Chapter Twenty
“So this is officially a date?” Dad asks as we pull into the Jamisons’ driveway on Saturday morning. I made the mistake of mentioning that we were dropping Hannah off at her audition before our date, and Dad really zeroed in on my word choice.
“Yes,” I say. “Now can you please control the size of your grin? It’s really embarrassing for you.”
Dad chuckles. “Sorry. I’m just relieved we’re past Wren.”
My own smile fades. “I didn’t know you didn’t like him.”
“Well, to be fair, I didn’t really know him. I only met him that once.” Two Christmases ago Wren and his family came skiing in Vail over Christmas while I was here visiting Dad, and we met them for dinner. I was so preoccupied with what Wren thought of my dad. I didn’t consider what my dad might’ve thought of him. “But no. He wasn’t my favorite boyfriend choice.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“Ha. Yeah, like that would’ve gone over well.”
I don’t say anything.
“It was mostly how you were around him,” Dad says then. “Like you were afraid of messing up.”
i was
“I should probably go in,” I say. “Hannah’s waiting on me to do her makeup.”
“Have fun today. Will you give me a call this afternoon, just to check in?”
“Yep. And I put Marshall’s number in your phone like you asked.” On impulse, I lean over and kiss him on the cheek. It’s been years since I’ve done that. He looks about as surprised as I feel. “I love you,” I blurt out, then I shut the door.
The sky is dark like it’s about to rain. so much for learning to skate. Mostly I just hope it doesn’t wreck our museum plans. This is the last weekend of the Van Gogh exhibit, and after talking so much about him in class, I really want to see his paintings in real life.
you could drive their car
no i can’t
Marshall opens the front door as I’m coming up the walkway. “Beware, all ye who enter,” he says.
“Uh oh. That bad?”
“I’d recommend not speaking unless spoken to. That seems to be working the best. She’s up in her room.”
“Where are your parents?”
“Dad’s hiding in the basement. Mom left a couple minutes ago to get another pair of tights. Unclear what the issue was with the existing pair, but whatever it was apparently warranted ripping them in half.”
“Yikes. Was it this bad when she auditioned last year?” I ask.
“Nowhere close.
“But you’re still not worried.”
“I’m not sure what good worrying would do at this exact moment. Her audition is in two hours.”
“How long do we have until she wants to leave?”
“Nineteen minutes.” He steps back to let me in. “First door on the left at the top of the stairs.”
Hannah’s door is shut so I knock lightly. “Your makeup artist has arrived.”
A few seconds later the door is flung open. To my relief I see that Hannah doesn’t look any worse than yesterday. In fact, she might even look a little bit better, even though the black dress she’s wearing is at least a size too big. I’d noticed that she’d lost some weight, but the slim cut of the dress accentuates just how much. Her bruises, at least, aren’t any darker than they were.
“Hey,” she says, and actually smiles a little. “Thanks for doing this.” She waves me into her room. Pale blue walls covered with concert posters and vinyl record covers, a collection of vintage music boxes on a shelf.
“So which do you want to do first?” I ask, fishing my makeup case out of my bag. “Face or wrists?”
“Wrists,” she says, dragging her desk chair over to the bed. “So I can get used to it.” She sits down on her bed and holds out her arms. Her wrists are angry and red and raw.
I’m quiet as I blot the foundation on with a sponge, taking Marshall’s advice. If she wants to talk about the audition, she’ll bring it up. Her knees bounces beneath us, shaking the bed. It’s that jittery, amped up vibe again, over-caffeinated, over-stressed.
I finish with her wrists. The foundation perfectly matches her skin. “Voila. What eczema?”
Hannah looks down and grins. It’s the first real smile I’ve seen in weeks. “Thanks.”
I start on her face. It’s weird, touching the bruises with my fingertips as I blend tinted moisturizer onto her cheeks. Weirder still to watch the makeup sink behind her wounds. The bruises seem to spring to the surface, like buoys in the ocean, always on top. I try to ignore them, focus on her actual skin, so I don’t put on too much.
