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Enid watches Wednesday put on her obnoxiously expensive coat and boots from across the room. She can’t help but to stare like she’s viewing a work of art, and Wednesday acts completely oblivious to the way Enid’s eyes are following her every move. When Wednesday finally turns around and leans down to tie her shoes, she tilts her chin up, finally locking eyes with her partner.
“A picture would last longer,” she comments.
Pulling her phone from seemingly out of nowhere, Enid quickly snaps a photo of Wednesday, hoping the flash caught the glint of murder in her eyes.
“Where are you going?” Enid asks as she puts her phone away. “It’s way too cold to go anywhere. Plus, it’s Saturday.”
“I’m going to assist Pugsley with his archery skills,” she replies, rising from the floor once her shoes are tied. Enid notices the fuzzy socks peeking out from the leather around her ankles. Enid was wondering where those socks vanished to. “If he kills another bird, people might start to talk, and while I can handle the shame, he’s a big baby and gets his feelings hurt when people mock him.”
“Sister of the year,” Enid teases. She pauses, pouting. “Do you really have to go? We could stay home and, you know, cuddle. We’re both adults now. It’s not weird.”
Wednesday pauses, genuinely considering the offer. Briefly, she thinks about shedding her clothes and climbing into bed with Enid, but she’s quickly brought out of her infatuated daydream by the reminder that her little brother is waiting in the courtyard for her and she can’t ditch him in favor of climbing Enid like a wild animal even if she really, really wants to. Sometimes priorities can be troublesome.
“You’re enticing, Enid, and I’m inclined to accept, but I’ve already made the commitment to Pugsley this morning,” Wednesday says. “Perhaps we can continue this conversation when I return.”
Enid’s metaphorical tail wags excitedly. Wednesday crosses the room just to press a quick, fleeting kiss to Enid’s cheek before she’s out the door, leaving Enid alone in their shared room with nothing to do but a pile of trigonometry homework that she’s been putting off all week. Being a senior really sucks.
Winter break starts in two weeks and Enid really needs to lock in on this homework if she has any idea about passing trig this semester, and she would rather not be held back by stupid numbers and formulas, so she pulls her homework out of her backpack and cracks open the dreaded trigonometry textbook that has yet to see the light of day. She grabs her sparkly pen—because she can’t do homework if she doesn’t have something shiny to distract herself with—and stares blankly at the first problem on the first page of her mountain of papers.
“This sucks,” she mumbles, clicking her pen exactly eight times before making a vain attempt at working out the problem on the side of a stupid triangle. “I’m a kid, I’m not supposed to have any problems, and suddenly I go to school and they give me problems.”
That’s only partially true; because Enid is, by legal definition, not a kid anymore, as of last month. She turned eighteen in the middle of November and was celebrated with a small gathering of her friends and her girlfriend who might’ve rather been dead than attend. And then there was Agnes, who crashed the party like the obtuse little girl she’s supposed to be, and Enid didn’t have the heart to kick her out. Agnes had spent the 32 days that separated Wednesday’s and Enid’s eighteenths mocking Wednesday and calling her a pervert any time she dared touch Enid. She might have been forcibly extracted from their dorm like a tumor once or twice, but never did Enid swear at her. If she’s honest, Enid might have a soft spot for the little shit.
Enid tires out just thinking about Agnes, but she’s even more tired out when the triangles and numbers start to blur on the page. She hasn’t even made it to the second problem and her head is already feeling unnaturally swirly.
She tilts her chin to the ceiling and closes her eyes. “Dear God that I’m not even sure exists, please give me a reason to not do this stupid homework right now.”
She opens her eyes, hoping something would materialize before her and throw her into a crisis so she would have a legitimate reason to abandon this homework and tell her teacher that a bird flew in through the window and swooped it up, but it’s as silent as ever; just her and the triangles.
She huffs. “Whatever.”
After getting through the first problem with about four tears rolling down her face, she moves onto the next, and that one is marginally easier to deal with. She’s getting in the groove of things, finally able to understand how the formula works, and then her cellphone starts vibrating off the nightstand. Her first instinct is to ignore it and continue to focus, but her baby hairs start prickling. That’s never a good sign for a werewolf.
