Never Forgotten by Kelly Risser
Sunday morning, we woke up to a terrible storm. The sky was so dark that it looked like night outside.
“Ugh,” Kim muttered, pulling the pillow over her head. “What’s with Canadian weather?”
I laughed. “I don’t think it’s all of Canada, but we are on the ocean. Besides, you live in Wisconsin, remember?”
“Right. Snow.” She shuddered delicately before sitting up and smoothing out her curls. “What’s on the agenda for today? Hopefully, you weren’t planning a picnic.”
“Nope. No picnic.” I didn’t want to tell her that I hadn’t planned anything. “We could start with breakfast, and I’m guessing Grandma Mary made coffee.”
Mom was sitting at the table when we came in, looking exceptionally pale. I crouched in front of her and grabbed her hands. They felt clammy. “Mom? Are you feeling okay?”
She started to say ‘yes’, but quickly closed her mouth and shook her head. I watched her turn green before she jumped up and ran to the bathroom. Motioning for Kim to stay in the kitchen, I ran after my mom and knocked on the closed bathroom door.
“Mom?” I called. “Can I help?”
“Just a minute,” she said. A moment later, she opened the door.
“Do you need anything?” I asked.
“No.” Turning back to the sink, she ran a washcloth under the cold water and pressed it lightly to her forehead and then to her neck. Looking at me through the mirror, she said, “I think I’ve come down with the stomach flu. It’s probably best if I go back to bed. Your grandfather headed into town early this morning to play cards with a few of his friends. On his way, he dropped your grandmother off at Lydia’s house. I was supposed to follow and be there in about twenty minutes. Can you call and let them know I won’t be coming?”
“Of course,” I said, walking with her to her room. “Can I get you anything?”
She squeezed my hand. “No, I’ll be fine. I just need some rest.”
When I returned to the kitchen, Kim was sitting at the table with a mug of coffee. She had made toast, but hadn’t eaten it yet. She looked at me with concern. “How is she?”
“Stomach flu,” I said, adding, “nothing too serious.”
She relaxed. “That’s a relief. How do you handle all of this, Meara? I mean, it’s a lot to deal with.”
“I just do, I guess, although I never know if I’m doing the right thing.” Kim nodded and took a bite of her toast. While she chewed, I added, “I try not to think about it too much.”
Kim slid the plate to me. “Toast?”
“Thanks, but I need to call Lydia first and let her know Mom’s not coming today. Looks like you and I will be hanging out here, taking care of Mom.”
“That’s fine. I don’t mind.”
I called, and Evan answered.
“I thought you went back to the dorms?” I asked.
“Study group was cancelled,” he said. “I came back here to catch up on homework.”
He didn’t say it, but I knew he was also giving me some space to just hang out with Kim. I told him my mom wasn’t coming and asked him to relay the message.
“I’ll tell my mom right away,” he promised. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”
“I will,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Every thirty minutes or so, I checked on my mom. Once or twice, she appeared to be sleeping, but mostly she just laid there, looking miserable. I brought her dry toast and white soda at lunchtime, something that I remembered her doing for me when I was sick. When I checked on her after Kim and I finished our sandwiches, she hadn’t touched the food.
“Liquids, Mom,” I reminded. “You need liquids.” She took a small sip from the glass, and I nodded. “Keep it up. I’ll take the toast back to the kitchen.”
“Thank you,” she said in little more than a croak.
After lunch, Kim and I watched one of my favorite movies, The Goonies. She humored me; she wasn’t into any movie that was more than one or two years old. By her standards, this was ancient. My mom and I always watched this one together, and today, when I was worried about her, this managed to comfort me.
When the movie ended, I checked on Mom again. As soon as I stepped into her room, I sensed something was wrong. Her breathing was labored, coming out in short gasps. As I approached her bed, I noticed her eyes were closed and moving furiously back and forth under her eyelids. I pressed my wrist to her forehead; she was burning up. I called her name, and then shook her shoulder. She didn’t respond. I tried a little harder. No response.
“Kim!” I shouted. “Come quick.”
She was at the door within seconds, looking alarmed. “What is it?”
