“He works late. His office is downtown,” she says, the corner of her lip curling in apology. “You’ll see him tomorrow though. He has the day off. We make the doctor-visit thing a family affair.”
I don’t have an answer for that. I know how she feels. It’s smothering. But I also know that her parents—though they show it in freakishly overbearing ways perhaps—are probably just worried.
“Well, I’m totally coming too. I mean, this will probably become the topic of conversation at dinner tomorrow, right?” I ask, and she smiles, amused. “I don’t want to feel left out. It would be like not watching one of those big cable shows and then trying to decipher everyone’s OMGs on Twitter.”
I OMG-ed. It felt dirty. But she laughed, so it was worth it. Maybe.
“You may have noticed, HIPAA laws don’t apply to Cass Owens,” she says, a wry laugh coming through.
“Welcome to the club. I was a medical-student case. Had twelve doctors. Oh, and...my legs are in Newsweek.”
“Shut up!” she says, shoving me on the shoulder.
“Google it. Look up my name, Louisiana Samaritan Hospital, and Dr. Bunshee,” I say, and she studies me for a few seconds, waiting for me to break. I cross my heart and her eyes widen.
“Okay, I’m Googling that. Tonight,” she says.
“Go right ahead,” I say.
“Oh I am,” she says back.
“Whatever. That’s fine, go do it,” I tease back.
“I’m totally doing it,” she smiles.
“Go on then. Go ahead,” I hold my arm out, and she stands, challenging me.
“Okay. Here I go. This is me…going to Google you and your famous legs,” she says, folding her arms over her chest while she walks by stomping. Her body is perfectly straight, and her steps come easily. No weaving or stumbling. I notice. Her mom notices. Neither of us says a word.
“Whatever. You’ll find it online,” I say back, keeping our silly banter going.
“Oh, I’m sure I will,” she says over her shoulder.
I watch until her door closes to her room and then I turn my attention back to the television. It’s some nature show, and it sucks balls. “Mrs. Owens?” I ask, trying to be as polite as possible, and not insult her absolutely horrid taste in television. “Would you mind too terribly if I maybe changed the channel, for just a few minutes?” And then lost the remote and somehow stabbed this channel so you could never get it back?
Cass’s mom closes the magazine she’s been reading, pulls her glasses from her face, and then clicks off the small reading lamp next to her chair. She stops in front of me and hands me the remote. “You can call me Diana, Tyson,” she says during our exchange. And then she smiles. Not a fake one, but a real one.
“I’ll do my best, Mrs. Owens,” I say, and her eyes soften.
As soon as she leaves the room, I switch the channel for Sports Center, and I watch just long enough until I feel like it’s safe to follow Cass’s steps down the hall to her room. I knock with the tips of my fingers, just loud enough for her to notice, and she opens her door. Standing. Not swaying. Her eyes focus on me. Her laptop is closed on her bed where she was sitting.
She pokes her head out and scans the hall, then she opens her door wide and waves me inside.
And somehow I end up holding her until the morning.
Chapter 28
Cass
It was literally a caravan to my doctor’s office. There were five of us in the waiting room, and everyone wanted to join me when they called me back. The scene was a bit mortifying. My neurologist sees mostly older people, seniors. My visits already garner a lot of attention because I sort of stand out. But when I walked in with a posse?
I really only wanted Ty, but that would have opened up a whole new shit storm. So I let my mom come. It seems like doctors are places moms are supposed to be at with their daughters. We should do some things that are…normal.
Nothing was a surprise. I was relapsing. I haven’t relapsed in a while, since I quit playing soccer. My mom hasn’t said it, but she’s thought it. I can see it behind her eyes. My body was fatigued—under unnatural stress—and even though the doctor threw in that flare-ups can happen at any time, for any reason, I knew on some level that those things probably played a part. It was my mom’s conclusion. It was my conclusion, even if I didn’t like it.
Dr. Peeples ordered intravenous steroids at the medical center for a few days, plus an MRI to see if there was any active cell damage happening in my brain that would be causing the blurry vision, or maybe one of my old lesions is getting bigger. Either way, the steroids should calm everything down. Then, I’d be good to go. “Good to go,” Dr. Peeples said.