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I open up the Uber app on my phone and choose our vehicle, step into the small airport and use their restroom, and wait for the car to pull up.
“Ten minutes,” I tell Brooklyn when she asks me how much longer.
“Can I have some money, please? I’m super thirsty and there’s a vending and snack machine over there.”
“Sure thing,” I tell her, handing her my wallet. “Grab me a Diet Coke, will ya?”
“Yup. Dorothy, do you want anything?”
“Maybe a Sprite. I’m a little queasy after the flight.”
Dorothy takes a seat, her coloring pale.
“Do you need something to eat?” Brooklyn asks, sitting next to her and placing a hand on her arm.
“Just some Sprite for now. I think I need some sugar to get my pep back up.”
Brooklyn rushes to the machine and grabs her a Sprite, returning with her drink before going back for a drink for us. I open the bottle and hand it to Dorothy, helping her take a sip. Brooklyn hands me my Diet Coke and a package of cheese and crackers. The kind with the fake kind of powdery cheese between two crackers.
“I know these aren’t the best but maybe you need some calories, too?” Brooklyn asks, ripping open the package and handing one of the little squares to Dorothy.
“Thank you, sweetheart.” She munches away and takes another sip of Sprite while I rub her back and watch her closely.
“Is it helping any?”
Dorothy takes another sip but the color doesn’t seem to be coming back to her skin.
If anything, she’s looking a little worse. I watch as she presses a hand to her chest, wincing in pain.
“Dorothy?”
“Something’s not right,” she says in barely a whisper. “I don’t feel…” She gasps for breath. “I don’t feel so good.”
“Would you like me to help you to the restroom? Do you feel like you’re going to throw up?”
She nods weakly and I help her stand and walk to the restroom. We barely get to a stall in time before she vomits up what little is in her stomach.
Leaning against the sink to wash up, she stumbles a bit and I catch her.
“Whoa.”
“Something’s not right, Hadley.”
Her breathing is ragged and skin clammy when I grip her hand. My heart sinks when I tell her, “I think we need to get to a hospital.”
“No. I’ll be okay. Just need to sit for a bit.”
“Dorothy, don’t fight me on this. Please.”
When another round of nausea hits her, causing her to throw up in the sink, I decide enough’s enough. “We’re going to the hospital. Do you need an ambulance? Want me to see if the airport has anyone on staff who can help us?”
She opens her mouth to speak but ends up throwing up again.
Maybe someone here can help but I want her in a hospital as soon as possible. “Brooklyn, call 9-1-1. Tell them we’re at the private airport and we need an ambulance. I think Dorothy’s having a heart attack. Tell them to hurry.”
“Oh my gosh, okay, okay.” Without delay, Brooklyn calls for an ambulance and I help Dorothy to the floor, scooting her close to the wall so she has a place to lean.
Jumping up, I wet a paper towel and blot it on her forehead and place another behind her neck.