“She’s burning up, and I can’t wake her. We have to get her to the hospital in Halifax. Can you call Lydia and let them know where we’re heading?”
“Wouldn’t it be better to call 911?”
“Does that work here?” I asked.
Kim pulled out her cell phone. “One way to find out.” While she dialed, I wiped my mom’s forehead with the washcloth lying on her nightstand. She moaned, but otherwise didn’t respond.
“I need assistance,” Kim said suddenly. “I’m staying with a friend. Her mom is feverish and unresponsive. She has cancer. We think she needs to go to the hospital.”
Kim looked at me. “Address?” she mouthed.
I grabbed a pen and paper from the bedside and wrote it down. Kim read it to the dispatcher.
“Okay, thank you,” Kim said. Then, a minute later, “We will. Goodbye.”
She hung up and put the phone back in her pocket. “They’re on the way. We’re not supposed to try to move her. The paramedics will take care of everything when they get here. He mentioned that we could try a cool washcloth, but you’re already doing that.”
I nodded, and then remembered. “Kim, can you take over for a minute? I need to call over to Evan’s house.”
Kim took the washcloth from me and placed it gently on my mom’s forehead. I went to the kitchen to call.
Lydia answered the phone, so I quickly explained the situation to her. I told her that Kim and I called the paramedics, and they were on their way. I thought they would take Mom to the hospital, and I planned to follow in our car. Lydia said that she would tell the others, and they would meet us there.
Before returning to my mom’s room, I went to the bathroom and ran a fresh washcloth under the cold water, wrung it out, and then headed back to the room. Kim lifted the old washcloth so I could place the new one.
“Anything?” I asked. Kim shook her head.
“I’ll rinse out this washcloth,” she said, jumping up suddenly. While she was gone, I straightened my mom’s nightgown and smoothed her hair. How much longer? I thought. Someone must have heard me, because the doorbell rang. I ran to get it.
There were two paramedics at the door—one male and one female. Each held a medical bag.
“Where is she?” the woman asked.
“Follow me,” I said, leading them back. The paramedics placed their bags on the bed, opened them, and began checking my mom’s vitals. She called the results to the man, who held a chart and was recording them. The whole process was unbelievably fast.
While this was happening, another medic came in with a stretcher. The two men loaded her onto it and strapped her in. The female medic asked me, “What is your relationship to the patient?”
“I’m her daughter,” I said.
“Are you coming with us?”
Kim stood in the doorway. She looked pale and scared. I looked back to the woman. “We’ll drive separately.”
I followed behind the medics as they took her out of the house and placed her in the back of the ambulance. Standing just inside the front door, I watched until they were out of sight. The cold air raised goose bumps on my arms. I barely noticed. Kim came and stood beside me.
“Should we get going?” she asked.
“Yes.” I grabbed my coat from the hook in the hallway and began t
“Your purse?” Kim reminded me.
“Oh yeah.” I ran back to my room to get it.
I didn’t know where my mom would be, so we went to the emergency room entrance. I approached the attendant at the admittance desk.
“Hello. My name is Meara Quinn. My mother, Sharon, was just brought in by ambulance.”
“Do you have ID and an insurance card?” she asked with no trace of warmth in her voice.
I pulled the two cards out and handed them to her. She picked up a clipboard in front of her and handed it to me. It was full of forms. “While I make a copy of these, please fill out as much information as you can on these forms.” She motioned to a group of uncomfortable-looking orange plastic chairs, one of which was occupied by a coughing old man. “You can have a seat over there in the waiting room.”
Kim and I looked at each other, and then we both sat as far as we could from Mr. Hack-My-Lungs-Out. I quickly flipped through the pages. This is going to take a while, I thought. I turned back to the first page, balanced the clipboard in my lap, and started filling it out. Pulling out her phone, Kim slouched in the chair and began playing a game.
I finally finished the last page, and then carried the clipboard back to the desk.
“Thank you,” the attendant said. She attempted a smile. It was a small one, and I didn’t smile back. She thrust her hand out at me, holding my license and the insurance card. “Here are your cards.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Will I be able to see my mom soon?”
She frowned at me, and I couldn’t tell if she was impatient or sympathetic. “I can’t answer that. Once the doctors have a chance to look at her, they’ll come out here and give you an update.”