The number is unknown, but Enid knows the tingling all too well, so she answers on the final ring.
“Hello?”
“Hi, I’m calling from Jericho Memorial Hospital,” a polite, squeaky voice says. “I’m looking for Enid Sinclair.”
Enid swallows a lump in her throat. “Speaking.”
“I’m calling on behalf of Agnes DeMille,” says the woman. “We have her here in the emergency department. I need either a parent, guardian, or her emergency contact—that would be you—to come up to the hospital.”
“Why?” is the first word out of Enid’s mouth. “What’s wrong? Was she hurt?”
“I cannot relay any information over the phone, but I would greatly appreciate it if you could make your way to the hospital,” she says. “If you are unable to, I will have to make another attempt to reach one of her parents, although they did not answer any of my calls.”
“Of course not,” Enid mutters. “I can be there in twenty minutes.”
“Perfect. We will see you then.”
The line disconnects and Enid blinks at her phone for a moment before something inside of her clicks, and then she’s shoving all the homework off her bed and stumbling around the room in search of some sensible shoes. She slips into some snow boots and grabs her coat, and while she’s in the middle of struggling with the zipper, her mind briefly thinks of Wednesday and her certain confusion when she returns to an empty room and papers scattered over the floor. She momentarily considers running down to one of the courtyards in hopes Wednesday will be there, but she thinks about Agnes potentially missing a limb or vomiting up her intestines, and she sucks in a breath.
“Shit, shit, shit,” she mumbles as she snatches a pen and a piece of scrap paper and presses it against the nearest wall. “She can kill me later.”
Wednesday,
Hospital ER called about Agnes. Wouldn’t tell me anything. I’m on my way there now. When you read this…HURRY.
She slams the note down on Wednesday’s desk and runs out of the room with only her phone and a growing stomachache.
—
The woman behind the registration desk in the emergency room is infuriatingly calm for someone who’s seen so much carnage and despair in her lifetime. Enid is out of breath when she approaches the counter, because the Uber drive moved like a turtle and all she could think about was Agnes withering away like a memory with every red light they stopped at.
“I’m here for Agnes DeMille,” Enid says, brushing snow off her coat. “I got a phone call saying she was here. Nobody would tell me anything. What happened to her? Where is she?”
“I cannot tell you that,” the woman says as she’s plucking a visitor pass from its stack. “I can send you back to her and you can speak with her nurse. What’s your name?”
“Enid Sinclair.”
“She’s in room 12. Go straight in, all the way down, and it’s the last door on the left.”
It’s probably irrational, but Enid considers wrapping her hands around the lady’s throat as she’s filling out the pass, but once she has the sticker, she quickly stamps it onto her sweater and moves quickly through the double doors that seem to open on their own accord once she’s close enough.
The whole place smells both sterile and diseased. People are coughing, babies are crying, nurses are rushing around, alarms are beeping, someone is speaking over the intercom. It’s a hellscape that Enid wouldn’t wish on anybody.
She strides down the infinitely long hallway until she sees room 12. The door is ajar, dim yellow light streaming through the crack. She can hear movement inside, but it doesn’t sound like anyone who’s sick. She takes a few deep breaths before subtly entering the room, and she’s greeted by a nurse hovering over the bed and fiddling with an IV bag. There’s a quiet beep of a heart monitor and the smell of alcohol and cotton.
“Agnes?” Enid murmurs quietly.
The nurse immediately turns on her heel.
“Hi there,” she says. “You must be Enid.”
Enid nods. Her throat is tight and her chest is heavy.
“I’ll call the doctor in here so she can fill you in,” she says, quickly moving past Enid and out of the room.
Finally, Enid gets a good look. Agnes is there, attached to various wires and an IV. Her eyes are shut and her entire body is still. If it weren’t for the rhythmic beeping, Enid would assume she were dead, but she’s not dead, and Enid can only draw nearer just to be sure.
