Page 42 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

Her words send a fresh wave of fear crashing over me, but I force myself to stay calm, stroking her hair as she leans against me, her breathing ragged.

It feels like an eternity, but we finally pull into the Willow Creek ER. Dad leaps out and helps Mom from the backseat.

“I’ll take her in,” he says quickly. “You park.”

I nod, sliding behind the wheel as they disappear through the automatic doors. My hands shake so badly I nearly miss the parking space. When I finally turn off the engine, I sit there, trying to breathe.

When I was younger, Mom used to pin a little fuzzy bear to my shirt whenever I got anxious. She’d spray it with her perfume and tell me that whenever I needed her, all I had to do was count to ten.

Right now, I’d give anything to have that bear pinned to my shirt.

My fingers fumble for my phone. I barely register scrolling to Dylan’s name before I hit call. He answers on the second ring.

“Hey.”

The familiar steadiness in his voice undoes me. Tears spill over as I choke out his name.

“Lucy, what’s wrong?”

“My m-mom,” I manage. “We’re at the hospital.”

“I’m on my way,” he says without hesitation. “I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

I nod even though he can’t see me.

Somehow, I work up the courage to open the car door and head inside.

The waiting room is all harsh lights and antiseptic smells.

A television mounted near the ceiling plays a muted late-night news program while a vending machine hums in the corner. Plastic chairs line the walls beneath posters explaining symptoms no one wants to imagine having. Somewhere behind the secured doors, a monitor beeps steadily, followed by the squeak of rubber soles across polished floors. Every few minutes, the automatic doors open and let in a blade of cold air before sealing us inside again.

I don’t see Dad anywhere, so I sink into a chair, hugging myself. Old instincts send me searching through fictional women for instructions.

Elizabeth Bennet would be brave.

Jane Eyre would endure.

Jo March would fight.

I close my eyes.

You don’t have to be any of them, Lucy.

I stand and approach the receptionist, my voice trembling as I ask about Violet Bennett.

“The doctor ordered a CT scan,” the woman says. “Someone will update you as soon as they can.”

“Thank you.”

I text Dad, but the message remains unread.

I sit again, every unanswered minute feeding another terrible possibility. Mom is strong. Healthy. Careful. This doesn’t make sense.

She’s the best mom anyone could ask for. She’s always accepted me just as I am. Even when it was hard for her, Mom has never asked me to be different. She’s always encouraged me to go out into the world and experience as much of it as I could. But she’s also been patient enough to let me see the world through stories and libraries.

Mom has always known when to push me and when to give me somewhere quiet to retreat. When neighborhood kids invited me to birthday parties, she made sure we arrived with a gift and stayed long enough to show we cared. Then, before the noise became unbearable, she invented an excuse and took me home.

She taught me that showing up did not have to mean abandoning myself.