Gertrude lay beneath a thin hospital blanket with an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose.
The mask fogged faintly with each shallow breath.
Her hand rested motionless in mine, cold at the fingertips and papery across the knuckles.
A heart monitor beside the bed kept changing its rhythm, quickening and slowing in a way that made me afraid to look away.
“Gertrude, please don’t leave me,” I whispered.
A nurse adjusted a line, checked the screen, and told me someone would come speak with me soon.
I nodded as though I understood what that meant.
Then I called Christopher again.
The first few calls had been practical.
Your mother is in the ER.
Please call me.
The doctors are worried.
By the tenth call, I had stopped pretending I was calm.
By the twentieth, I was leaving messages I could barely understand when I played them back.
“Christopher, pick up.”
