“Yes. Please hurry.”
I began to panic. I went back to the bathroom and tried again to wake her. She was so cold, still, and wet, and the smell of urine mixed with a very particular odor that I knew I would never get out of my nose was overwhelming. I didn’t know what it was, but it was potent and unpleasant.
Seeing her like that was too much for me to bear. Still, I reached out to try and locate her pulse on her neck.
I placed two fingers there and forced myself to locate her carotid artery, trying desperately to ignore the frigid temperature of her skin. I repositioned myself and saw her face: mouth open, eyes open. Cheekbones hollow. Her face looked like it had melted into the floor.
And then I lost it.
I slumped to the ground, pulling my knees to my chest. I began to sob. Wail. I cried animalistic howls of intense heartbreak.
Until there was a—loud—knock on the door.
I got up and opened it. Medical personnel swarmed the room. I pointed to the bathroom. Three or four—I’m not even sure—men andwomen filed in, ready to help. A yellow metal stretcher sat in the hallway, waiting for use.
They spoke to each other loudly at first, then in hushed tones, verifying without saying a word to me that it was, in fact, the worst possible outcome.
My mom was dead.
Beautiful, vibrant Birdie Paulson. The songwriter. The high school teacher. The mom.
Mymom.
“Ma’am,” an older man said, “I’m so sorry…” His voice trailed off.
I covered my face with my hands. I didn’t want to hear any more.
“Is there someone we can call?”
Beckett,I thought. I nodded weakly. “He’s in Savaneta,” I whispered.
“Okay.” The man nodded, pulling a cell phone out of his pocket. He was grateful, I’m sure, to have something useful to do, especially considering the fact that another medic grabbed the sheet from my foldout bed and was about to drape it over my mother in the bathroom. “What’s the number?” he asked, trying to divert my attention from the mechanics of what was occurring in my peripheral vision.
I shook my head. “I don’t know. It’s a hotel. Villas, maybe?”
“Aruba Ocean Villas?” the man asked.
“I think so,” I replied, wiping my face.
He typed it into a search engine, which pulled up the number. Then he handed the phone to me.
“Bon dia,” a young woman sang. “It’s a beautiful day at Aruba Ocean Villas. How may I direct your call?”
“Um, hi,” I managed. “Can I please speak to Beckett Nash? He’s staying in a bungalow called Joy?”
“I’m so sorry, my dear,” she replied. Her voice sounded like a lullaby. “Mr. Nash checked out just a short while ago.”
“Okay. Thank you,” I said, and handed the phone back to the medic, shaking my head. “He’s not there.”
“Is there anyone else we can try?”
I looked down at the ground. “No,” I mumbled.
He placed a tentative hand on the middle of my back. “We will stay with you. Don’t worry. What’s your name?”
“Melody.”
“Melody,” he repeated, “I am Edwin.”
