Chapter 43
FORTY-THREE
I had just walked into The Grindhouse—the coffee shop on campus—to grab an afternoon pick-me-up when my phone started vibrating in my hand.
The familiar scent of coffee beans and pastries that normally brought me comfort did nothing to ease the sudden dread that washed over me when I saw the name of a local hospital on my caller ID.
“Hello?” My voice was steady despite the rapid beating of my heart.
“Hi, is this Abby Walker? This is Melody Tynes. I’m a nurse at Mountain View Medical Center.” The woman’s professional tone did little to mask the seriousness behind her words.
“Yes, this is Abby. Is everything okay?” That felt like the dumbest question to ask because of course if the hospital was calling me, everything wasn’t okay. I gripped my phone tighter, bracing myself for whatever news was coming.
“Your grandmother was brought to us by a neighbor after she collapsed in her garden.”
I didn’t need to hear any more—not over the phone at least. “I’ll be right there.” I was already rushing out of the café and toward my car, nearly colliding with a student entering as I pushed through the door, the coffee I’d been craving completely forgotten.
With trembling fingers, I texted Foster and Sam since I had plans with both of them today and didn’t think those plans would be happening now. I kept the message brief, unable to type more as I fumbled with my keys.
emergency with Gram, heading to Mountain View now, will update when I can
The hospital wasn’t far from campus, so it only took me about fifteen minutes to get there, though every red light felt like an eternity.
I circled the parking lot twice before finding a spot, then practically ran to the entrance.
When I walked in, I rushed straight to the receptionist counter, my breath coming in short bursts.
“I’m here to see my grandmother, Daniella Thomas.” My voice cracked slightly on her name.
The receptionist—a middle-aged woman with kind eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses—looked at her computer, fingers clicking efficiently on the keyboard. “Room 406,” she told me and then gave me directions for how to get to the nearest elevator, pointing down a corridor to my right.
I thanked her and hurried through the antiseptic-scented hallway, past rooms with partially closed doors where I caught glimpses of other patients and their worried families.
The elevator seemed to move in slow motion, and I found myself counting each second that passed, acutely aware that time might be precious now.
A nurse with auburn hair pulled back into a neat ponytail was just walking out of my grandmother’s room, clipboard in hand, when I made it there.
“Are you Abby?” she asked, her voice gentle.
“I am.” I tried to peek around her into the room, desperate for a glimpse of Gram.
Her smile was kind, but it didn’t ease any of my worry.
It was that practiced hospital smile that medical professionals perfect—sympathetic but carefully neutral.
“I’m glad you could make it. Dr. Spencer is just checking in on another patient, but I’ll have him come talk to you once he’s done there. You can go on in and see her.”
“Is she going to be okay?” I asked, unable to keep the desperation from my voice.
Her expression remained frustratingly neutral. “I’m afraid I can’t answer any questions. You’ll have to wait for Dr. Spencer.”
“Thanks,” I said, even though gratitude was the last thing I was feeling at that moment.
I didn’t want to wait to hear what was going on, and I hated the stupid policy that only doctors could answer questions. I knew she knew just as much as the doctor—probably more since she’d likely been caring for Gram directly.
I walked into Gram’s hospital room and found her asleep on her bed, the steady beep of monitors creating an ominous soundtrack.
They said that a neighbor brought her in, but no one was in the room now.
She looked so fragile and frail against the stark white sheets.
Her skin seemed sallower than it had been before—her cheeks sunken in, the wrinkles around her eyes deeper than I remembered.
She looked like a shell of the Gram I’d grown up with, and the way she’d declined in such a short amount of time had terror creeping up my spine.
I knew she was sick, but why hadn’t she told us what was going on before it got this bad?
I sunk down into the chair next to her bed, the vinyl squeaking under my weight, and reached for her hand.
Her fingers were cold, and the bones felt fragile and breakable, like bird bones.
I covered her hand with mine, wanting to give her my warmth.
I’d give her all the strength I had if it would make her better.
The IV in her arm and the monitor on her finger made her look weaker than I could ever remember, and the hospital bed itself made her look smaller somehow.
This was the woman who’d held us all together when Mom passed away.
She’d always been a force of nature—strong, resilient, unbreakable.
Seeing her like this, diminished and vulnerable, made my chest ache with a pain I couldn’t articulate.
