Chapter 30 Diane
Diane
AUGUST
It’s my turn to help at Sara’s today, so I’m folding laundry in the den, or trying to.
My hands keep losing the thread, the fabric collapsing into piles that remind me of old bones.
Sara is sleeping upstairs, or so I think.
Cassie is at the kitchen table, assembling a puzzle that she found in the hall closet.
Nathan’s voice floats up from the porch. He’s on the phone with someone from the gallery, talking about water damage and insurance adjusters.
It’s almost noon, the sun a stark circle in a sky scrubbed raw by the storm. The world feels on pause, the air tense with the certainty that something is about to happen.
When it does, there’s no warning. One of the monitors in Sara’s room wails. A flattened shriek that echoes through the house. Nathan stops mid-sentence, and then his footsteps are pounding up the stairs.
“Call an ambulance,” he yells.
I fumble for my phone, hands all thumbs, and punch in 911 with the desperation of someone trying to dial the past.
The operator’s voice is calm, professional.
I give the address, the symptoms, my name.
She tells me to keep Sara still, to check her pulse, to stay on the line.
Judy appears in the doorway. She takes one look at Sara and snaps into motion.
She gets Cassie out of sight, ushering her outside with a gentleness I couldn’t have managed.
I cradle Sara’s head, stroke her sweat-slick hair. “Stay with me, please. Just stay.”
She tries to smile, lips peeling back from her teeth. “Don’t be dramatic,” she whispers, but the words are drowned in a fresh surge of pain.
The paramedics arrive in a rush of boots and black jackets. They kneel, speak in shorthand, assess and act in a blur. One asks about meds, allergies, next of kin. I answer with a litany of names and numbers, as if reciting an incantation might make her stay.
They strap Sara to a stretcher, tape leads to her chest, fit an oxygen mask over her mouth. Her eyes flutter, roll back, then snap open again.
She locks onto me, fierce and lucid. “Take care of Cassie,” she says, the words sharp and sudden.
I nod, tears stinging my face. “I promise,” I say, but my voice is a wreck.
The paramedics move fast. Nathan holds the door, guiding the stretcher out the front door. I follow, numb, my feet moving with a mind of their own.
In the driveway, the ambulance waits with doors open, engine idling. Cassie is on the porch with Judy, fists clenched white against the railing. She doesn’t cry, but her jaw is set, her entire body a refusal.
They load Sara in. One of the medics, a woman with freckles, tells Judy and me to follow in our car. I glance at Nathan and Cassie, then back to Sara, already vanishing into the machinery.
“I’ll take care of Cassie,” Nathan says. His hand finds my shoulder, the weight of it an anchor.
I don’t argue. I get into Judy’s car and we’re off, the blare of sirens leading the way.
At the hospital, the paramedics whisk Sara away. Judy and I are left alone in plastic chairs under a light so bright it erases every shadow. The air smells of bleach, every surface wiped down to a clinical shine. I sit with my hands on my knees, afraid to move.
Judy sits beside me, her face ashen. She reaches out, placing her hand over mine. The coolness of her touch offers little comfort, but I’m grateful for the gesture. I wonder how many times she’s sat like this, in hallways and waiting rooms, clinging to hope.
Nathan and Cassie arrive an eternity later. Cassie’s hair is damp, cheeks flushed. She sits beside me and slips her hand into mine, fingers sticky with sugar from the vending machine.
“How is she?”
I shrug. “We’re still waiting on the doctor to give us an update.”
Nathan paces, his arms crossed tight. He looks at me, then away, then back again, as if searching for a horizon he can’t find.
None of us speak. There’s nothing left to say.
Time does strange things in a hospital. It slows and stretches, loops in on itself. At some point, Cassie leans against my arm and falls asleep, her breath warm against my skin. Nathan sits across from us, elbows on knees, his head bowed as if in prayer.
I stare at the double doors at the end of the corridor, willing them to open.
When they finally do, a doctor in blue scrubs steps out. She looks at me, then at Judy, then at Nathan, then at Cassie, as if assembling a family from the fragments in front of her.
“She’s stable, for now,” she says. “We’re doing everything we can.”
The words land like a fist, but I nod, trying to keep my composure.
Cassie wakes up, blinking in the artificial light. She doesn’t ask if Sara will be okay. She just takes my hand, and Judy’s too, linking us together in a chain. Nathan joins, leans forward, stretching out a hand to join ours.
And for the longest time, we sit like that, the four of us, waiting.