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I wait for her to step away before I unfold it. The second the words register, I reach out for the arm of a green club chair—so great is my shock.
And my fear.
Your mother passed out at work. Get to SV Hospital immediately.
Without a word, I race for my desk to grab my purse before dodging employees and tourists to get to my car.
And my mother.
“Helen Brookes?” I fling my words at the individual manning the information desk the second my body collides with it. I can’t recall how fast I drove the roads to leave the Biltmore Estate, how many speeding laws I broke, how many stop signs I blew through just to get here one minute faster.
My experiences with this hospital aren’t kind memories despite the hard-working staff.
“One moment, please.” Every second the computer is being checked, I’m dying a small death. Finally, “Room 402.”
“She’s been admitted?”
An expression of sympathy crosses her face before I’m given directions to the elevator bank—not that I need them. Not unless they’ve moved since Austyn was admitted as a patient. Without a second glance, I take off in that direction, barely managing to slip in as the doors close.
A quick look at the panel tells me the fourth floor has already been pushed. I hold my breath as patients and doctors perform a shuffle and dance as they get on and off at floors two and three. Finally, I burst out at floor four and make a left in the direction of room 402.
Before I get there, I’m stopped—not by a person at a desk but by the most beautiful, yet hideous marble etching. My lips form the words but no sound comes out.
St. Peregrine Cancer Research Institute.
“No. It’s not possible.” I duck back and ensure I didn’t head in the wrong direction. Finding what I believe to be is a floor nurse, I demand her to look up my mother’s room. “I was just called because she passed out at work.” Holding out my cell phone as if there must be a grand mistake.
There has to be.
Instead of confirming or denying anything, the woman squares her shoulders. “Why don’t I walk you to your mother’s room, Ms. …?”
“Brookes.”
“I’m Dr. Claribel Lam. I’d be happy to escort you to your mother.”
She leads me in the direction opposite of the cancer ward and my heartbeat slowly settles down as we make the first right. “What do you do, Ms. Brookes?”
“Make it Fallon. I work at the Biltmore Estate as a curator.”
“That must be an interesting job. I recently transferred here—a temporary assignment to study…well, that’s not really important. Let’s get you to your mother.”
“Do you like it?” I ask, making polite small talk as we turn the next right bend.
“So far. I’ve only been here about a week. I used to live and work in New York.”
“Big change.”
“I accepted the offer after…well, I just needed to get out of the north.” She uses her badge to take us through the next set of closed doors, where we make another immediate right. Now, the rooms are different. Each has a sink outside and a warning posted. Every patient’s door is closed. Most individuals moving in and out of them are gowned.
As we approach room 402, we slow down, and I realize I can see the marble etching from the back. My gut churns bile when I realize we’ve done nothing but make a gigantic circle. “The cancer ward? Is my mother going to die?”
Dr. Lam rests a hand on my shoulder as gently as a butterfly. “I need to walk you through the protocols, Fallon. Then you can go in to see your mother.”
She doesn’t answer my question.
For the next few moments, I manage to keep from screaming as I learn how to scrub my hands, how to dress in a gown, how to slip on a mask—quickly tied by Dr. Lam. Before I can shove through the room, Dr. Lam offers me a small bit of insight. “You will never know how strong you can be until you fight for the person you love to live just one more day.”
Immediately, I decide she’s right. I square my shoulders. “I’ll do anything to ensure that happens.” And I do mean anything.