Page 67 of That's Not a Thing

The dark-haired woman barely glances at me as the man with the gurney pushes past me.

“Let’s lift her,” she tells the orderly while the other woman in the room starts putting an oxygen mask on Gladys.

“What’s wrong with her?” I shout again.

“Ma’am, you need to give us space to work,” the orderly tells me, as he shoves me a little to the side.

“Oh my God, is she going to be okay?” I realize that tears are streaming down my face.

Nobody answers as they transfer Gladys to the gurney and reattach the oxygen mask. I stand there, frozen. Finally, one of the women—I don’t even know if they’re doctors or nurses—turns toward me. “An allergic reaction to the meds. She’s in anaphylaxis. We have to get her to a resuscitation room. Someone will get you as soon as she’s stable.”

With that, they push past me and hurry down the hallway with Gladys between them, the metal wheels of the gurney squeaking out their own alarm. One of the hospital workers shouts something about possible cardiac arrest, and my blood runs cold.

Before I know what I’m doing, I have my cell phone in my hand and I’m calling Aaron. The phone rings three times, and I’m frantic that he’s not going to answer.

“Oh, thank God it’s you,” he says.

“Aaron!” I shout his name.

“Listen, it’s Wesley,” he says.

“What?” I ask, confused.

“He fell. I’m with him at the hospital. His leg looks to be broken in multiple places, possibly his pelvis, too. They’re prepping him for surgery.”

“Aaron, listen to me.” I feel myself taking charge. “I’m at NYU, at the hospital. Your mom is having a severe allergic reaction. You need to come here, now.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

It feels like neither of us can make sense of the other’s words.

“I don’t know. The doctors have her. She was unconscious, Aaron.”

“Oh my God,” he says again. “Okay, I’m on my way. But Wesley ...” He hesitates.

“It’s fine.” I can’t get my words out fast enough. “Just get here. And call your dad from the cab while you’re on your way, okay? I’ll take care of Wesley.”

“Right, okay,” he answers, his voice clipped, his tone equal parts worry and confusion.

We hang up, and I start making other calls.

FINALLY, I SEEAaron exit the elevator and beeline toward the nurses’ station. He’s in jeans and a T-shirt and looks more like a frat boy than a neurosurgeon at the moment. I get up from my chair in the waiting area and dash over to him. In my frantic state, I really don’t know whether it’s been fifteen minutes or two hours since I hung up with him. I call his name as I approach, and he looks away from the nurse he was talking to, surprise registering on his face.

“Mer? But what about Wesley?” His voice sounds thick to me, muddled by agitation and alarm. “Why aren’t you on your way?”

I want to move closer, to embrace him like I would have a month ago, but everything is different now. I keep my feet planted where they are, my hands to myself. “Don’t worry. I took care of it.” Before I can explain further, the nurse interrupts us to answer whatever Aaron said before I reached them.

“The doctors are still in with her. Someone will come update you as soon as they can.”

“Aaron!” someone shouts.

We turn in unison to see Mitch stepping out of the elevator bank, heading toward us.

“What the hell happened?” He looks at the nurse, who has just risen from behind her station. “How does someone make a mistake like that?” he demands.

“Dad, calm down,” Aaron tries. “There was no way for them to know she’d have an allergy to the medication. What was she even here for in the first place?” He looks from his dad to me and then back to his dad again.

Mitch freezes and then lets out a large sigh, all his venom suddenly replaced by a posture of defeat.