The Family Chat That Answered Everyone Except Me Chapter 03
Twelve days post-op, the hospital called.
“Ms. Elena Grayson? It’s time for your post-op checkup. Please come in with a family member this week.”
I hung up, hesitated in the living room, then walked over to Mom.
“Mom, the hospital wants me to come in for a checkup this week. They said it’s best if a family member comes.”
She was on the couch, liking Victoria’s store posts. Didn’t look up.
“Checkup? Didn’t you already have the surgery? What’s there to check?”
“The doctor wants to see how I’m healing. Worried about adhesions.”
“Adhesions? What adhesions? You’re young, you recover fast. Just go yourself.”
“The doctor said a family member needs to sign.”
She finally glanced up.
“What day?”
“Thursday afternoon.”
“Thursday I’m meeting a client with Victoria. How about Friday?”
“The hospital scheduled Thursday.”
She sighed. A sigh that didn’t bother hiding the reluctance.
“Then have your dad go.”
I found Dad on the patio, smoking, watching the game on his phone.
“Dad, can you come with me Thursday?”
“Thursday? I’m going to the dealership with Ethan.”
“Can’t you reschedule?”
“It’s already set. Changing it would be a hassle for them.”
“Then I’ll go alone.”
“Fine, just go yourself. It’s not like it was major surgery.”
Acute appendicitis. General anesthesia. Two hours in the OR.
He didn’t think it was major.
Thursday afternoon, I went alone.
The doctor flipped through my chart, looked up, scanned the room.
“You came alone?”
“Yes.”
“Who signed for your surgery?”
“I did.”
His gaze lingered on my face for two seconds. He didn’t push.
He checked the incision, pressed a few spots. I sucked in air through my teeth.
“Some adhesion forming. Have you been lifting heavy things?”
Laundry. Groceries. Mopping. Carrying two cases of bottled water up from Ethan’s trunk. For him.
I’d been doing it since day five.
“Nothing over ten pounds for the next two weeks. Come back for another check. If the adhesions get worse, you might need a second procedure.”
Second procedure.
Another knife.
It was almost five when I left the hospital.
I texted Mom: “Checkup done.”
Twenty minutes later, she replied: “What’d they say?”
“Some adhesion. Need to rest.”
“Oh. Just be careful then.”
Be careful.
How? Go home to more dishes, more mopping, more carrying?
At the bus stop, my legs felt weak. I checked my phone. The family group had a new post.
Victoria’s selfie at a fancy restaurant. Floor-to-ceiling windows, city lights behind her. Caption: “Closed a big client! Celebrating!”
Mom replied with clapping emojis: “My daughter’s so capable!”
The bus came. I found a window seat, rested my hand over my lower belly.
The incision throbbed beneath my palm. The doctor said possible adhesions. Possible second surgery.
Nobody asked if I was scared.
Three stops in, my phone buzzed. Mom again.
“Elena, grab a pack of toilet paper on your way back. We’re out.”
Not asking about the checkup.
Not asking if I was okay.
I replied: “Okay.”
At the store, I picked up a pack. My stomach pulled. I switched hands.
At home, Ethan was sprawled on the couch, feet on the coffee table, eating chips. Crumbs scattered everywhere.
“Elena, put the toilet paper in the bathroom.”
I looked at the crumbs around his feet.
“Can’t you get it yourself?”
“You’re already holding it.”
I set the pack on the entryway cabinet.
“Get it yourself.”
I went to my room. Through the door, I heard him mutter, “What’s her problem? She gets upset over literally nothing.”
That night in bed, I touched the scar. Bandage off now. Just a thin, raised line. Hard, like a shallow ridge.
Twenty-six years in this house. And this was the only real mark I had to show for it.
I opened my phone, deleted the search I’d been typing, and typed five new words instead.
“Out-of-state transfer job openings.”