{"id":231823,"date":"2024-01-25T04:51:08","date_gmt":"2024-01-25T09:51:08","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lithub.com\/?p=231823"},"modified":"2024-01-23T12:02:41","modified_gmt":"2024-01-23T17:02:41","slug":"broughtupsy","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lithub.com\/broughtupsy\/","title":{"rendered":"Broughtupsy"},"content":{"rendered":"

1996 <\/strong><\/p>\n

MONDAY<\/strong><\/p>\n

Sara and I walk through the hospital doors, up and around the large staircase as I recite the nurse\u2019s directions in my head. Take the hallway on the left, then another on the right, straight through the waiting room to a row of patient rooms, then turn, first door on the right\u2014there he\u2019ll be. And there he is. My brother\u2019s hospital room smells like air-conditioning and antiseptic and the musty stench of something decayed. I glance up at the far corner, afraid I\u2019ll see a muted TV showing black smoke gathering above green trees like I saw the last time I was in a hospital, when I was nine and my mother was declared dead.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey,\u201d my baby brother Bryson says, smiling up at me from his bed. He\u2019s already been here a week.<\/p>\n

\u201cHi,\u201d I whisper.<\/p>\n

He coughs\u2014heavy, threatening, on the brink of something nasty. My girlfriend Sara hands him a tissue while my father watches from the hallway.<\/p>\n

\u201cHere y\u2019are,\u201d Sara says.<\/p>\n

Bryson\u2019s face spreads into a wide grin. Y\u2019are<\/em>, y-are<\/em>, long drawl rolling easy in a familiar caress. He was two when we moved to Texas, only six when we left for Canada. He knows he\u2019s Jamaican. He knows what it says on his birth certificate, but there\u2019s something about slow-smoked brisket and fruit paletas and screaming Hook \u2019em!<\/em> from football bleachers that makes him feel like he\u2019s where he belongs.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow y\u2019all doin\u2019?\u201d he says then coughs again, his small body convulsing.<\/p>\n

\u201cAk\u00faa,\u201d my father calls from the doorway, gesturing for me to join him in the hallway.<\/p>\n

But I don\u2019t move. I can\u2019t stop staring at my brother, watching the slow blink of his eyes and the way he squirms under the stiff sheets, IV lines pulsing red in and out of his sallow skin. He shouldn\u2019t be here. He\u2019s only twelve years old.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll be right back, champ,\u201d Sara says, ushering me out of the room.<\/p>\n

Out in the hallway, the doctor extends his hand to me, his head cocked at just the right angle to exude concern. \u201cI\u2019m sorry about all this,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n

I stare at the gray hairs on his knuckles, my own hands limp at my sides. Daddy shakes the doctor\u2019s hand as Sara heads down the hall to give us space.<\/p>\n

\u201cNow that we\u2019re all here,\u201d the doctor says, looking from my father to me. \u201cBryson\u2019s sickness, it\u2019s hereditary. Passed down from parent to child just like eye shape and skin color.\u201d<\/p>\n

Daddy looks at his knees.<\/p>\n

\u201cIs there a history of sickle cell in your family?\u201d the doctor says. \u201cAny extreme anemias? Blood-borne illnesses?\u201d<\/p>\n

I watch my brother through the small window as he coughs, his body retching with our mother\u2019s disease. Daddy buries his head in his hands.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy assistant will be with you shortly,\u201d the doctor says. \u201cShe\u2019ll explain all the information we need to help you through this difficult time.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sara looks at me longingly from the other end of the hall. She heard enough. She knows. I stay where I am, heavy as lead.\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

TUESDAY<\/strong><\/p>\n

I flip the quarter between my forefinger and thumb, forefinger and thumb, as I stare at the gray pay phone hanging on its hook. Behind me, I hear machines beeping and nurses shuffling in and out of patient rooms. I have to do it. I have to call. Sliding the coin into the machine, I dial my older sister\u2019s number.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know,\u201d my sister Tamika says as she picks up. \u201cDaddy called me this morning.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen does your flight get in?\u201d I rest my forehead against the booth\u2019s cool wall.<\/p>\n

She says nothing, her breath coming quick like she\u2019s struggling for air.<\/p>\n

\u201cTamika?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDaddy didn\u2019t tell you?\u201d she says.<\/p>\n

\u201cTell me what?\u201d I squeeze the phone. \u201cAre you sick too?\u201d I go dizzy for a moment, knees threatening to give.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo!\u201d she says. \u201cPraise be, I\u2019m fine.\u201d<\/p>\n

