Page 97 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
Nana could be dying…
The thought still doesn’t pierce the fog.
“Here. Coffee with cream and sugar.” Makena returns from her trip to the cafeteria, pressing a paper cup into my hands. “I know you don’t usually take sugar, but you looked like you could use some. And I have apples, protein bars, and a gluten-free turkey sandwich in my purse. All they had was turkey or tuna, and I didn’t know how you felt about tuna.”
“Not a fan,” I say flatly. “Turkey’s great. I’ll have some later. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, settling into her chair beside me and turning her attention to the news. They’re back to the tsunami update, an endless, twenty-four-hour cycle of bad shit on repeat.
The coffee tastes like dirt and stomach acid, but the heat is something to focus on. Makena sits beside me, not talking. Just there.
Part of me—the part that’s watching all of this from the ceiling—appreciates that she’s not trying to fix things. To fix me. Not asking how I feel or telling me it’ll be all right or any of that bullshit people say when they need you to perform “okay” for their comfort.
She just sits. Drinks her terrible coffee. Waits.
Time eventually loses all meaning. I have no idea how long we’ve been sitting there—could have been an hour, could have been four—when a voice finally calls from the double doors on our right.
“Family of Chastity Parker?”
Makena and I both surge to our feet, turning to face a doctor who looks like he’s been on duty since the sausage festival started yesterday. My body goes rigid, colder, transforming into an internal pillar of ice as I say, “I’m her grandson.”
“She’s stable,” he says. “It wasn’t a heart attack, just heat exhaustion complicated by dehydration and cardiac strain. Herage makes the situation more serious, but she’s awake and responding well to fluids and medication.”
The rest of his words float past me as the ice debates whether or not it’s time to thaw.
I catch pieces of what he’s saying—overnight, observation, monitoring, could have been worse—but am mostly fixated on keeping my “listening expression” in place as he finishes. The worst is over now. She’s going to be okay. Probably. Hopefully.
At least things are looking a hell of a lot brighter than they were when the paramedics first wheeled her in.
“Can we see her?” Makena asks when he’s done.
The doctor nods. “Briefly. She needs rest, but she definitely wants to see you. Room 314. Just follow the signs to the cardiac ward.”
We navigate the hospital maze to the third floor. Turn left. Past the nurses’ station, where someone’s birthday cake sits half-eaten—normal life chugging away while ours has taken a detour into an alternate dimension.
Inside her room, Nana looks small in the hospital bed, hooked up to an IV with heart monitors attached to her sunken chest.
When did she get so thin? I should have noticed. Should have insisted she start trying to put some meat back on her bones.
Her lips twitch up at the edges when we enter. “Hey there, babies.”
“How are you?” I ask, still steady and in control, even as my mind continues to list all the ways I’ve failed her.
“Embarrassed,” she says as I take her hand gently in mine. “I should have paid closer attention to how much water I was drinking in this heat. Now I’ve gone and ruined your trip.”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” Makena says, her voice wobbly with emotion and relief. “We’re just so glad to see you awake and looking better. That was so scary.”
“But you’re going to be fine.” I’m not entirely sure I believe it, but it’s the right thing to say. Stay positive for the patient. “But no more bourbon in your tea. Just electrolyte mix. We need you here with us, okay? No bowing out until we’ve hit at least ten more sausage festivals.”
Her smile widens. “Yes, sir. But only if you swear to come back every year.”
“Done,” I promise, giving her palm a gentle squeeze. “I love you. Now, rest up, and we’ll be back first thing tomorrow. They don’t want us hanging around for too long while you’re still on the mend.”
“Love you, too,” she says. “And don’t worry about staying at the hospital on my account. I feel much better, just tired. Go on home and get some rest, too, okay? Promise me?”
We promise, Makena gives her one last gentle hug, and we leave. Take the elevator down. Walk through the parking garage. Get in the station wagon.
I drive.
