Chapter 3

Chelsea's POV

In the early hours of the morning, I started feeling cold. When I pressed the call button, Mom was using my thermos to make ginger tea with honey.

It was the same thermos I brought with me every time I went for an IV infusion. There was a name label stuck to the bottom. But Mom had peeled it off, saying Yara would only be using it for one night.

Now the thermos sat on Yara's bedside table, with half a cup of ginger tea with honey still inside.

The nurse entered, pushing a treatment trolley. She checked my wristband. "Chelsea, your hemostatic medication needs to be administered in four separate infusions. You had a severe allergic reaction last night. Does your family know what you're allergic to?"

Mom looked up at her and said, "She isn't allergic to anything."

"Her medical records state that she's allergic to dextran."

"Really?" Mom looked at me and asked, "When did you develop an allergy?"

I was 12 then. The last time I received an IV infusion, rashes broke out all over my body, and I had difficulty breathing. Mom had been right there beside my hospital bed. She had even cried as he held me that day, promising that she would never forget again.

Five years had passed. She still remembered that Yara wouldn't eat pears with the skin on and needed a little orange night light left on while she slept, but she had forgotten which medication could make me struggle to breathe.

I said to the nurse, "Could you please list Ms. Garcia as my secondary contact?"

Dad's expression immediately turned grim. "Your family is right here. Why are you listing an outsider?"

"Because she remembers."

"Remembers what?" he asked.

"My allergy medication."

Ms. Garcia had been my homeroom teacher in my first year of high school. She had once looked through my school health records when she took the class on a field trip.

Before we left, she had copied the name of the medication into her contacts. She had even made a point of asking which compartment of my schoolbag I kept my emergency medication in.

Mom's eyes gradually welled up with tears. "Did you really have to say something like this in front of an outsider? I have so many things to deal with every day. It's perfectly normal to forget something once in a while. Yara's situation is unique. I have to worry about her more, so you should understand."

Natara knocked before entering, carrying last night's call records and the collection slip. "We need to speak with Chelsea privately. Could the family please step outside for a while?"

Dad stood up. "She's a minor. What could you possibly need to say that you can't say in front of us?"

"It's precisely because she's a minor that we need to determine whether there has been any medical neglect or improper care."

Yara suddenly pulled the silver tag out and undid the clasp. "Chelsea, I'll give it back to you."

Mom caught her by the wrist and said, "Don't move it. The clasp is tangled in your hair."

Then she turned to me. "We'll wait until the nurse brings scissors, all right? We've spent quite a lot on your medical care over the years. Don't make it sound as if we've never looked after you, just because of one little tag."

When I was seven, just after I had first started wearing the tag, Mom would run her fingers over it every night before bed to make sure it was still there.

Later, when Yara was hospitalized for asthma for the first time, Mom stayed by her bedside for nine days. After they came home, she never checked my medical tag again.

I used to think she was just tired. But now, the silver chain was tangled in Yara's dyed curls. Mom would rather make the doctor wait than risk ruining Yara's hair.

The nurse brought over a pair of scissors and prepared to cut the chain. I reached out to stop her. "There's no need to cut it."

Mom seemed relieved. "I knew you wouldn't really hold it against Yara."

I picked up the contact information form from my bedside table and crossed out both my parents' names.

…

"Once you're discharged, go home first. I'll explain things to the social worker."

At noon, Dad stood by the window and made a phone call. He had already made arrangements for what would happen next. He told me to rest at home for a week before returning to school.

Yara had originally been scheduled to attend an art training program in a neighboring city today. But because she had been frightened by what happened, Mom was going to accompany her.

As for my follow-up appointment, Dad said I could just take a cab by myself.

The hematologist had just explained that, for the first three days after my discharge, someone had to keep an eye on me for any signs of bleeding. I wasn't allowed to stay alone.