A few minutes passed before a tall blond man in a white doctor’s coat walked in. His name badge read “Dr. Spencer” and he carried a tablet, his expression professionally somber.
“Are you Abby Walker?” he asked, his voice calm and measured.
“Yeah.” I straightened in my chair but didn’t let go of Gram’s hand.
“I’m glad you could make it.”
“What’s wrong with her? Is she gonna be okay?” The questions tumbled out, my voice catching on the last word.
He hesitated. “You’re listed as her emergency contact, and her primary care physician has her advanced care directive on file, which gives us permission to share what’s going on.”
“Okay,” I said, nervous at his formal tone. The knot in my stomach tightened.
“Just to confirm—she hasn’t talked to you about her condition?” he asked, watching me carefully.
I shook my head, a lump forming in my throat.
“My brother and I have been concerned for months, but whenever we asked her, she just brushed it off. Said she was just getting older and slowing down.” I remembered the way she’d wave away our concerns, changing the subject to Mason’s football games or my studies.
Dr. Spencer frowned, his forehead creasing. “Seems commonplace for many in her generation, unfortunately, especially when they’ve already made the decision.”
“Decision about what?” My voice was barely more than a whisper now, dread pooling in my stomach.
“Your grandmother has advanced pancreatic cancer.”
The floor might as well have dropped out from under me as he continued on. The room seemed to tilt slightly, and I held Gram’s hand tighter, needing an anchor.
“She was diagnosed several months ago based on information in her chart and the notes from her oncologist. She declined treatment. She was seeing her doctor for some pain management, but didn’t want anything else.
Her collapse today isn’t a surprise, since she’s likely in quite a bit of pain and probably has been for a while.
We’ve stabilized her, but given the progression of her cancer, she likely doesn’t have much time left. ”
I couldn’t breathe, and suddenly I couldn’t see because my eyes were blurring from the tears filling them. The words “advanced” and “declined treatment” and “doesn’t have much time” echoed in my head, each one a hammer blow against my heart.
“She’s dying?” I asked, surprised my voice came out as clear as it did when I felt like I was going to choke on the grief already rising in my throat.
“I’m afraid so,” he confirmed, his voice filled with genuine compassion.
My lower lip wobbled as I tried to hold it together. I could feel my face contorting with the effort not to break down completely. “There’s nothing that can be done to save her?” I heard the desperate hope in my question, already knowing the answer.
“She didn’t want anything. The cancer was too far along when she was diagnosed. Treatment might have delayed things, but it wouldn’t have put her in remission.” His words were gentle but unflinching.
“How much time do you think she has?” I forced myself to ask the question I didn’t want answered.
He looked at my grandmother lying in the hospital bed, her chest rising and falling with each shallow breath, and then back at me. “It could be days or weeks, but I wouldn’t give her much more than that.”
Weeks?
I only had weeks with her? And that was only if she lasted that long.
I sat frozen in the chair, tears silently slipping down my cheeks, creating dark spots on my jeans where they fell. This couldn’t be happening.
Why was this happening? Hadn’t we lost enough? First Dad, then Mom, and now Gram? It was too much. Too cruel. Mason would be devastated.
Oh God, Mason.
He was already struggling so much with Mom’s death. How would he handle losing Gram too?
“Is there someone we can call for you to come here?” Dr. Spencer asked, his voice breaking through the fog of my thoughts. He was looking at me with concern, probably worried I was going into shock.
Before I could answer the doctor’s question, the door opened and Foster walked in. I’d never been so happy to see him because right now I didn’t think I even had the strength to stand. It felt like my whole world was crumbling around me.
His hair was slightly disheveled, like he’d been running his hands through it—something he did when he was worried. His blue eyes immediately locked with mine, taking in my tear-stained face and broken expression.
He rushed to my side, picking me up and holding me as I fell apart. His strong arms wrapped around me, one hand cradling the back of my head as I buried my face in his chest. The dam broke, and I sobbed against him, my body shaking with the force of my grief.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered into my hair, his voice a lifeline in the storm of my emotions. “I’m here, Abby. I’ve got you.”
And for just a moment, in the circle of his arms, I let myself believe that maybe I wouldn’t drown in this new wave of loss threatening to pull me under.