“So the big first date’s today,” she says as I’m doing her eyeshadow.
“Yeah,” I say awkwardly.
“How are you feeling about it?”
“A little freaked out,” I admit.
“Because it’s Marshall or because it’s a date?”
“Um. Both, I guess. You guys are my only two friends at Crossroads. If you’re leaving next year, I don’t want to lose the only other friend I have.”
“You won’t lose me,” Hannah says softly. “Even if I go. We’ll still be friends. And you won’t lose Marshall, either. Even if you guys break up or whatever, he’ll be cool about it. Okay, not cool, he’s not cool about anything. But he won’t let it be weird.”
“I just don’t want to mess it up. With him or with you. About what I said yesterday, about the bruises—”
“It’s fine,” she says, cutting me off. My cue to stop talking, clearly.
I finish her eyes then brush on some blush. “Done,” I say, stepping back. Except for the nasty purple splotches, she looks really good.
Hannah walks over to the mirror. “Wow. Thanks.”
There’s a knock on her door. “It’s Mom. I have the tights.”
“It’s open,” Hannah calls flatly.
“I got two pairs, just in case,” her mom says as she comes in. “Wow, sweetie, your makeup looks great.”
“Thanks.” Hannah takes the bag.
“Hi, Jessa,” her mom says warmly. “Take good care of my son today, okay?”
“Absolutely,” I say.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Hannah’s face darken. “We’ll be down in a sec, okay?” she says to her mom, with a look that says get out.
Her mom looks taken aback. “Okay, sweetie. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”
When her mom is gone, Hannah rips open a package of black tights. “Can you grab my shoes?” she asks, pulling on the tights. “They’re in my closest. Plain black ballet flats.”
I head into Hannah’s walk in closet. It’s spotless, more like a commercial for a closet than an actual closet. Her shoes are organized in a cubby behind the door. As I look for her ballet flats, I hear Hannah in her bedroom, opening a drawer. Then that distinct sound of pills against plastic. I peek through the open space at the hinge of the closet door.
“What are those?” I ask, too loud, still inside the closet. Through the crack I see Hannah freeze. I grab the shoes and come back out into the bedroom. Hannah caps the pill bottle, tosses it into her bag.
“Allergy meds,” she says, not looking at me.
“Hannah.”
“What?”
“Please just tell me the truth.”
“It’s Adderall, okay?” she sounds hostile now.
“Like, for ADD?” I ask.
“Yes. I have a prescription. It’s not a big deal.”
then why did you lie about it?
“How much have you been taking?” I ask.
“Can we please skip the interrogation?” Hannah snaps, taking the shoes from my hand. “We need to go.”
I follow her out into the hallway and down the back steps, so thrown by the last five seconds that I’m holding my breath.
Marshall and both of their parents are in the kitchen. Their dad is at the stove, scrambling eggs.
“Dad’s famous cheese eggs,” he says to Hannah. “Breakfast of virtuosos.”
“I’m not hungry,” Hannah says.
“You have to eat something, sweetie,” their mom says.
“No, actually, I don’t,” Hannah says darkly.
“How about a water at least?” Marshall calls from the fridge. Then he winces, presses his hand to his chest.
“You okay?” I ask in alarm. His mom jerks her head toward him. Hannah goes still.
“Everything alright, son?” his dad asks.
“Yes. Guys. I’m fine. Can we please not make it a red alert when I have heartburn? I’m trying to impress Jessa with my iron physique, but I don’t have the will power to kick my SunChips habit, so I’m in a really tough spot here.”
“I invite you to consider your breath,” Hannah fires back. “I can smell French Onion from here.”
“Nice try,” Marshall calls, and opens his mouth wide. There’s a wad of gum on his tongue.
“You’re disgusting,” Hannah says.
“You have Dr. Smith’s number in your phone, right?” his mom asks Marshall.
“Yep.”
“And you promise to take it easy today, right?”
“Yep.”
