Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Cosmos skids into the kitchen, barefoot and shirtless, wearing only his jeans. As soon as he takes in the scene, his face hardens into something stoic and professional. He drops to his knees and takes my mom’s wrist, checking for a pulse. His expression tightens, and with it, my stomach.
“Mom,” I whisper. This can’t be happening.
“Her pulse is weak.” With quick efficiency, Cosmos swipes the broken glass out of the way. He takes Mom off my lap. Lays her flat on the ground. My vision tunnels. I can’t lose her.
“911, Hazel.” Cosmos’ steady voice directly opposes the hurricane wrecking my insides. “Now.”
I scramble to my feet, run back to my room for my cell phone, and call 911.
“Please state the nature of your emergency.” The voice is infuriatingly calm.
“My mom—” I don’t know what else to say. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. My throat constricts into a sob.
“Put it on speaker,” Cosmos commands. He continues chest compressions while he explains to the operator exactly what’s happened. I listen, but can’t take it in. His words are foreign. Collapsed. Arrhythmia. Just had surgery. Pulmonary embolism.
I feel like a boat that’s anchor has snapped. I can’t find purchase. There’s no harbor. Tossed. Adrift. Lost. I need it to stop. I need everything to stop.
I grab Cosmos’ arm. “Look at me.”
He looks up, and our eyes meet, but time keeps moving forward. I can still hear the sirens getting closer. Lights flash through the window. A firm, aggressive knock sounds on the door. Why won’t everything stop?
“It’s not working.” My voice sounds far away, like someone else is saying the words. Someone angry.
“Get the door, Hazel,” Cosmos says, his eyes painfully sad. “It’s the EMT.”
I snap out of my daze and run to the door.
The emergency team barges into the house like a stampede, and a middle-aged woman drops to her knees next to Cosmos.
“Dr. Romero?” She sounds surprised.
He doesn’t respond to her unspoken question, only stopping chest compressions long enough for the EMT to take over. “Mrs. Berton lost consciousness roughly ten minutes ago.”
A woman straps a blood pressure cuff to Mom’s arm, while a man pulls out an IV bag of something. He rolls up Mom’s sleeve, and I turn away, hugging myself. I don’t want to watch.
Another man comes up and asks me questions about Mom.
“Does she have any known illnesses?”
“Well… cancer.”
“She’s in Dr. Newberry’s trial,” Cosmos cuts in. “She had surgery less than ten days ago.”
I can’t decipher the look that passes between them.
“Is she on any medication?”
“Yeah. I…” My mind can’t keep up. The medications slip from my memory like little white pills falling through my fingers and onto the floor.
Cosmos takes over, giving the man a quick medical overview and a list of meds prescribed after surgery.
They’ve got Mom on a stretcher now, and we follow them to the ambulance. The EMT jumps in with her, and I move to do the same, but she holds up a hand, and Cosmos takes my shoulders, stopping me. He shares another look with the EMT.
“We can sit in the front,” Cosmos says.
I’m not sure that’s normal procedure, but the man doesn’t argue.
Cosmos must have disappeared for a moment while I was trying to answer the EMT’s questions, because I suddenly notice he’s wearing a shirt and shoes. He hands me my favorite sweatshirt and a pair of flip-flops, but curses as he helps me into the cab of the ambulance. “You’re bleeding.”
He’s right. My feet are cut up from the broken glass on the floor. I didn’t even notice.
He jumps in behind me, lifting my foot onto his lap.
The male EMT points to a box on the floor and throws the ambulance into drive.
Cosmos bandages my bare feet and talks with the EMT about things I don’t understand.
I’m vaguely aware of Cosmos calling ahead to the hospital.
I think he might be talking with Dr. Newberry, but I can’t make sense of anything. All I can think about is Mom.
“She’s alive, Hazel.” Cosmos pulls me closer on the bench seat. “She’s going to be alright.”
The ride to the hospital is seconds and years. It shrinks and stretches like those melting clocks in Dali paintings. It goes by in a quick blur, but we don’t get there fast enough.
“Can’t you go faster?” I plead.
When the ambulance pulls up in front of the hospital, Cosmos tilts my chin. “Look at me, Hazel. We need to talk.”
I look at him. Nothing happens. Again. Cosmos’ mouth falls open, and tears stream down my cheeks. It wasn’t just an anomaly. We’re broken. We really, truly can’t stop time anymore.
Cosmos pulls back, studying me with an expression I’ve never seen. His eyes are wide, brows wrinkled. My own panic is dull and distant, like it belongs to someone else. I don’t know what this means, but I can’t deal with it now. All I care about is Mom. She needs me.
“It’ll be alright,” Cosmos whispers. “We’ll talk. Later.”
I swivel away and jump out of the cab, rushing around the back just as the door is yanked open and everything erupts into chaos.
The EMT barks orders. They pull Mom’s stretcher out and pop the wheels.
I scramble trying to keep hold of her hand.
They’re moving too fast, rushing her through the sliding double doors and directly past the intake desk.
Cosmos, with his long legs, keeps pace with them.
But my body won’t keep up. My muscles are concrete, heavy and brittle. Slow.
A nurse steps in front of me. Blocking my path. “You the family?”
“Y-yes.” My voice doesn’t sound like my own. They’re getting away. Taking Mom away. Surrounded by doctors and nurses. I can’t even see her. I want to scream at the nurse to let me pass. Let me follow. But she takes my elbow. Her touch is gentle, but firm.
“I’ll show you where you can wait.” She directs me down a different hallway. Away from Mom.
She asks some questions from a form attached to a clipboard while we walk.
I do my best to answer, but it’s hard to focus.
When we reach the waiting room, it’s empty.
The sky outside the window softens with the first touch of the sunrise, and I want to scream at it to stop. How dare the world keep spinning! Stop!
“Do you have her insurance card?” The nurse’s question is like a sonic boom.
Like the world answering my command with a manic laugh.
Not only does it continue spinning, it continues demanding things of me, reminding me how ill-prepared I am.
I don’t have the insurance card. I don’t have my purse.
I don’t even have my phone. Or a romance novel to distract me.
Or any family to wait with me. I have nothing.
“It’s okay, sweetie. We’ll figure it out.” She pats my shoulder maternally. Then, she leaves.
I sink down onto a pale blue chair. Alone.