Brushing her fingers through the sweaty red hair that clings to Agnes’s pallid forehead, Enid frowns at the scorch under her fingertips. She presses the back of her hand to a pink cheek, almost wincing at the heat radiating off the skin. Agnes sighs in her sleep, chasing the warmth of Enid as it leaves her, even if Enid would say she’s far too warm as it is.
The door swings open and a woman with the kindest face and softest aura enters. She’s wearing a white coat over her scrubs, and if Enid didn’t know better, she would say she looks geared up for surgery.
“Miss Sinclair?”
“That’s me,” Enid warily says.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Wu,” she greets, giving Enid’s hand a quick shake. “I’m taking care of Agnes today.”
Enid nods. The knot in her stomach loosens a bit.
“What’s wrong with her? Why’s she even here?” Enid asks.
“From what I understand, she brought herself here. She said she was having intense pain in her lower abdomen, and she ruled out menstrual cramps because her period recently finished. She felt like something was very wrong, so she checked herself into the ER, and unfortunately, she was right,” Dr. Wu sighs sympathetically. “It’s appendicitis. Her appendix, a useless little appendage inside the abdomen, is severely inflamed and at risk of rupturing soon. It’s important that we remove it before it does decide to rupture. I see it all the time here, and it’s a very simple and quick surgery to remove the appendix, but by the time she got here, her fever was over 103. We’re working to get it down before we operate. It seems to be working; last temp check read 101. We’re going to take her back for surgery prep in the next 30 minutes. You can sit with her in the meantime, and my team will take her back then. But I do have a question; is she allergic to penicillin?”
Enid purses her lips. “Honestly, I don’t know.”
She can’t do this.
Dr. Wu tilts her head, but she remains neutral.
“May I ask your relation to her?” she asks.
“Family friend.” Because there is no sense in complicating the situation.
“I see,” Dr. Wu says. “We tried to reach her parents. but so far, no luck.”
“That tracks,” Enid says with a shrug. “Agnes goes to a boarding school here in Vermont. Her family—well, her mom and stepdad—are in Pennsylvania, and her dad is somewhere out there traveling at all times. I don’t count on them answering your calls. There’s a reason I’m the emergency contact. I actually pick up the phone.”
“Very well,” Dr. Wu says, noticeably trying to keep her composure as soft as possible. “Do you have any questions?”
“Just one.” Enid blinks as the tightness returns in her chest. “Am I stupid to be worried?”
Dr. Wu shakes her head. “Absolutely not. All surgeries are a little scary and come with their own set of risks. But I can say that this is one of the most common, not just here, but in the whole world. The appendix is just a weird, useless thing that sometimes acts dramatic and decides to self-destruct. As long as we work quickly, Agnes will be just fine.”
That eases some of Enid’s fear—not all, but some.
“Thanks, Doc,” Enid says, sighing.
“No problem,” she replies kindly. “Once Agnes is out of surgery, I will come out to the waiting room and speak with you, and assuming all goes well, she’ll recover for an hour or so, and then you can take her back home.”
Enid blinks. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
Okay, maybe she can do this.
—
Thirty minutes later, Enid is sitting in a surprisingly comfortable waiting room chair, watching over a white plastic bag that holds Agnes’s clothes and shoes, staring absentmindedly at the television. It’s actually pretty fun to judge the kinds of houses millionaires buy. Their taste is shockingly awful for someone of elite status.
She’s judging her second millionaire couple when her skin starts to prickle. Her ears perk up at the sound of familiar boots approaching. She turns her head and finds Wednesday traipsing across the room with a murderous glint in her eyes. Enid immediately sits up, choking on her own spit.
“Wednesday,” she says. “What’re you doing here?”
Wednesday furrows her eyebrows at her. “Your note told me to hurry. So I did.”
“Oh. Right.”
“You should have found me when you got the call,” Wednesday scolds, but she understands that now is not the time, so she takes a seat in an empty chair next to Enid. “What happened to her? If someone hurt her, I’ll—“
“No,” Enid quickly cuts her off, putting a hand in hers. “Appendicitis. She brought herself here. She felt something was really wrong.”