I exhale, relieved. \u201cThen what?\u201d<\/p>\n

She goes quiet again, scratching sounds filling the receiver like she\u2019s fiddling with the cord. \u201cI\u2019m not coming,\u201d she says. \u201cI can\u2019t come.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d I wrap the phone cord around my wrist. A nurse rushes past me, a clipboard under his arm. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, what?\u201d I say again.<\/p>\n

Tamika stays silent as the nurse knocks on a door then lets himself in.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s sick, Tamika,\u201d I exclaim. \u201cYuh hearin\u2019 me? He\u2019s sick.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know,\u201d she says. \u201cCan I talk to him?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy can\u2019t you come?\u201d<\/p>\n

She goes quiet again, static filling the phone pop pop pop<\/em> then clearing.<\/p>\n

\u201cTamika?\u201d<\/p>\n

Nothing.<\/p>\n

\u201cTamika, yuh cyaa be serious.\u201d<\/p>\n

The phone line remains silent. She has nothing more to say. I unwrap the phone cord then stare at the crisscrosses of pulsing red on my skin.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you serious right now?\u201d I yell.<\/p>\n

She sighs. \u201cWhy are you always like this?\u201d<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t know why, but I laugh. Our brother\u2019s in the hospital and she isn\u2019t coming, so I laugh and laugh and then I hang the phone up. I pick up the receiver, dial tone beeping, and I hang up again, and again, laughter rolling up my throat like fizz from a shaken soda. And I hang up again, and again, smashing the receiver against the metal clip harder, and again, and again, until Sara wrenches the phone out of my hand then pulls me away.<\/p>\n

\u201cShhhh,\u201d she says as she wraps her arms around me, but I will not cry, I will not be soothed.<\/p>\n

\u201cAk\u00faa!\u201d she hisses as I push her away and march down the hall to my brother\u2019s room.<\/p>\n

Slamming the door behind me, I pull a chair over to Bryson\u2019s bed. He looks up. I am here. He smiles. I am where I should be. I will not leave. I will not be known to my brother only as a voice through the phone. Running my hands over my braids, I force my face into a smile. I want to grab his lunch tray. I want to watch it smash against the far wall. Our sister isn\u2019t coming. \u201cEat your Jell-O,\u201d I mumble, pushing the tray closer to him.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe food here sucks,\u201d he says. \u201cDon\u2019t they have any enchiladas? Or taquitos?\u201d He curls his hand into an O, then stares at the empty space between fingers and palm.<\/p>\n

I know what he\u2019s thinking: scrambled eggs and melted cheese seeping through toasted tortilla, fresh and steaming as it wafts around the school courtyard.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou remember Dave?\u201d he says, wiggling his fingers as they bunch and grasp at nothing at all. \u201cThis one time,\u201d Bryson says, \u201cme and Dave, we bought too many taquitos at recess. Daddy had just given me my allowance, so we bought too many and I saved some for lunch.\u201d He closes his hand into a fist. \u201cCold taquitos are gross.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShould\u2019ve made Dave pay for them.\u201d I sit on the edge of his bed. \u201cThen they would\u2019ve been his problem.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut that\u2019s mean,\u201d Bryson says.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut you would\u2019ve had hot and free taquitos.\u201d<\/p>\n

He chuckles as he picks up the plastic cup from his lunch tray, watching the green square jiggle in his hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cEat,\u201d I urge him.<\/p>\n

He slips a chunk in his mouth, chewing slowly then swallowing.<\/p>\n

\u201cSee?\u201d I squeeze his knee. \u201cNot so bad.\u201d<\/p>\n

He makes a face, pretending to puke, as Daddy comes into the room.<\/p>\n

\u201cTamika should be here soon,\u201d Daddy says.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe\u2019s coming?\u201d I exclaim.<\/p>\n

Daddy looks at Bryson and says to his son, \u201cHer flight\u2019s been delayed, but don\u2019t worry, she\u2019ll be here.\u201d<\/p>\n

Bryson puts his Jell-O down with a soft smile. He hasn\u2019t seen our sister since when we first got to Texas, when he was two.<\/p>\n

I grab my father\u2019s arm. \u201cIs she really coming?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you going to say to your big sister,\u201d he says to Bryson, \u201cwhen she arrives?\u201d<\/p>\n

Bryson thinks for a moment, fiddling with his gown. \u201cI\u2019m going to say, \u2018Sister, if you were in a burning car, who would you call: Batman or Superman?\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

Daddy laughs. I dig my nails into the cotton of his sleeve. Is she really coming?<\/p>\n

