When Time Stood Still (Romero Family #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Iused to like sunrises. A sunrise is a promise of something new. An invitation to hope. But my invitation must have been lost in the mail, or maybe it was stolen by a disgruntled postal worker who thought I’d had enough hope in my short twenty-six years.

Today, the only invitation the sunrise offers is crushing grief. The orange clouds are the color of the sundress Mom wore the day I moved out for college. The pink blush is the cotton candy I ate the day she was diagnosed with cancer.

Beep… Beep… Beep…

Mom’s IV alarm goes off, a warning that the bag is almost empty.

I abandon the couch by the window, duck carefully under Mom’s IV tube, and press the button, silencing the alarm.

Some nurses don’t like that, but it’s hard enough for Mom to sleep without the added noise.

Besides, there’s still fluid in the bag, and they’ll be in to take her vitals soon.

Mornings are busy times at the hospital. Nurses change shifts. Food is delivered. Sheets are swapped out. Doctors make their rounds. I can already hear them in the hall. Soon, they’ll burst in, flip on the lights, and in obnoxiously chipper voices ask questions I don’t want to answer.

When I turn around to go back to the couch, my wrist catches on the line, my forward momentum pulling on the IV, tugging hard enough to set off a new alarm.

Beeeeeeep. A loud, angry alarm. I stumble, trying to catch my balance, but it’s too late.

I trip and crash into the table. My cold hot chocolate flies into the air, splashing over my hair, face, and shirt.

“Hazelnut?” Mom’s voice squeaks, like she’s having to push extra hard to get air past her lips. Her eyelids flutter, but don’t open.

“What happened?” A short, older woman rushes into the room.

She’s wearing scrubs with kittens on them and holding a new IV bag, which she must have been coming to replace.

With practiced precision, she stops the alarm on the IV, unhooks Mom, primes the new line, and attaches it—all in the time it takes me to catch my breath.

“That’s one way to start a shift.” She smacks her hands together like someone shaking off dust. The clip of her words tells me she’s probably from somewhere on the East Coast. I wonder how she ended up thousands of miles away working at Oregon Hope Hospital, but I don’t ask.

I’ve never been comfortable with that kind of small talk.

Ripping a paper towel from the dispenser, I try to soak the chocolate off my shirt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“‘Course you didn’t mean to, doll.” Kitten Scrubs laughs.

“Don’t worry. I’ve seen worse. I had a wife trip over her husband’s catheter once.

Yanked the whole thing out and ended up piss-faced.

I even had a toddler pull out a port line.

Blood everywhere. The kid looked like he’d crawled out of a crime scene. ”

She checks to make sure Mom’s IV is still attached to her hand, and I shudder thinking of what could have happened. Mom groans and rolls over, curling into a ball.

Kitten Scrubs crosses to a board on the wall and writes her name. “I’m Rose. I’ll be your nurse today. Gotta finish with a few other patients, but I’ll be back to take vitals. Just sit tight.”

“Um, thanks.” I pat my chocolate-stained boob with a paper towel, wishing for a change of clothes. I haven’t been home to get any of our things yet.

Rose gives a curt nod, swoops up some trash from the table, and barrels out of the room. The door closes with a soft click.

Ignoring the sunrise’s hopeful lies, I return to the couch and open my laptop.

One hundred and fifty-four search results stare back at me.

One hundred and fifty-four options for how to save my mom.

Or how to make her worse. I have no idea how to narrow them down and pick the right one.

But this is something I can do, rather than sitting here in this hospital room slowly turning into helpless slush.

I’ve been digging through the National Institutes of Health’s website for three hours. So far, I’ve found five drug trials and three surgery trials Mom qualifies for, but only two of them are at Oregon Hope Hospital and only one of those is a phase three trial with decent results.

My phone buzzes on the small rolling table near the bed, and I dive for it. If Mom didn’t wake up from the IV pole debacle, it’s not likely she’ll wake up now, but I don’t want to risk it.

Kiara:

Where are you? Professor Paatel is wearing a fedora and a bow tie. A BOW TIE. With ducks on it!!! You have to see it.

I picture Matt Smith from Doctor Who saying, ‘Bow ties are cool,’ and wonder if Kiara meant to reference the 11th Doctor. But I don’t mention it. Most people don’t get my references.

Kiara:

Pages are due a week from Thursday.

Are you seriously ditching again? I’m here listening to Sullivan share yet another piece about a three-legged calico cat, while you’re probably sipping cappuccinos with some artist named Franc while talking about Proust.

You think I’m way cooler than I am.

And his name is Indigo.

Kiara:

please tell me he painted you blue last night

I stifle a laugh, take a picture of the little blue teddy bear on my keychain, and send it to her.

Indigo’s more of a cuddler.

I turn the phone face down on the couch, but it immediately buzzes with another text. This one isn’t from Kiara. It’s Jerky Jeremy (I refuse to call him dad, unless it’s as a mocking nickname).

Ex-dad:

I heard they admitted your mom to the hospital. Everything okay?

He doesn’t give me time to answer before another text comes in.

Ex-dad:

How are you holding up?

I ignore the texts, like I usually do. If Mom wants to talk to him, that’s fine, but it doesn’t mean I have to.

Kiara:

Where are you?

Shit. The picture of Indigo shows the thick wooden door of the hospital room in the background. Kiara is great—probably my closest friend—but our friendship exists in the bubble of grad school drama. She doesn’t know about Mom’s cancer, and I don’t plan on changing that.

doctor’s appointment

It’s not really a lie. There are doctors here.

Kiara:

Want to meet at The Book Bar for lunch when you’re done?

I’ll show you a picture of Professor Paatel’s bow tie, and we can talk about how horrible Sullivan’s last reading was—seriously, I was holding back laughter so hard I cried.

Actual tears! After class, he told me how much it meant to him that his piece moved me. LOL.

I don’t respond. I can’t risk anything distracting me from being ready for morning rounds.

The doctors will talk about Mom’s cancer in words I don’t understand and make recommendations with a confidence I don’t share.

Keeping my own research in my head is important if I’m going to make the right decisions.

I’m willing to do anything if it’ll give me more time with Mom.

I’ll go to a different hospital, a different state, a different country, if necessary.

The doctors aren’t going to recommend going somewhere else—they probably can’t legally suggest that—but, if I ask direct questions about the trials, they’ll have to answer.

My phone buzzes again, and my muscles tense. I can’t handle all the messages right now.

Kiara:

You never responded—coffee?? Must have coooooffeeee. Seriously, I’m a zombie, and I haven’t seen you all week. Meet me there in an hour.

I should tell her what’s going on. Or at least something vague—like there’s a family emergency. I start a message about my mom, but quickly erase it. Kiara doesn’t need to be burdened with my problems.

Can’t

There’s a sharp knock on the door, and my pulse skyrockets. This is it. Time to find out what the doctors have planned.