Wednesday’s shoulders sag and the murderous glint fades into the soft browns Enid loves so much. She leans back in the chair.
“She’s in surgery?” Wednesday surmises after awhile.
“Yeah,” Enid replies. That stupid lump is still stuck in her throat. “They took her in about twenty minutes ago. The doctor said it’s a quick surgery. But…I don’t know. She was sedated when I went to see her. I didn’t even get to talk to her. She looked so awful.”
“She saved her own life,” Wednesday notes. “She’s strong. Most kids would have folded in on themselves. It’s impressive.”
“I don’t know what I hate more; the fact that she’s in surgery, or the fact that she’s in surgery and her parents still won’t answer the phone,” Enid grumbles. “If my kid was in surgery, I would drop everything to be there. But no. Nobody answers the phone, nobody is rushing to be here for her.”
Wednesday quirks an eyebrow. “Well—“
“I know,” Enid says, holding up a hand. “We don’t count. Neither one of us pushed her out of our vagina.”
Although, this might be equally painful, Enid bitterly thinks to herself.
Wednesday and Enid sit there, either watching TV or plotting the murder of Agnes’s parents, depending on who you ask, for awhile. They hardly exchange words, letting their shared silence speak volumes. Every now and again, Enid’s hand finds its way into Wednesday’s, and Wednesday willingly reciprocates the touch.
They’re together, commiserating, until a door swings open and Dr. Wu enters in her scrubs and her mask hanging loosely around her neck. She’s smiling, and unless the woman has zero empathy or the ability to read a room, Enid takes that to mean the surgery was successful.
“Agnes did great,” Dr. Wu says. “She’s in recovery now and doing well. We’re going to let her recover for another hour, because she’s still waking up from the anesthesia, but once she’s more awake and settled, you can take her home.”
Enid breathes a sigh of relief and profusely thanks the doctor. Wednesday is noticeably calmer and more relaxed. Once Dr. Wu has disappeared through the doors she entered from, Enid grabs Wednesday’s shoulders and gives her a little shake.
“She’s alive!” Enid exclaims, but quietly, minding her environment. “She’s alive!”
Wednesday doesn’t make an attempt to hide the little smile creeping up on her face.
—
A nurse calls Wednesday and Enid back to see Agnes sometime later. It feels like a century has passed by the time they’re led into a recovery room where Agnes is in bed, looking both drowsy and positively miffed. Her hair is askew and she’s still attached to a heart monitor, which she frustratedly pokes at until Enid reaches for her hand and gives it a little squeeze.
“Don’t play with it,” Enid softly says, moving her hand away from the lead.
Agnes’s sleepy eyes blink once or twice. “Enid?”
“And Wednesday,” Enid says, nodding towards Wednesday, who idles at the foot of the bed like drawing any closer would break Agnes. “We’re gonna take you back home. Already called for an Uber to get us.”
“How did you know I was here?” Agnes asks.
“Emergency contact,” Enid reminds.
“Oops,” Agnes mutters. “I didn’t think I’d need it.”
“Better to have it and not need than to need it and not have it, I guess,” Enid giggles and brushes away some of the fire red hair hanging over Agnes’s forehead. She’s considerably less warm. “How you feeling?”
“Kinda hurts, but it’s a lot better than when I got here,” Agnes mumbles, wincing for good measure. She takes a deep breath and looks up at Enid. “Did my parents ever answer?”
The silence that falls over the room is very telling. Wednesday moves a little closer and approaches Agnes’s bedside like she’s bearing bad news. Agnes observes her every move, taking in every little detail of her.
“No,” Wednesday says regrettably. “Enid got the call. She rushed right here, and I followed once I realized where she went.”
Agnes picks some dirt from under her fingernails and angrily glares at the leads attached to her chest. She’s worryingly quiet for the longest time. Enid and Wednesday don’t push her to speak or attempt to provide any sort of verbal reassurance, because what does one say to a teenager whose parents have seemingly fallen off the face of the earth?