\u201cSuch a smart bwoy mi have,\u201d Daddy says.<\/p>\n

Bryson tries to laugh but his laugh turns into a cough. Closing his eyes, he sinks deeper into his pillow. He\u2019s breathing harder than before, air gurgling slow through his open mouth. I let my father\u2019s arm go.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe\u2019ll be so glad to see you,\u201d I mumble to Bryson.<\/p>\n

Daddy looks at me. \u201cYes,\u201d he says. \u201cShe will.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWill she cook with us?\u201d Bryson says, trying to sit up. \u201cDoes she like to eat?\u201d Bryson loves to eat. He marks his days in meals, memories cataloged by the sensations on his tongue.<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course she loves to eat,\u201d I exclaim, leaning over Bryson and giving him a big big smile. \u201cAs soon as we get home, we\u2019re gonna whip up nuff cheeseburga and enchiladas.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cEnchiladas!\u201d Bryson exclaims as Daddy chuckles. \u201cAnd brisket! And rice and peas! And curry chicken but without the potatoes. I hate potatoes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLawd, bwoy,\u201d Daddy says, pulling the blanket down over his toes, \u201cyuh goi\u2019 eat yuhself sick.\u201d<\/p>\n

Bryson smiles, closing his eyes. \u201cI think I need a nap,\u201d he says, having worn himself out from saying so much.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou do that, little chef.\u201d I lean over and kiss his forehead, his skin sweaty yet cold.<\/p>\n

Daddy fixes his pillow as I tuck the sheets under his hips.<\/p>\n

Bryson touches my arm. \u201cYou\u2019ll be here when I wake up?\u201d<\/p>\n

I smile at him. \u201cI\u2019ll fight anyone who tries to make me leave.\u201d<\/p>\n

The doctor knocks lightly on the door. \u201cA word?\u201d he says.<\/p>\n

Daddy and I follow him out of the room. From her seat down the hall, Sara throws me a small smile then a wave. Blinking fast, I look away.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a long shot,\u201d the doctor says, rubbing his chin and handing over the forms, \u201cbut we\u2019re running out of options. The illness is progressing quickly. It\u2019s worth taking a look.\u201d<\/p>\n

Daddy nods, signing the forms then handing them to me. He doesn\u2019t read them\u2014doesn\u2019t need to read them. He\u2019s been signing forms and sending Bryson and me for tests in hospitals since I was ten. The tests should\u2019ve caught this. I flip through the pages and pages of fine print, trying to take it all in.<\/p>\n

\u201cJust sign,\u201d Daddy says, sounding tired.<\/p>\n

Through the shut door I can hear Bryson coughing, fever getting worse.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you all of Bryson\u2019s next of kin?\u201d the doctor says. \u201cIf there are other family members, it\u2019d be ideal if we could test them too.\u201d<\/p>\n

I can\u2019t come<\/em>, Tamika had said. She could and she should but she won\u2019t. Because why?<\/p>\n

Because ten years ago, my father packed up my family and flew us over the sea. My sister and brother and me, Daddy flew us first to Texas before finally making home here, in Vancouver. I was ten when we first left. Bryson was two and Tamika was sixteen. In my head, Tamika\u2019s still sixteen.Soon after we moved, Tamika left us abroad and went back home. All I know is that years passed with her in Kingston and us in Texas then Canada and Daddy calling her on the phone yelling\u2014back then, he was always yelling\u2014calling her wah eediat chile for leaving. \u201cWhat about Mummy?\u201d Tamika would sometimes say. \u201cWho is here to tend to her?\u201d Every time the line would fall into hard silence, just heavy sighs echoing until someone hung up. Our mother is dead so Tamika stayed behind, shaking her head in a never-ending no.<\/p>\n

But now our brother is dying. And there\u2019s me, wanting my big sister. What a eediat chile<\/em>. Signing the form, I press the pen against the paper so hard that it starts to rip. Our sister is in<\/p>\n

Kingston, delayed by a plane that will never land. I watch my brother through the small room window, his breathing shallow as he tosses in his sleep. I hope he\u2019s dreaming of his sister sprinting through the airport, of her waving down the plane with her voice rising and arms flailing as she throws her handbag, her suitcase, throws her whole body, doing whatever it takes to stop the plane so she can climb on and come to him.<\/p>\n

\u201cGreat,\u201d the doctor says, watching me sign. \u201cMy assistant will walk you to the lab to get the blood work started. Who knows, one of you might be carrying just the thing we need.\u201d<\/p>\n