“Can we please go?” Hannah asks. “I know it’s not anyone’s top priority today, but my audition starts in forty-five minutes.”
Their parents exchange a glance. “Hannah, we know it’s been a tough week for all of us,” their mom begins gently. “But of course your audition is our priority. We know how important this is to you. We also know how talented you are, and how lucky Interlochen would be to have you. There’s no doubt in our minds that you’ll get an Emerson this year.”
Hannah doesn’t look at her. “You ready?” she asks Marshall. Marshall looks at me. I nod, so uncomfortable in this moment that I wish I could erase myself from it.
“Let’s do it,” Marshall says, tossing Hannah the keys.
None of us says anything on the drive in. I stare out the passenger side window, watching the storm clouds rolling in over the mountains, uneasy, a prickly feeling in my chest.
Hannah pulls into the parking lot of the performing arts center and parks. A fat rain drop splats on the windshield. Then another.
“Do you guys want the car?” Hannah asks, looking over at me.
I shake my head. “I’m fine to walk,” I say. The rain picks up, heavy and hard, pounding against the windshield.
“We’ll take the car,” Marshall says. “Why don’t you pull closer to the building so you don’t get wet,” he says to Hannah, pointing to the covered front entrance, where other cars are dropping kids off. As we join the line, Logan Dwyer gets out of the blue Mercedes in front.
My eyes dart to Hannah. She sees her, too. Her knuckles are white on the wheel.
“You’ve got this,” I say quietly.
Hannah doesn’t say anything.
When we get to the front of the line, Marshall hops out of the backseat and opens Hannah’s door.
“Just text me when you’re done,” he tells her.
“You can’t drive,” Hannah says to him, not budging.
“I’m just gonna re-park it,” Marshall says, waving her out of the car.
Hannah hesitates for a sec, then gets out.
“Break a finger!” Marshall calls after her. Hannah flicks him off without looking back. Marshall grins and gets in the car.
“You said you were just re-parking it,” I say as he pulls forward, away from the row of parking spaces, toward the exit. “I am,” he says. “At the museum.”
“No way,” I say, shaking my head. “Your doctor said no driving for three weeks. It’s been three days.”
“The museum is five blocks away. It’s fine.”
“Marshall.”
“Jessa.”
“You realize I was in a terrible car wreck, right? That maybe I’m already a little on edge in cars?”
Guilt flashes across his face. “Okay. So I wasn’t thinking about that. And now I feel like a total jerk. The problem is, we’re on a one way street and the next available place for me to turn around is at the civic center, which is next to the museum.” He points. “Right there.”
“Can you just get there, please, and park?”
“Yes. And in the meantime, let’s distract you.” He reaches forward to switch on the radio, turns it way up. Classical music blares through the speakers. “Ugh, but not with this.” He punches the CD button, and now it’s booming eighties rap.
Panic Zone, don’t get your girl in here
A way out in here, a way out in here
The voice is distorted, inhuman, unsettling, the lyrics like spiders beneath my skin. Rain drums against the windshield now, an unrelenting assault.
“This was N.W.A’s debut song,” Marshall says, turning it up louder. “This is what started it all.”
It’s called the Panic Zone
that’s right the Panic Zone
Some people call it torture, but it’s where we call home
I switch off the knob.
Marshall looks over at me.
“Too much,” is all I say.
Marshall turns into the parking garage for the museum. The rain abruptly stops.
“Is it weird for me to ask what it feels like?” he asks when we’re parked.
“What what feels like?”
“A panic attack. Your panic attacks.”
“That song we just listened to,” I say.
“No, seriously.”
“I am being serious,” I say. “When I’m having one, everything intensifies and speeds up, like a strobe light’s going off in my head and an epileptic rabbit is having seizure in my chest.”
Marshall laughs out loud.
“Yeah. It feels less than awesome when it’s actually happening to you.” His features pinch, doh, so I flash a smile, the way I used to, a puppeteer tugging the strings, to let him off the hook.
