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I fake a smile at her as the car pulls up and we pile into the back seat. Gran is seated in the front seat and smiling calmly.
I lean over her seat from the back and put my arms around her neck. “What’s wrong, Gran?” I ask. “Are you ok?”
She nods and puts her two hands over my two hands around her neck. “Darling, yes, I have just been having these terrible stomach pains for a couple of days.”
Bridget screws up her face to me in question. “What does that mean?” she mouths at me. I shrug again. I see Mum’s worried eyes flick to her as she drives. I sit back and worriedly assess the situation.
We arrive at the hospital and are walking up the stairs when Gran doubles over in pain.
“Mum, what’s wrong?” My mother frantically rushes to her side. Bridget holds her hand over her mouth in fear.
“Go and get someone,” Mum snaps.
“Right.” I run through the doors and up to reception.
“My grandmother is in pain outside and can’t get in here.”
“Ok, I will get someone.” She picks up the phone and makes a call as she smiles calmly at me. “Won’t be long, go back to her and someone will be out to help you.”
“Ok, we are on the front steps,” I nod before I run back through the reception area where I see a nurse already attending Gran and helping her through the double electric doors. Bridget is as pale as a ghost and walking slowly behind them. They usher her into the casualty consultation room with Mum by her side and the doors close behind them.
Bridget and I wait for three hours in casualty—where in the hell is Mum? Why doesn’t she come and tell us what’s happening? What is happening?
“Why did we go out last night? I feel so bad,” Bridget groans.
“You look worse,” I mutter.
“You can talk.”
Mum walks through the doors and we both jump up immediately and rush to her.
“They are admitting her overnight to run some tests.”
I frown. “What for?”
“It seems her stomach and some of her organs are swollen. They have just called in an ultrasound person and we will know more after they do some tests.” She pulls out her phone. “I have to ring Robert ” She walks away from us and starts dialling his number.
“What do you think is going on?” Bridget asks.
I shrug. “I’m not sure but I don’t like it.”
For the next six hours Bridget and I sit in the waiting room with Mum, worried sick, and eating every hangover-treating grease-trap food we can find in the cafeteria. I’m never drinking again; this is intolerable.
At seven o’clock that evening the doctor comes out. “Mrs Marx?”
“Yes,” my mother answers as she stands. The doctor is about fifty, greying and kind-looking. He shakes her hand. “I’m Robert Walton. I have been looking after your mother today.”
“Is she ok?” my mother asks.
“Yes, we have sedated her and she is sleeping like a baby.” He smiles and gestures to the offices at the end of the corridor. “Would you like to come into the conference room so we can talk privately?”
Bridget and I exchange looks—that doesn’t sound good.
“Umm, sure,” my mother answers in a quiet voice. She looks nervously at us.
The kind doctor smiles. “Are you girls Netta’s granddaughters?”
We both nod. “You’re welcome to come too if you wish.” We follow him down the hall and into the conference room and we all sit nervously on the lounge.
