“I’ll meet you in the emergency room lobby,” she says before she ends the call.
Less than five minutes later, Sam screeches to a stop in front of the emergency room entrance. Tossing his phone into the cup holder, I jump out of the car, almost stumbling.
“I’ll meet you inside,” he shouts before peeling away to park.
I sprintthrough the automatic doors of the hospital, my cleats clickingand clackingas I go.Cold air-conditioned air sweeps over me, and I inwardly moan at how great it feels on my heated skin as I search the large waiting room.
My gaze skims over a screaming baby being cradled in a woman’s arms, a man pacing with a look of abject fear on his face, and various other people who are hanging around. Some are sitting, some are dozing, and others are engaged in whispered conversations, while some stare blankly at the TV, but I don’t see my mom yet.
Fuck.
My pulse is all over the place.Ishould’ve kept Sam’s phone.
When I run up to the information desk, Icollide with a patient in a wheelchair, who seems to have come out of nowhere.I’m propelled forward as my face lands in her reddish-blonde hair.
The scent of coconuts invades my nostrils, and I inhale deeply.It takes me a second to right myself.“Sorry.” I apologize to the man in tan scrubs pushing her.
The woman hangs her head, and her long, wavy hair falls around her face.
The assistant, who looks to be in his late twenties, narrows his dark eyes. “Watch where you’re going.”
“I’m very sorry, Miss. I didn’t see you until it was too late,” I say, deliberately ignoring the asshole and apologizing to the woman directly. She tilts her chin up, and our gazes meet.
I suck in a gasp, instantly forgetting how to breathe.
She’s beautiful with these big blue eyes, pale skin, full lips, and a cute heart-shaped face. She’s around my age, if I had to guess, and there’s an aura of haunted vulnerability surrounding her that makes me want to wrap my arms around her and protect her.
I open my mouth to say something, but Mom calls my name. “Adam!” Her voice is frantic, and the girl is instantly forgotten as I remember why I’m here.
I rush over to her near a door that leads into the hub of the emergencyroom. “What happened? Where’s Phoebe? Is she okay?”
Tears slide down Mom’s cheeks.I brush strands of her brown hair from her face then hug her, my heart slamming against my ribs.
We don’t talk for a long minute as she sobs into my chest, and I run my hand up and down her back in a soothing gesture as I try to get a handle on my fear.
I do everything Ican notto lose my shit. We both know CF is a disease that gets worse with age, and as Phoebe grows into a teenager, her lung function is going to decline.But with routine care, there’s hope she can live a long time.
Mom pulls away, placing a delicate hand on my cheek. “Phoebe’s regular doctor is on vacation. Doctor Harmon is filling in for him. He’s with her now. He thinks Phoebe has pneumonia.”
I want to punch the white sterile wall until my knuckles bleed. It’s a familiar sentiment. Every time we have a setback, frustration builds inside me until it feels like I’m going to explode. I hate my sister has to suffer like this. It’s so unfair, and I curse genetics.
I want to do something to cure my sister, but I feel helpless, like I always have, and it makes me want to scream and tear through walls, anything to release the torment clawing at my insides.
Mom takes my hand, squeezing it for reassurance, and we walk through a set of double doors withhospital personnel onlystenciled on the front.
Once inside, phones ring,nurseshurry around the hallways, and machines beep from the glass-encased rooms that patientsare in.
Mom cranesher neck up at me as she stopsat a water fountain. “There’s something I need to tell you.”Worry lines furrow her brow, and I instantly know I’m not going to like it.
A white-haired man wearing blue scrubs beneath a white lab coat emerges from a room, interrupting us before Mom can tell me her news. “Mrs. Miller.” His name badge confirms he’s Doctor Harmon, and he glances at me briefly before focusing on Mom. “We’ve sent Phoebe’s blood down for analysis, and we’ve hooked her up to a breathing machine. We’re going to get a chest X-ray, but I suspect she has pneumoniaas we discussed earlier.”
Pneumonia is a condition that is practically the norm for people with CF, and this isn’t the first time she’s succumbed.
“You mentioned she was playing outside with her friends when she collapsed?” he asks, and Mom nods. “How’s her diet? Has she been keeping up with her vitamins and eating healthy? Also, her records indicate that she has a vest to clear her airways. Has she been doingher therapy?”
Phoebe hates to use her vest, a device that is essential in helping her expel all her built up mucus, and Mom regularly battles her over it.
Mom shakes her head. “It hasn’t been working.”