I walked back over by Kim and sat down. The waiting room was quiet. The man with the cough was called back when I was about halfway through the packet of forms. I grabbed one of the dog-eared magazines and started flipping through it. I wasn’t retaining anything.
“Meara!”
I looked up just before Grandma Mary smothered me in a hug. She smelled like cinnamon and cloves. I squeezed her back, and my eyes welled up with tears.
“Have you heard anything?” she asked. I noticed my grandfather, Lydia, and Evan standing behind her. I tried to smile at Evan, but couldn’t quite make it.
“Not yet,” I said to all of them. I motioned to the chairs. “Have a seat.”
Evan sat on the other side of me. My grandparents sat and faced us. Their fear made them look older. Lydia continued to stand, her arms wrapped around herself. “I need a coffee,” she said. “Can I get anyone anything?”
“A can of Coke?” I asked. No diet for me today—I needed sugar and lots of it.
Lydia nodded at me. “Anyone else?”
“Can I go with you?” Kim stood. “I need to walk.”
“Of course,” Lydia said. “You must be Kim.”
Kim’s cheeks flushed. “I am. Sorry. I should’ve introduced myself first.”
“No worries,” Lydia said. “I’m Lydia, although I’m guessing Meara told you that?”
“Kim’s the one who thought to call 911,” I said.
Everyone looked at her, and Kim blushed deeper. “Then we owe you our gratitude,” Grandpa Jamie said.
“It was nothing,” Kim replied, looking uncomfortable.
Lydia took pity on her and grabbed her hand. “Let’s go find that cafeteria.”
After they left, I leaned my head on Evan’s shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around me. I closed my eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart and the calming pattern of his breathing. My tears poured down. Was she okay? Why was it taking so long? Someone handed me a Kleenex—I didn’t look to see who—and I wiped my eyes and nose. Evan squeezed my shoulder every so often. Otherwise, he said nothing. We all waited.
“Meara Quinn?” A middle-aged doctor stood at the edge of the waiting area, holding a clipboard in his hand. He was tall, with kind blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. When I stood up, he smiled warmly at me and stepped forward, his hand extended. “I’m Dr. Riley. I have just finished visiting with your mother, and she asked to see you.”
Relief washed through me. “She’s okay, then.”
He nodded. “She’s quite weary and more than a bit dehydrated, but she’s alert and stable. You did the right thing. Her body wasn’t successfully fighting the fever and stomach bug on its own.”
“When can I see her?”
“I’ll take you back now, if you like.”
“What about them?” I asked, motioning to my grandparents and Evan.
“I apologize,” Dr. Riley said, “but Sharon should have no more than one or two visitors at a time.”
Everyone nodded. Grandma Mary said, “You go first, Meara. She asked for you.”
I followed the doctor through a set of doors behind the reception desk. We turned down a couple of hallways before coming to Room 132. Dr. Riley opened the door and gestured for me to enter first. “Here she is,” he said.
Mom was propped up in her bed, an IV in her arm. She had a bit of color in her normally pale cheeks, and she was sipping something out of a Styrofoam cup.
“How are you doing, Sharon?” Dr. Riley asked.
Mom smiled. “Better, thank you.”
He nodded. “If you can keep the liquids down for another hour, we’ll try you on some broth.”
“I can hardly wait,” Mom joked.
Dr. Riley laughed. It was a pleasant sound. “Have a nice visit, you two.”
He closed the door as he left. Mom motioned for me to come closer. I walked to her bed and leaned over to hug her cautiously. She laughed and hugged me tighter. “I’m not going to break, Meara.” She let me go and patted the side of her bed. “Have a seat.” When I did, she added, “Thanks for taking care of me.”
“You don’t have to thank me, Mom,” I said.
“All the same. I should be the one taking care of you, and now I can’t.” Her voice faltered. I tried to see her face, but she turned away to look out the window.
“Mom,” I said quietly. “It’s okay. I’m almost eighteen years old. You’re sick. I think it’s time you let me take care of you.”
“Oh, Meara.” She turned back, her eyes full of tears. She touched my hair, saying, “I love you, honey.”
“I love you, too, Mom.”