“I shouldn’t have laughed,” he says as we walk toward the elevators. “An epileptic rabbit sounds terrible.”
“Yeah, almost as terrible as that song.” I shudder.
“What?! That song is great!”
“Ugh. That song is awful. But rather than debate that with you, I’m changing the subject to your sister. Does she have ADD?”
Marshall’s eyebrows shoot up. “ADD? Hannah? She’s, like, the most un-ADD person on the planet.”
“Is it possible that she has it and you just don’t know?”
“No. Why would you ask that?”
I hesitate.
“Jessa. What?”
“She’s taking Adderall,” I say finally. “She said she had a prescription.”
He stops walking. “What do you mean she’s taking Adderall? How do you know?”
“Because I saw her,” I say. “In her room, before we left.”
“Where’d she get Adderall?”
“Maybe she has a prescription, like she said?”
“Yeah, but where would she get one?” His face darkens. “Never mind. I know where she got it.”
“Who?”
“Indelicato.”
“Dr. I?”
“I doubt he’s met a kid he hasn’t tried to medicate.”
“Really? He’s never even mentioned drugs to me.”
“Then you’re the exception. He’s all about the meds. Sophomore year he tried to put me on Ritalin twice.”
“That doesn’t sound like him,” I say, doubtful.
Marshall shrugs. “Maybe he’s different now. But he’s the only doctor I can think of who would’ve given Hannah a prescription.”
“I’m worried she’s taking a lot,” I say quietly. “Too much. I think it might be the reason she’s been acting so weird.”
Marshall rubs his forehead. “Why would she do something so careless?”
“She’s been under a ton of pressure,” I say.
“But she puts it on herself,” he says. “It’s not like anyone expects her to do all the stuff she does. She’s the one that wanted to take all those AP classes and do a double certificate in music and music theory. She’s the one that wants to go to Interlochen. None of that comes from Mom and Dad. They’re always telling her she’s doing too much.”
“Maybe it’s not about that,” I say.
We stop again at the elevators.
“What do you mean?” Marshall asks.
“Sometimes when we have a thing that makes us stand out, we start believing that that one thing is all we have. We don’t know who we’d be without it. If we’d be anyone at all.”
“Do you feel like that?” he asks.
“I used to. Before my accident. I spent all this time obsessing about my looks, not because I actually cared about how I looked, but because . . .” A grapefruit rolls into my throat. “Being pretty made me feel safe.”
Marshall takes my hand. “You’re still pretty, by the way. The prettiest girl in this entire parking garage, in fact. But I know that’s not the point. And I think you’re probably right about Hannah.”
I stand up on my tip toes and gently kiss his lips. “You’re right, completely not the point.”
Marshall kisses me back. “You know what else I was right about?” he asks, sliding his arms around my waist and pulling me closer. “Space.”
I look up at him. He smiles.
“It’s completely overrated,” he says. Then he kisses me again. Behind me, the elevator doors whoosh open.
“C’mon,” I say, pulling him into the car. “We’re not spending our first date making out in a parking garage.”
“Well, obviously,” Marshall replies. “Because our first date was last Friday. Level P1 of a parking garage is perfectly acceptable for a second date.” But he follows me into the elevator.
We get in line to buy tickets to the museum. There’s a giant poster for the Van Gogh exhibit hanging over the window. A self portrait of the artist with the words “Method and Madness” in cursive script. I stare up at the image. On the artist’s left cheek, there are four small red lines that look like cuts, or even scars. They’re so random that I wonder if my mind is making them up.
“Do you see those red lines?” I ask Marshall, still looking up at the poster. “On his cheek?”
Marshall doesn’t answer me.
I drop my eyes but he’s not where I expect him to be. He’s over by the wall, holding the wall, his face as white as the paint. “What’s wrong?” I ask, sprinting over to him. There are tiny beads of sweat on his face. Fear seizes every cell in my body.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I’m having chest pains. Bad ones. And my arm feels kind of numb.”
please god no
“Where’s your phone?” I ask in a low voice.