A nurse enters Bryson\u2019s room, introducing herself with a curt smile as she replaces one of the pouches hanging over his bed. Inserting the new needle into his IV line, she squeezes the pouch to start the flow\u2014dripdrip<\/em> Bryson\u2019s blood goes, dripdrip<\/em> like counting seconds, losing time.\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

WEDNESDAY<\/strong><\/p>\n

Water rushes through the tap, hot and unrelenting. Stepping into the shower at my father\u2019s house, I reach for the body wash next to shampoo next to two types of conditioner next to olive oil hair treatment next to face wash next to Bryson\u2019s body wash in a bottle shaped like lightning. Before, in Jamaica, I only knew castile soap. You need face wash? Shampoo? Grab the castile soap.<\/p>\n

I wonder about her in moments like these. I wonder what Mummy would think of this house, of Daddy directing trucks of gray dirt to silos caked in soot. Would she be relieved, happy to see us with trimmed nails and moisturized skin as we walk down roads where the asphalt never burns? Or would she be annoyed, wrapping her belt around her fist to discipline us for indulging in excess? I wish I could stop myself from wondering. My brother is in the hospital and my mother is dead. The exhaust fan whirs on, sucking the room cold.<\/p>\n

\u201cCall me if anything changes?\u201d Sara says. \u201cGood or bad?\u201d<\/p>\n

Stepping into the bedroom, I tie my robe around my waist. Sara\u2019s missed three days of class. This is my emergency, not hers. If she misses any more, she might fail. I look at her cowlicked hair and milk-smooth face, her three brown moles beneath thin pink lips. She twirls one of my braids around her thumb then leans in close, the soft point of her nose pressing against the broad swell of mine. We are in love. We are twenty years old.<\/p>\n

Sara stuffs her socks and toothbrush into her small backpack. She\u2019s leaving the suitcase we came with from our apartment for me. \u201cEverything will be okay.\u201d<\/p>\n

I glare at her. \u201cWill it?\u201d<\/p>\n

She flinches then rolls her pants into a tight log, tucking them into the small crevice between her books on anatomy and biochem. She tells me she wants to stay, how she feels so awful, but it\u2019s all right if she leaves because my brother will be just fine. She smiles, cheery and bright. He\u2019ll pull through and I\u2019ll be back in class in no time.<\/p>\n

I watch her as she shoves her sticky notes next to her deodorant and bag of dirty laundry and I can see it, she won\u2019t say it, the truth hiding behind the whites of her eyes. She\u2019s thinking about her test next week. She\u2019s thinking about keeping her grades up to flip her med school admission from conditional to guaranteed. Med school means going back to foil-wrapped taquitos and dark beers in cool bottles named after her great state. It means cicadas buzzing in fields of swaying hay and long dips in cool rivers feeding into the Rio Grande in her beloved Texas. I don\u2019t want that home. I say the word that\u2019s been lingering like sour meat on my tongue.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo what?\u201d Sara says.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, you won\u2019t call?\u201d she says.<\/p>\n

Standing back, I take her all in. \u201cTake the suitcase,\u201d I tell her. \u201cIt\u2019s yours anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n

FRIDAY<\/strong><\/p>\n

The lab results come back. My father and I, we don\u2019t have what Bryson needs. We watch through the window as a nurse wipes his brow.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d the doctor says. He\u2019s looking right at us this time. He\u2019s being sincere. \u201cThis is one of those things we can\u2019t predict\u2014what may trigger the anemia, how deep it may go.\u201d<\/p>\n

A bag expands, contracts, making Bryson breathe. A small machine registers his heartbeat, black monitor showing a white line rising and falling in sharp peaks.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe showed signs of improvement,\u201d the doctor says, \u201cthen his blood pressure dropped overnight and internal organs began to fail. He was clotting faster than we realized.\u201d<\/p>\n

My brother\u2019s lying unconscious, thin and shriveled like a rind of old fruit. The nurse puts the rag away then reaches around him, slow and careful, and turns him over. My brother does not blink. He does not scream in protest against this stranger\u2019s touch. Expand. Contract. The machine beeps.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo we have your consent to take him off life support?\u201d the doctor says.<\/p>\n

\u201cJesus,\u201d I exhale. I was talking to Bryson just yesterday, and now we\u2019re taking him off life support?<\/p>\n

The doctor looks at me. \u201cDon\u2019t worry,\u201d he says, \u201cyour brother won\u2019t feel a thing. Brain activity slowed to dormant around five this morning.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI wish you hadn\u2019t told me that,\u201d I mumble. I want to think of him as my Bryson, my brother, asleep but still here.<\/p>\n

