Relativity by Antonia Hayes Page B

his tongue. “Injury?”
    â€œThe bleeding in your brain,” Dr. Saunders said, still looking down at his clipboard.
    â€œThirty-seven degrees,” Lucy said, squinting as she read the numbers marked on the side of the glass.
    â€œGood.” The doctor continued taking notes in the folder, the pen scratching as he wrote.
    Bleeding in his brain. Ethan felt dizzy and tried to center himself by looking out the window. The sun was coming up, morning illuminating the pavement outside. It made his eyes burn. “Dr. Saunders,” he said, flinching as the doctor placed a cold stethoscope against his chest. “Why was there blood in my brain?”
    â€œBreathe in. Typically babies with nonaccidental head injury present with what we call a constellation of symptoms. A subdural hematoma, retinal hemorrhages, and cerebral edema. Breathe out. In other words, bleeding in the brain, bleeding in the eyes, and swelling in the brain. You had all three symptoms when you were admitted here twelve years ago,” Dr. Saunders said, adjusting the stethoscope’s rubber earpiece. “Let’s take your blood pressure. Lucy?”
    Ethan shut his eyes for a moment. Blood in his eyes and brain, swelling. The doctor must be reading the wrong file, there had to be some mistake. They’d obviously confused him with some other kid. And why did Dr. Saunders say ‘babies with a head injury’? Ethan wasn’t a baby. But he would have been twelve years ago.
    The nurse wrapped a plastic cuff around Ethan’s upper arm, securing it with velcro. The band inflated suddenly with air, then deflated again. His eyes started to water.
    Lucy put her stethoscope down, noticing Ethan’s tears, and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Dr. Saunders . . .” she began.
    The doctor ripped the velcro open. “Blood pressure is normal, excellent. Just one more test. I’m going to shine this light quickly into your eyes.”
    Ethan nodded absently. Bleached light pierced his cornea.
    â€œHmm.” Dr. Saunders frowned. “That isn’t normal. He isn’t reacting to the light. Lucy, can you check this?”
    She pointed the light into Ethan’s eyes, shifting it from left to right. “Strange. Excessive dilation. Looks like a blown pupil.”
    â€œMydriasis?” Dr. Saunders asked. “We’ll need to investigate raised ICP. Place a call to the neurosurgeons to give them a heads-up.”
    â€œSorry, Dr. Saunders, I think I made a mistake. Pupil reactivity appears normal, I’m observing constriction in the light. Could you check?”
    The doctor looked carefully into Ethan’s eyes. “You’re right. Let’s make sure there’s no apparent loss of visual fields.”
    â€œEthan, could you please let me know when you see the pencil?” Lucy asked in her fairy voice. She slowly moved her arm closer to Ethan’s face. “Try to keep your eyes focused on my nose.”
    â€œNow.”
    She splayed her hand open. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
    â€œFour. Plus your thumb, which technically isn’t a finger.”
    â€œVery clever.” Lucy gave him a half-smile. She shone the light in Ethan’s eyes again; it made his eyeballs feel itchy. “What can you see when I shine the light in your eyes?”
    â€œLight.”
    â€œPatient’s pupillary response normal and vision unimpaired, ruling out orbital trauma,” Dr. Saunders muttered to himself as he took down more notes. “Ruling out raised ICP.”
    â€œAnd it turns red then blue,” Ethan said.
    Dr. Saunders put his clipboard down. “What does?”
    â€œThe light. As it moves from one side to the other, it changes color. Red then blue then red again.”
    Dr. Saunders took the light to his own eyes. “Ethan,” he said slowly. “You shouldn’t be able to see that. Lucy, you try.” The doctor repeated the