“My back pocket,” he says hoarsely, fumbling for it. “Call Dr. Smith. She’s saved in my favorit—”
“I’m calling 911,” I say, already dialing, my eyes never leaving his face. A crowd has started to form around us. Or maybe the opposite, maybe it’s that people are backing away, giving us space.
“What’s your emergency,” a voice on the other end says.
“My boyfriend just had heart surgery and now he’s having terrible chest pains,” I say frantically. “We need an ambulance right away.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jessa.”
“Where are you, Jessa?” the voice asks calmly.
“The Denver Art Museum. In the lobby. Please hurry.”
“Okay, Jessa, we have an ambulance on the way. I need you to tell me a little more about your boyfriend so the EMTs have all the information that they need. What’s your boyfriend’s name?”
“Marshall. Marshall Jamison.”
“How old is Marshall?”
“Seventeen. He had a procedure done earlier this week to close a hole in his heart. He’s been fine since then but a few minutes ago he started having chest pains out of nowhere. And he says his arm is numb.” I hear myself. I sound frantic. I am frantic. this can’t be happening
“Tell them I need the ambulance to take me to Children’s,” Marshall says weakly.
“The ambulance needs to go Children’s Hospital of Colorado,” I say into the phone. “That’s where his doctors are.”
“I’ll let the ambulance driver know,” the voice says. “Now, Jessa, I want you to stay on the phone with me until the ambulance arrives. How’s Marshall doing?”
I look at him. He’s sitting on the ground now, eyes closed, sweat dripping down his face.
I hang up on the 911 operator and call Dr. Smith. She answers on the second ring.
“Marshall,” Dr. Smith says immediately. “What’s going on?”
“He’s having horrible chest pains,” I blurt out. “I just called 911 and they said an ambulance is on the way. I don’t know what to do. What should I do?”
“Jessa?” Dr. Smith asks.
“Yes.”
“Is Marshall still conscious?”
“Yes. But it’s bad. Really bad. He’s so pale and he says his arm is numb and I can tell he can’t breathe.”
“I’m getting in my car now,” Dr. Smith says, her voice low and urgent but calm. “I’ll meet you at the hospital. Do his parents know what’s going on?”
“No. I called 911 and then you.”
“You did the right thing, Jessa. He’s lucky to have you. I’ll call his parents. I want you to hang up and talk to Marshall. Try to keep him awake, okay?”
“Okay.” There’s commotion by the front entrance. The shout of male voices. “I think the ambulance is here.”
“That’s good,” she says. “I’ll see you both soon.” And then she hangs up.
His phone immediately starts ringing with another call, but I ignore it. I drop to my knees at Marshall’s side.
“Dr. Smith is meeting us at the hospital,” I tell him, my voice shaking. “She’ll fix this, whatever this is. Everything’s fine.” I take Marshall’s hand. It’s startlingly cold.
“They’re over there!” a man yells somewhere behind me. “By the staircase.”
Heavy footsteps, people running, the roll of wheels, and all at once I am not here, I am there, at my accident in those horrible seconds before I passed out. When the enormity of what was happening was all there was.
“You’re okay,” I whisper to Marshall, the same thing the man in the white coat said to me, and I try to believe it, but deep down I don’t, because this was the thing I was sure would happen. The terrible thing I was waiting for this whole time. And yes, maybe I’m letting fear win, but how am I supposed to fight it when Marshall is slumped against the wall on the floor, barely conscious, the pain in his chest sending sweat down his face?
“Pain isn’t permanent,” that’s what the man said, the man no one else saw, the man who might not’ve been real. How am I supposed to believe the words of a person I might’ve made up? Maybe I’m not okay, haven’t been okay this whole time. Maybe Marshall isn’t either. Maybe pain is permanent. Maybe pain is all there is.
Marshall’s chest stops moving.
“Help!” I scream. “Please help he’s not breathing!”
The footsteps get louder, they’re right behind me now. Three paramedics rush to Marshall’s side.
“It’s his heart,” I tell them, frantic. “He has a heart condition.”