\u201cSorry,\u201d the doctor whispers.<\/p>\n

Daddy flips through the pages on the clipboard, his hands starting to shake. He\u2019s done this before, tucked my mother away safe beneath red Kingston dirt. I watch him uncap the pen as he stands next to me in the hospital, doing it again. Flip flip<\/em>, he barely breathes as he finds where he needs to sign.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf you\u2019d like,\u201d the doctor says, glancing at me, \u201cif this is too painful, we can retrieve you once\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d Daddy says, signing the form. \u201cWe\u2019re staying right where we are.\u201d<\/p>\n

The doctor takes the clipboard. \u201cI\u2019m very sorry for your loss.\u201d<\/p>\n

A nurse follows him into Bryson\u2019s room as I rest my forehead against the small window. The tube running from Bryson\u2019s mouth gurgles, sucking his spit through the clear coil then into a port in the wall. My brother cannot speak. He cannot swallow.<\/p>\n

Hey Bryson, I murmur to my brother in my head. I watch the doctor silence the alarm on a beeping machine. Hey baby brother, remember your first day at school here in Canada? I close my eyes. Remember how upset you were?<\/p>\n

\u201cI just don\u2019t get it,\u201d you\u2019d said. You were standing in the hall in our new house, still wearing your backpack. You were crying. \u201cThis one girl, she kept asking me, \u2018Do people in Texas ride horses to school?\u2019\u201d you said. \u201cI told her no, we drive cars, duh. But she kept asking, \u2018Do you ride horses? Do you have to scoop poop every time you reach a stop sign?\u2019 And I said no, but everyone kept laughing. I didn\u2019t laugh. I didn\u2019t think it was funny.\u201d<\/p>\n

I bent down until my head was level with yours. \u201cYou should\u2019ve said yes,\u201d I told you. \u201cYou rode a horse to school and John Wayne was your gym teacher.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d you said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy not?\u201d I shrugged. \u201cIf they want to ask stupid questions, give them stupid answers.\u201d<\/p>\n

You wiped your damp cheeks. \u201cYeah,\u201d you said. \u201cYeah, okay. Yeah! Like, um, we use tumbleweed for floss.\u201d<\/p>\n

I grinned. \u201cAnd we turn cow poop into electricity for our houses.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd, and,\u201d you said, thinking hard, \u201cwe make sushi out of snake meat!\u201d<\/p>\n

I laughed. \u201cEvery evening, we hunt wild cougars with our bare hands.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRawr!\u201d you growled, crouching down on all fours as I spewed lie after lie to make my brother grin.<\/p>\n

Now you\u2019re not laughing. I\u2019m not sure if you\u2019re even still here. In the hospital room, the doctor signs something then moves to the end of the bed, sliding a thick tube between my brother\u2019s hips. Bryson doesn\u2019t speak, can\u2019t scream as the doctor tapes the tube to his knee then attaches the other end to a large clear pouch. The doctor pushes on his stomach, brown gunk seeping into the pouch as both nurses move to the head of the bed and start pressing buttons, turning things off.<\/p>\n

\u201cDaddy?\u201d I murmur, my breath fogging the glass.<\/p>\n

He lifts my head off the window, resting it on his shoulder as he wraps his arms around my waist. With a slight groan, he tries to lift me up like he used to, when I was a kid in Jamaica. Following his movements, I stand on my tiptoes just to make him feel like he can still do it, that nothing\u2019s changed.<\/p>\n

Beepbeep<\/em> the monitor goes, line climbing slowly. Beep beep<\/em> the machine sings, line already beginning to fall, beep<\/em> then I wait, I want to hear it but there\u2019s no more. Daddy buries his head in my shirt collar then lets out a long wail.<\/p>\n

Our mother and brother, who art in heaven, hallowed be their names.<\/p>\n

__________________________________<\/p>\n

From <\/em>Broughtupsy<\/a> by Christina Cooke. Used with permission of the publisher, Catapult. Copyright \u00a9 2024 by Christina Cooke.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

1996 MONDAY Sara and I walk through the hospital doors, up and around the large staircase as I recite the nurse\u2019s directions in my head. Take the hallway on the left, then another on the right, straight through the waiting room to a row of patient rooms, then turn, first door on the right\u2014there he\u2019ll […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":63,"featured_media":231824,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[25508,3,43074,43076,26764],"tags":[83652,4090,83651,184],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/lithub.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/01\/9781646221882.jpg","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p5rKFr-Yj5","jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lithub.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/231823"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lithub.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lithub.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lithub.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/63"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lithub.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=231823"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lithub.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/231823\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lithub.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/231824"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lithub.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=231823"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lithub.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=231823"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lithub.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=231823"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}