It's not the first time I’ve called Mimi’s mother since we arrived at St. Barts, but she’s yet to pick up. But this time, I won’t use Mimi’s phone, just the number from her address book.
The call buzzes, then clicks. Then it rings. And it rings. And then my heart stops as the sounds of a woman’s voice.
“Hello?”
Keep it together. Come on. You’ve done this before, broken bad news. You did this when Dad passed because Mum wasn’t in any fit state to. “Is this Mrs. Valente?”
“This is she,” a wary voice replies. I suppose my accent is a dead giveaway for something out of the ordinary.
“This is Whit, Mrs. Valente. Connor’s friend?” Not so good friend, as it turns out. Jesus Christ, how am I going to tell her this?
“Oh, yes, Whit,” she says with a burst of audible relief. “How are you?”
“Mrs. Valente, I don’t know if Mimi told you but she’s working for my company.”
“No, she never mentioned it. She called earlier but I missed her call. I was at the dentist.” I close my eyes. She didn’t call. She can’t because she’s in a coma. I should’ve used my phone the first time. “Mimi told me she was working at a bank in the city.”
“Yes.” I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my noise. “The bank.” VirTu, my bank, I suppose. Springing up from the chair, I walk to the darkened window and press my forehead against the cool glass.Get. The. Fucking. Words. Out.“I don’t know how to tell you this, except to say first and foremost that she’s stable, she’s okay.” Sort of. “But she’s in hospital.”
I hear the terrified intake of her breath, her words then falling in a rush, tumbling over each other like water over rocks. “Oh my God. It’s happened, hasn’t it? Her heart?”
“Yeah. Yes, they said it’s her heart.” There go the hairs on the back of my neck again. “She had a, a cardiac arrest.”
“But she’s okay?” she demands frantically.
“She stable,” I answer gravely. Stable is better than the alternative, right? Which would be unstable. Or worse still, completely fucking rigid, stretched out on a slab.
Stop.The glass rattles as I whack my head against it as though I can afford to waste brain cells. How on earth does a twenty-four-year-old suffer a cardiac arrest?
“I need to go—I need to book flights. No,” she adds under her breath. “Tell me where, Whit? Which hospital?”
“Saint Barts—Saint Bartholomew’s. It has a…” Does she need to hear this? Yes, I decide, there might be comfort in the knowledge. “It has a heart center. It’s a teaching hospital, too. One of the best in London.”
“Thank you, Whit,” she breathes out. “But do they know?”
“Know what?”
“About her condition? About Brugada?”
“I don’t know what that is,” I answer confused and sorry and so fucking scared.
“Oh, Whit. Please go and find a doctor. Tell them, please. Let them know she has Brugada Syndrome—it’s what killed Connor.” Her mother bursts into sobs.
“I’ll go and find someone,” I promise. “Let me…”
“Yes, yes, you do that. Call me right back?”
I promise I will.
And I do, several more times between finding a doctor and explaining what her mother told me. Between googling what the hell Brugada Syndrome is and finally cursing Mimi Valente for her recklessness.
41
MIMI
“Oh, honey.”
I wake to my mother, brushing my hair from my face.
