Page 52 of True Blue

Dawn drifts into the room then, one hand braced against the doorframe, her face tear-streaked and dazed.

This is the most undone I’ve ever seen her look.

It’s a bizarre thought, especially at a time like this, but I can’t help it. Trauma is strange. Death even more so. I’ve seen enough of both to know the mind grabs onto ordinary details like they’re the only steady things left in the room.

“Did you call 911?” I shout to Dawn.

She blinks at me like she’s waking from a dream. “No—no, I didn’t—I don’t⁠—”

Fuck.

“Teddy, call 911,” I tell him, my voice firm even as my heart aches at the look on his face.

He looks like he already knows what my own mind is telling me—too late, she’s gone. He nods anyway, pulls out his cellphone with trembling hands, and dials the three digits.

I position the heel of my hand over the center of Ellie’s chest, stack my other hand over it, and start compressions.

One, two, three, four…

CPR isn’t pretty. You’re manually trying to force the most vital muscle in the body to do what it no longer can.

I feel Ellie’s already fragile bones crack under my palms. The sound is awful and ugly. Dawn gasps, and Teddy lets out a choked sob.

I don’t stop pumping.

My mind starts singing Dancing Queen by ABBA, one of the songs my professor used in class to help us keep tempo. Ellie loves ABBA. She owns all their records. She and Ted saw them live in ’79, she told me once, proud as if she had witnessed God in concert.

I sing under my breath, hoping she’ll hear it, hoping it might somehow guide her back.

Ellie, please wake up.

I don’t want you to go.

Teddy needs you.

I need you.

A dispatcher’s voice cracks through the room as Teddy puts the phone on speaker.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“My grandmother!” Teddy chokes out, stumbling over the words. “She’s—my grandmother—she’s not breathing⁠—”

“Teddy, come over to me,” I say, not stopping compressions.

Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen…

Teddy crouches beside me, holding the phone out so the dispatcher can hear, but his gaze stays fixed on Nana.

“This is Dr. Indiana Miller,” I say, forcing my voice steady between compressions. “Female, seventy-two, found unresponsive in bed. No pulse. Skin is cold on contact. Pupils are unreactive. CPR in progress.”

“Dr. Miller,” the dispatcher says, her voice calm and practiced. “How long has she been down?”

“I don’t know,” I bite out before tilting Ellie’s chin, placing my mouth over hers, and breathing two breaths.

Then I start again.

“Any known medical history?”