Is it too fast?
Have I done enough to make sure she doesn’t suffer heat stroke?
Once, back in high school when I was on the JV team and we were doing two-a-days on the football field, one of the offensive linemen just passed out. Went down like a log. The coaches bodily dunked him into the cool pool and our school nurse started an IV while we waited for the ambulance. The guy was okay, but it was scary as shit.
After that, the coaches made sure we all knew the signs of heat exhaustion and how to spot them for ourselves and our teammates.
Greta is looking better, but how can I be sure I've done enough?
Call Mom.
I stand up and look down at Greta. Her eyes are shut again.
“Greta? You still with me?”
“Mmm hmm…. Just tired.”
Is that normal? You shouldn’t let someone with a concussion fall asleep. Is heat-stroke the same thing?
Call Mom.
“I’ll be right back.”
As soon as I shut the lodge door behind me, I’m tapping Mom’s number. It’s three o’clock in Charleston, which means she and Dad are probably back at the house after their morning golf game and lunch at the club.
Mom’s a retired nurse. Dad’s a retired attorney. They fell in love with Charleston about ten years ago. My sisters and I weren’t at all surprised when they announced their big plans a couple of years ago to sell the house here and enjoy their retirement in coastal South Carolina.
Mom answers on the second ring. “Well, my goodness. If it isn’t the Prodigal Son,” she teases. She’s been calling me this since I announced I was moving back to Louisiana. The only problem with her joke is that they aren’t here anymore. Still, the smile in her voice is so reassuring, I almost drop to my knees. My mom’s name is Susanna, but everyone just calls her Sunny.
It’s not an accident.
“Hey, Mom. Gotta minute?”
“For my only son, I think I can put my book down for at leasttwominutes.” She must pull the phone away because I hear her next words at a distance. “Marco, honey, it’s Zachary!”
My dad’s name is Marcus, but for as long as I can remember, Mom has called DadMarco.Marco and Sunny. They’rethatcouple. The one everyone would hate, except they’re too stinkin’ cute.
Mom sounds so excited to hear from me that guilt corkscrews in my chest. I’ve called them a few times since we moved from Greta and Josh’s rent house to our work-in-progress here, but Mom and Dad deserve a call from me more than three times in eight weeks.
And the reason I’m ringing now isn’t to catch up. I already know she’s going to be disappointed when this isn’t the long, fill-in-all-the-gaps call she craves.
I grip the back of my neck. “Mom, I-I’ve got a medical question.”
“Oh? Are you okay, baby?”
Her concern gets me. Like right in the sternum. I honestly can’t remember the last time someone asked me if I was okay, but the last thing I want to do is worry her. I’ve put her and Dad through enough.
I clear my throat. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine. But I’m worried about Greta.” Without stopping, I lay it all out for her. The fence-building. The heat. All of Greta’s symptoms. The ice pack. The strip-down. Mom listens, making little sounds of acknowledgement and concern as I unload. “So… what should I do? Take her to the hospital or just—I don’t know—keep an eye on her?”
The last place I want to be is a hospital, and Mom knows it. Still, I’ll rush Greta to the hospital if she’s in danger.
“Well, shesoundsstable. Do you have a thermometer?”
“Umm…”
Do I?No. Do Josh and Greta?No clue.
“A good first aid kit will have one. Tell me you have a first aid kit.”