They stay there for another minute, and then the nurse returns with a packet of discharge instructions—no heavy lifting for the next 24 hours, keep the first post-op meal minimal with no grease, keep the surgical site clean and be mindful when showering, take all pain medications as prescribed—and thrusts it right into Enid’s hands.
The nurse works on removing Agnes’s leads as she’s regurgitating the discharge instructions, and all Agnes can do is glare at the ceiling and wait for the room to stop spinning.
“You’re all done,” the nurse tells Agnes as she plucks away the last sticker from Agnes’s chest. “You can get dressed.”
Agnes sits up, wincing painfully. Wednesday quickly swoops in and puts a hand on her shoulder. She grabs the bag that holds Agnes’s clothes and begins pulling out her sweater and coat while Enid stares blankly at the papers in her hand. The nurse clears her throat, and Enid looks up to find her holding a clipboard.
“If I may ask, how old are you?” the nurse asks.
“Eighteen,” Enid replies, and she hopes she takes her word for it, because in the middle of running out of Nevermore, she left her ID on her desk.
“Perfect,” the nurse says and hands her the clipboard. “If you’ll just sign where it says representative…”
Admittedly, Enid feels all grown-up when she signs her name on the dotted line. They’re just discharge forms, but it’s still important, even if it feels partially inappropriate.
Once the nurse has left, Enid turns her focus to Agnes and Wednesday, who is struggling to get Agnes’s sweatpants up her legs without Agnes kicking up a fuss about how she’s doing it all wrong. She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose.
“We’re back to normal already, I see,” Enid mutters before jumping in to help her girlfriend wrangle their little patient.
—
The next afternoon, they’re sitting in the local ice cream shop. Agnes was feeling too miserable and whiny after surgery to eat anything of sustenance, even when Enid tried coaxing a little soup into her mouth like she was a baby to be spoon fed, and she proceeded to sulk all evening until she fell asleep with her head in Enid’s lap.
Nothing got accomplished yesterday, unless they count saving Agnes’s life. Then, a lot got accomplished.
Wednesday and Enid won’t admit it, but watching Agnes shovel ice cream into her mouth is the most relieving thing they’ve seen in awhile. Even when chocolate melts down the side of Agnes’s mouth and it should be a nasty sight, they can’t help but to sag with relief.
“Your appetite is back,” Wednesday comments. “You were being the most horrible patient yesterday.”
Agnes looks up and wipes her mouth on a napkin. “I got my guts taken out.”
“It was a tiny piece of you that you don’t even need,” Enid giggles.
“Still, it was part of me,” Agnes says. “I wish I could have kept it.”
Enid’s eyebrows hit the ceiling. “Your appendix?”
Agnes nods. “I wanted it for my trinket shelf. I was gonna ask, but I was too sleepy by the time I thought about it.”
Enid nudges Wednesday and leans into her ear. “That’s all you right there.”
“Don’t be silly,” Wednesday says. “I would never keep my appendix on a trinket shelf. Mine is tucked safely away in my trunk.”
Enid doesn’t know if she’s being serious or not, and she almost doesn’t want to know.
“Enid,” Agnes says softly, her demeanor completely relaxed in comparison to a moment ago.
“Yeah?”
She’s quiet for a second, picking at her ice cream, like she’s having conflicting emotions. Then her eyes meet Enid’s.
“Thanks for answering the call,” she simply says.
The prickly feeling migrates from Enid’s skin to her eyes. She holds everything in, though, trying not to melt into a sappy puddle like the ice cream pooling around Agnes’s lips.
“Of course,” she replies. “I’ll always answer the call.”
“Good, because my parents never did.”
Agnes returns to eating, albeit a bit slower and more deliberate, and Wednesday and Enid just sit back and watch with wet, mellowed eyes.
Once the ice cream cup is empty, Enid quickly offers Agnes another, because even if overcompensating isn’t exactly healthy for a child, they certainly have plenty to overcompensate for; about 13 years worth.