying to escape and return back to the reality that made sense to me: the girls’ locker room before yesterday’s game. Even history class, which I was missing right now. Anywhere but here, now, in this car, next to my mother, who was trying so hard not to cry.

      I couldn’t cry, either, because crying would mean that, at least emotionally, I had accepted this situation. Which I hadn’t. At all. It was grotesque. Wrong. What the doctor said was a mistake. The MRI would clear it all up. It had to.

      As soon as we entered the house, Mom was on the phone. Two phones, actually—the house phone and her cell phone. She was doing what she does best: taking command. I didn’t blame her. Controlling the situation was the only defense she had. Abigail Moore-Bergamo would find the best doctors, and the best hospitals, and the earliest appointment for her daughter.

      And me? The daughter part? I still couldn’t get my mind around what was happening. Didn’t Dr. Rosenberg say it might not be a tumor? Didn’t he say something about an inflammation? Okay, so I didn’t have the faintest idea what an inflammation was. But why get technical? It had to be better than a brain tumor—and it was the only hope I had.

      I left Mom to her phoning, went to my room, and turned on my computer. For the next hour, I played a game of pretend. I pretended that nothing had changed and my history paper on Prohibition still needed to be written. When in doubt, Google. That’s the way we all did it. Google and Wikipedia and a trip to the library for a few titles we could stick in the bibliography. I briefly thought about searching “brain tumor” and “inflammation” and even “multiple sclerosis,” but I didn’t. Like I said, why jinx myself? Besides, the Internet was good, but it wouldn’t give me all the answers.

      I printed out what I found as I went along, until my printer tray was full. Then I read through the articles until I found an angle I could work. I mean, we’re talking about a middle school essay. Nobody expected scholarship. But I definitely wanted an A and figured I could get it with an organization called the Women’s Christian Temperance Union, an organization devoted to outlawing alcohol. My history teacher, Ms. Marrano, was big on women’s issues.

      By the time I finished up, I thought I was feeling better. I thought I was strong enough to e-mail the Mag-7s. I thought I was ready to type the words brain and tumor as a remote possibility. And maybe I was, because I managed to hit the right keys and click the SEND button. In fact, I didn’t realize that I was crying until I shut down the computer and the screen went dark, and I saw the tears streaming down my face.

      Then I blubbered like a baby, and I kept on blubbering. Brain tumor? Brain tumor? No, that wasn’t right. I was only fourteen—my life was just starting out. I was the Montclair Flash. Now you see me, now you don’t. The fastest girl in the school. An athlete. Strong. Healthy. Unstoppable. Was it possible that my body would turn against me like that?

      My mother came into the room before I broke down altogether. Maybe she was using some of that mom radar. Or maybe I was emitting some kind of kid-in-distress signal: beep, beep, beep. But when she took me in her arms, I didn’t try to pretend that I was too old to be held. No way. I was scared out of my mind, and the safest place I could think of was right where I was then.

      She cradled me, rocking slightly back and forth, stroking my hair and all the while whispering, “Ssshhh, СКАЧАТЬ