Page 107 of I’m Dreaming of a New York Christmas

Mum lay back on the bed once she was done and Anneka looked at me, terrified and exhausted.

‘Were you the one who called the ambulance?’ I asked gently.

Anneka shook her head. ‘I put her in the recovery position and called down to reception, who sorted it all out. The ambulance took about ten minutes to arrive and they brought us straight here. Then I tried to call you and… you know the rest of the story,’ she said, squeezing her eyes shut tightly as if trying to make everything disappear.

‘Tell you what,’ I said to her, as Mum shuffled herself into a comfier position in the bed. ‘Why don’t you go and find a vending machine for something sugary and stretch your legs. I’ll stay here with Mum.’

Anneka sniffed. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Absolutely, you’ve done more than your fair share of caring duties this week.’

‘Okay. Thanks, Flora. I won’t be long.’

Anneka wandered away and I turned my attention back to Mum.

She looks so vulnerable. She looks so… old.

‘It’s okay, Mum. I’m here,’ I said, stroking her forehead.

She mumbled something in response, which definitely included the word ‘sorry’, but before I had the chance to ask her to repeat herself, the curtain was whipped open and a white-jacketed woman clutching a fresh sick bag entered.

‘Hello, I’m Doctor Shaw,’ she announced in a surprising English accent, consulting her digital tablet. ‘Mrs… Bell, is it?’

Mum grunted, trying – and failing – to sit upright.

‘Just stay still, Mum,’ I instructed. ‘Yes, this is Jennifer Bell; I’m her daughter, Flora.’

‘Right. So, stomach pains, vomiting, loss of consciousness…’ She inspected the drip and tapped her tablet a few times.

‘She just vomited again,’ I said, indicating the growing collection of sealed blue pouches on the floor. The doctor nodded in acknowledgement.

‘Has she been drinking?’

‘No. She hasn’t been able to eat or drink much the last couple of days.’

‘Okay. And, before then, did she eat anything out of the ordinary?’

‘I don’t think so. Mum?’

She remained conspicuously silent.

‘Mum?!’

‘Those pods,’ she whispered.

‘Pods? What are you talking about?’

‘Those… coffeetree pods we found in the park. I’ve been… eating the seeds. They’re like little edible coffee beans. They’re meant to be nutritious.’

The doctor sighed, as if she’d encountered this precise situation before. Which, surely, wasn’t possible. She turned to me as Mum began throwing up again, coolly passing her the fresh sick bag in the nick of time.

‘Can you confirm what seeds she is referring to?’ she asked, poised to look up whatever the hell we were talking about on her device.

‘Kentucky coffeetree pods. We went, umm, foraging in Central Park a few days ago and found some, and brought them back to our hotel. But I didn’t expect you to actually consume them, Mum!’

‘Did you… boil or roast them before you ate them?’ the doctor asked, not looking up from her tablet.

‘No,’ Mum whispered, before spitting into the bowl again.