“Are you Jessa?” one of the paramedics asks me. The other two are hunched over Marshall. One of them is doing CPR.
I nod.
“Can you tell me what happened, Jessa?”
“He just started having chest pains,” I say. “Out of the blue. He was fine before that.”
“When did he stop breathing?”
“Just a few a seconds ago,” I say, eyes darting to Marshall’s pale face. One of the paramedics is pumping his chest.
please god don’t let him be dead
“I’ve got a pulse,” one of the other paramedics says.
The other one is shoving a tube down his throat. The third one, the one talking to me, is asking me questions but I can’t focus on her, can’t think. For several seconds, maybe minutes, the sound cuts out and all I can hear is my own pulse roaring in my ears.
Then Marshall is on a stretcher and they’re wheeling him away.
“Can I ride with him in the ambulance?” I ask, jogging to keep up with the gurney.
“Sorry, no,” the EMT closest to me says. “Company policy. If the sirens are gonna be on, not even family can ride in the cabin.”
family
My mind leaps to Hannah.
Someone has to tell her what’s going on, but how? No way she has her phone on right now. And Marshall’s parents only have one car right at home, which they’ll take straight to the hospital.
i have his keys
i have to go get her
They’re loading Marshall into the ambulance now. I watch him disappear into the red box, wonder if this might be the last time I ever see him, vaguely aware of the tears dripping down my face, running off my chin, mixing in with the pouring rain.
When the doors close behind him I turn and sprint toward the parking garage, digging the keys out of my purse as I run. I’m shaking as I start the car but I ignore it, my mind so focused on Hannah, on getting to Hannah, that there is no room for anything else. There is power in this, in having something bigger in my brain than fear.
Thunder rumbles as I pull out of the parking garage, tracing our route back to auditorium. The clock on the dash says it’s eleven thirty-seven. Hannah’s audition starts in eight minutes. I drive slowly because of the rain, pause a little too long at each green light, but I get there, and I’m fine. As I sprint inside the building I have the thought, i won’t be scared to drive any more. This one fear, at least, hasn’t won.
The hallway is crowded with kids in concert gear, some of them holding instruments, waiting their turns. Heads turn as I jog toward the auditorium, soaking wet and tear stained, completely out of place.
“You can’t go in there,” someone says as I pull open the auditorium door, but I barely hear them. It’s not until that door shuts behind me and my hand is on the next door that it hits me what I’m about to do. I’m about to barge into Hannah’s audition, to ruin it, maybe ruin her whole life with this news. I can see her through the crack in the second set of doors, at the piano, on the stage, playing the Phillip Glass piece. The song is coming through the crack, through the wooden doors, muffled but beautiful. I imagine her smiling a little bit.
I take my hand off the door.
I sit against the wall in that space between the doors, and wait. She’ll finish this song then play the next one then maybe talk to the people with clipboards sitting on the front row. And then she’ll come through those doors and I’ll tell her what happened and this whole day will become about something else. But until that moment, today will be about this, the music, her talent, all the hard work paying off. And sitting here, listening to her play, I totally get it. Why she’s been the way she’s been. It was for Interlochen, yeah, but it was also for this, her on that stage, being great.
My heart aches at the thought of telling her. I can’t imagine speaking the words. What will I even say? I don’t even know that much, only that something awful has happened.
When she finally comes through the door and sees me, I don’t have to say anything. One look at me, and the color drains from her face.
“What happened?” she whispers.
“He started having chest pains,” I say hoarsely, through tears. “I called 911. They took him to the hospital a few minutes ago. Dr. Smith was calling your parents. I came here to get you.”
“How bad is it?”
“I don’t know. Bad. We should go to the hospital.” When she doesn’t move I take her hand and pull her into the hall, keep pulling her, all the way to the parking lot, where finally she seems to snap out of it and starts to run.
