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While we're driving, she gets a text. I look out the window while she reads it and then she covers her mouth with a hand.
"Oh, God," she whispers.
I glance over. "What's the matter?"
"My mom," she says. "She fell while painting the house. She's in the hospital."
She dials her cell and looks at me, her eyes wide, waiting for the call to connect.
"Dad?" she says, her voice panicked. "How is she?"
There's a long pause while she listens to what he's saying.
"When? How long?"
She listens more and I'm frustrated, because I want to hear what's happening. India's parents are flakes, but they're lovable flakes.
"I'll catch the first flight out," she says, and I can hear the fear in her voice. "See you as soon as I can get there."
Then she hangs up and looks into my eyes. "She's in surgery. She had some kind of head injury and was moved right from the ER to the OR." She leans forward and asks the driver to redirect. "Drive me to the airport. I have to go back. I'll take whatever flight I can get out as soon as possible."
"Your luggage –"
"You can send it to me. I want to go right there."
"Okay," I say and pull her closer, hoping that Joanne survives whatever's happened to her. India is nothing like her flaky parents, politically, but she's her mother's daughter. Smart. Funny. Loving.
I know how devastating it would be if anything happened to her.
We arrive at the airport and India goes up to Virgin Atlantic counter, trying to get on the first flight out, but it won't be for an hour. There's a three-hour layover in Charlotte, North Carolina. She won’t arrive back in San Francisco until nine p.m. local time.
"We may have enough time to drive to the hotel and get the bags."
She glances at me, her eyes wide. "I'll stay here. You go, okay? I don't want to leave in case I miss the flight because of traffic."
"Okay," I say. "I don't want to miss saying goodbye. Just in case."
She nods and we embrace, hugging each other tightly. Her eyes are wet, and she's really upset.
"Maybe I should stay," I say, concerned that she'll be alone, panicking about her mother. "I can call the hotel and get them to send our suitcases and they'll get back tomorrow. I don’t want to leave you alone."
She forces a brave smile. "I'll be fine. You go and try to get everything. If you miss the flight, it won't be such a big deal, but I can't miss it."
I agree, and kiss her once more, squeezing her tightly, then I flag down a taxi and we drive off in mid-day traffic to the hotel.
I end up missing the plane. I call India from the taxi when we're caught in traffic and there's no way I'll get back.
"Hey," she says when she answers. "Let me guess: you're not able to make it back."
"I'm so sorry," I say. "I wish I was with you and you didn’t have to go on your own but there was an accident and we're being redirected."
"I wish you were with me, too," she responds. "I'm glad I didn't go back to the hotel with you. Catch the next plane out and come and see me at the hospital when you get in. I expect I'll be staying there all night depending on how she does."
"I will. Text me when you get in. I'll be thinking of you. Give your mom a hug and kiss from me. And your dad."
"I will."
While we're stalled in bumper-to-bumper traffic, I sit and re-read her texts. All of them from the last couple of days.
