Free Brisé by Leigh Ann Lunsford, Chelsea Kuhel Page B

passing with laughter; it’s been music to my ears. I notice her swaying back and forth in line when a beat catches her ear.
    “Why haven’t you danced lately?” I haven’t said anything to her, but I have noticed. I notice everything about this girl.
    “I’m scared. What if I can’t let it out? Or if I do and I forget the pain? Isn’t that like giving them up?”
    “No, baby. That’s living through the pain, which is exactly what they wanted. Don’t you think your mom’s watching from above, begging you to dance? She loved watching you . . . you breathed life into her with your dancing. The pride on your dad’s face, it was indescribable. He was in awe of you. It was as if he couldn’t believe that was his daughter dancing. You bring out emotions and feelings in people when you perform. You don’t realize what you evoke in your dancing, it’s like we all want to leave there being a better person. It’s hard to explain, but it’s such an experience. Each time I watch you, that’s how I feel.” She crashes her lips into mine, slowly climbing up my body. I hear a voice clear behind us and meet the eyes of a very unimpressed young woman with her young son beside her.
    “Let’s keep it PG, Twinkle.” I put her down and discreetly adjust myself, all while she’s laughing. Real laughter, a melody she creates on her own overtakes my body. I decide we’ve ridden enough rides and bend down so she can jump on my back. Piggyback out of the park, we’ll get to privacy sooner. I feel her put her small hands on my shoulders, then nothing. I don’t feel any weight on me, so I turn to ask her what the holdup is, but her face is pale, her eyes unfocused, and she’s swaying on her feet. I grab her and watch as her eyes close and she becomes unresponsive. My legs are shaking as I try to get her out of the crowd, yelling for anyone to get help. I’m pleading with her to open her damn eyes, my stomach rolls, and I fight to hang on, be present for her. I get her to a bench and help her lie down. At that moment, park officials run to us and immediately call a medical team. She’s breathing, so I concentrate on each inhale and exhale, watch for any signs of her opening her eyes. None come. They load her on a stretcher and take us to the front of the park where an ambulance is waiting. I follow it to the local Emergency Room, and there is a flurry of activity happening. I explain that I am her guardian; luckily I keep that handy little card in my wallet that I was given showing all the estate provisions and my guardianship. They still won’t let me in the room, only informing me she hasn’t woken up.
    When the administrator comes out and tells me that they are transporting her to Scottish Rites in Atlanta due to some concern in her blood work, I almost crumble. Instead, I hurry to the hospital, making it in about twenty minutes. Pacing back and forth in the waiting area, they finally allow me back to see her. She’s still groggy, but at least I can see her blue eyes.
    “What happened?”
    She doesn’t remember.
    “One second you were laughing and molesting me, the next you passed out. I couldn’t wake you up; I was so fucking scared.” I am pouring out words in rapid succession and still haven’t caught my breath. She has to be all right. “You should have eaten, it’s probably low blood sugar,” I tell her. Even though I speak those words, I don’t believe them. When her oncologist walks in, followed by another physician, I know my gut is right.
    “Good afternoon, Phoebe.” I hate that he’s on a first name basis with her, but after treating her for thirteen years, it’s expected. Trying to study his face for any telltale sign as to why he’s here and watching Phoebe to make sure she stays stable, I almost miss the conversation taking place.
    Dr. Marks explains the woman with him is Dr. Berl, from the Obstetrics department. “The blood work you had at the other hospital doesn’t look good, kiddo,”