As we sprint to the car, I’m barely thinking about the fact that I’ll be driving. It’s already become a non-issue, the least of my worries now, and in a way I’m actually grateful for it, because it’s something to think about. Something to keep me from spinning out. Panic isn’t an option right now. It just isn’t. I won’t let it be.
It takes us almost half an hour to get to the hospital, because of the rain. Neither of us says a word during the entire drive. When we get to Children’s I give the car to the valet at the ER entrance and we sprint inside.
“I’m looking for my brother,” Hannah says to the woman at reception, her voice trembling. “Marshall Jamison. He came here in an ambulance.”
The woman types the name into the computer. “He was just admitted over at the Heart Institute. They’re prepping him for surgery now. I’ll have an escort walk you over.” The woman looks at me. “Are you family also?”
“Yes,” Hannah says before I can answer. “She’s our cousin. But we don’t need an escort. I know where it is.” She turns and dashes back through the automatic doors.
“You can go through the building!” the woman at reception calls. Hannah ignores her.
I follow her down the sidewalk toward another entrance, the one for the tall L-shaped building where Marshall was on Tuesday afternoon, when I kissed him, when he was still okay.
Hannah doesn’t slow down in the lobby. She heads straight to the elevators, presses the button for the third floor.
“How do you know that’s where he is?” I ask.
“The operating rooms for heart surgery are all on the third floor. There’s a waiting room by the elevators. I’m sure that’s where my parents are.” As the elevator doors close, she slips a hand in the pocket of her dress, pulls out two round white pills. She doesn’t look at me as she pushes them into her mouth and swallows. I feel her waiting for me to say something. I don’t.
As the elevator dings, Hannah’s eye flick to mine. “I know,” she says quietly. “But if I stop taking it now I’ll crash, and I can’t deal with that right now.”
I nod. “Okay.”
She grabs my hand and squeezes it. “I’m glad you’re here,” she whispers.
I see her parents as soon as the doors open, perched on the edge of waiting room chairs. Her mom’s eyes are puffy from crying. Her dad is staring into space. There are fresh scratches on both their faces, red and raw, but not deep enough to be permanent yet. Their hope like a shield to their skin, keeping the wounds on the surface, not letting them set in.
Her mom sees us first. “Hannah,” she says, rising to her feet. “Thank God. I’ve been calling you.”
Hannah runs to her. “I left my backpack at the auditorium. I don’t have my phone. Jessa picked me up.”
“Jessa, thank you,” her mom says, her voice wobbling like it’s taking everything she has not to let it crack. “For everything. Dr. Smith says you did exactly the right thing. Calling the ambulance, then calling her. I’m so thankful you were with him, and that you stayed so calm.”
“How is he?” Hannah asks.
Her mom’s eyes fill with fresh tears. “We don’t know yet. They took him straight into surgery.”
Hannah takes the seat her mom was sitting in, next to her dad, and her mom sits down on the other side. They angle their bodies together, a sort of family huddle, and all at once it’s too much.
“Do you guys want coffee?” I blurt out. “I’ll go get some coffee.” I turn and press the elevator button. When the doors don’t open right away, I bolt toward the stairwell, tripping over my rain-soaked boots. I feel Hannah and her parents staring at me, but right now I can’t get out of this room fast enough.
I take the stairs two at the time, nearly falling twice. The walls of the stairwell are too narrow; they feel as if they’re closing in. I burst through the first floor door and am in the atrium again. I spin, looking for somewhere to go. There’s a cafe over on one side, a place to get coffee, what I said I was coming down here to do. But I can’t go back up there any time soon.
But I can’t stay here either. Not in this airy, optimistic room, which at this moment feels like a really sick joke.
A choking sound. The sob I can’t swallow anymore, the one that’s been lodged in my throat since I was twelve years old, comes hurling out. My shoulders heave with the force of it, the tsunami in my chest. The tears come fast, pouring down my face, dripping off my chin.
My eyes catch a pair of wooden doors at the end of the hallway. Somehow I know it’s the chapel. Maybe I saw the sign. I also know somehow that it’ll be empty, which is the only reason I go inside.