Steadying me so I don’t tumble from his lap, Emmett surges to his feet, pacing in front of the fire.
“What's going on?” he barks into the phone, skipping a greeting entirely.
The change is instant.
One second, he’s smiling against my mouth. The next, every muscle in his body is tight.
I rise from the chair slowly, my stomach already sinking.
“What do you mean she fell?”
The mug slips from his hand and lands in the grass.
Coffee splashes across his shoes, but he doesn't seem to notice.
“Okay.”
He drags a hand through his hair.
“Did she hit her head?”
A pause.
“No, I understand.”
Another pause.
“We'll be there as soon as we can.”
I’m moving as soon as he hangs up, grabbing my keys and phone from the camper.
“What’s going on? Is Monica okay?”
I already know the answer—I heard enough to know something happened.
Emmett is right behind me.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “Is your grandma okay?”
His jaw flexes. “Connie said she fell.”
My stomach drops.
“Is she hurt?”
“Connie doesn’t think so.” He shoves a hand through his hair. “She said she’s shaken up, but otherwise okay. Just a few bruises. The doctor was in with her when she called.”
It’s hard to be relieved when I can see the toll this takes on Emmett.
And poor Monica. Growing old feels cruel enough without your body and mind betraying you at the same time.
I’m already pulling myself into the driver’s side of the Jeep as Emmett does the same on the passenger side.
The drive down the gravel road is tense. The Jeep bounces through the ruts while Emmett stares out the window, jaw tight enough to crack a tooth. His knee bounces and he keeps checking the clock. Every second seems to stretch into an hour.
For twenty minutes, I live in Emmett’s fear as we ride in complete silence, other than a few grunted directions. By the time we pull into the memory care facility, my nerves feel as exposed as his. I barely get the Jeep into park at the entrance before he reaches for the door handle.
“Go,” I urge him. “I’ll meet you inside.”
