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“They said the pony won the race, Mom. Stop bothering me about it.”
Then her eyes close again and she relaxes, sagging backward into the mattress.
“Fuck.”
She’s really sick. And of course she would be sick here, of all places… where I don’t have anyone I can call or a hospital to take her to.
A snide little voice sounds in the back of my head.This is why you live your life the way you do. If you don’t care for anyone, you aren’t responsible for their health and well-being.
The thought rings through my head, but I shove it aside. What I need at just this moment is to be practical. How can I get Persephone medical attention?
Leaving Persephone where she is, I pull on clothes and stuff myself into my suit jacket and combat boots. Then I venture outside, scanning the immediate countryside as the sun sets. The sunlight looks different here than it did in Spain. Down south, the setting sunlight showed a dazzling array of pinks and purples and brilliant navy blues. But here the sun is more cool and remote, just fading away with yellows turning into deep browns.
There are several people that I can see from my front door, although they are quite far away. They are all wrapped in their parkas and going about their business, paying little attention to me.
I pull my phone out, checking the map. It indicates that there is something akin to a downtown here, several blocks that are lined with shops. Looking for a hospital, I find that the only place listed is a small building just off the so-called main drag.
It’s work getting Persephone up and coaxing her into the passenger seat of the car. She is still sweating profusely, heat rolling off her body. As I throw the car into drive, I cast a sideways glance at her belly.
I’m pretty sure that being so close to that heat can’t be good for the baby. My chest tightens at the thought of having to tell Penny that I took a nap while her baby — our baby — roasted inside of her.
In the few minutes it takes to reach the small medical clinic, I’ve already pictured having to tell Persephone the worst news three different times. I get her out of the car, lifting her in my arms.
She murmurs but doesn’t resist as I carry her inside the clinic waiting room, her bright red cheeks reminding me of a rag doll.
I elbow the door open, showing a small waiting room area, a reception desk behind a wall, and a hallway that leads into the back of the clinic.
A young woman greets us as I storm in, her eyes widening. She sits at the reception desk, her tone calm, and asks me a question in an unintelligible language.
“English or Français?” I ask her.
She shoots to her feet, coming around the front walls to stand before me and assess Persephone. The frown on her face has my heart rate doubling. That can’t be good.
She holds up one finger, asking me to wait.
She vanishes down the hallway and I hear her muffled voice, entreating someone else to come see.
I grip Penny tighter, noticing that her sweat has seeped into my rumpled button up shirt.
“It’s okay,” I murmur to her. “We’re going to get you all fixed up.”
I have no way of knowing that, but I soothe her nonetheless.
When the young woman returns, she has an older woman in tow. The woman is about fifty, and trim, with steely gray streaks running through her dark bun. She looks at me through the keenest eyes, her footsteps stopping when we make eye contact. “Ye need help?” she asks. Her accent is faintly Scottish, watered down with a good dose of Norwegian.
My heart thumps loudly in my ears. My mouth goes dry. I clutch Penny to my chest, swallowing hard.
This woman may very well be my mother, whom I haven’t seen in over twenty years.
The woman clears her throat, schooling her expression. She gestures to Penny. “This is the patient, I assume?”
“Aye,” I agree, nodding tightly. “Persephone.”
She arches a brow, clearly thinking something. But she briskly pushes that aside, tapping my arm. As she does, I catch the name on her badge on the lanyard around her neck.
Magda Renner.
I swallow convulsively. I have no idea where the last name came from. But Magda is my mother’s name. The fact that we came to hide in her small town means that it’s unlikely to be a coincidence. Add in the fact that she’s a Scot…
