Page 11 of Dr. Brandt

“Damn it, Mom,” he snapped.

“Oh no, you don’t. Don’t you dare curse at me. Get with your team, and we’ll see you later at the game.”

“Fine. Bye.”

The cab stopped, I paid the fare, and the new skirt I wore snagged on the door as I jumped out. How did this lovely day go on such a rapid downward spiral?

Ring! Ring! Ring!

“Warren,” I answered my fiancé’s call. “Please tell me you’ll be at the game tonight.”

“Well, that’s why I was calling,” he said. “It looks like I have a hang-up.”

“A hang-up?” I nodded and smiled as I walked through the lobby of our lavish building. “Please don’t tell me you’re working late again.”

“I’m working late,” I heard his smile through the phone, “but I’ll be sure to meet my beautiful fiancée—who can’t decide on a wedding date—at Jackson’s game.”

I blew out a breath of relief. “Good. In the last hour, I’ve dealt with nothing but crazy.”

“Another patient giving you trouble because they forgot to floss, and the doctor is sending you to take care of the bill?”

“Huh? What does that even mean?” I said with confusion. Warren could be semi-funny at times, but most of the time, his attempt at humor was massively lame. “Nevermind. I’m walking into the house. Jacks is trying to sleep at Paige’s house, and I almost got into a brawl with an old hag.”

“Wait, what in the world are you talking about? Start with the old-lady brawl,” he chuckled as I heard him greet his driver.

I breezed into our apartment, which had a combination of Warren’s baroque tastes and my cozy farmhouse taste, and I plopped onto the sofa in the atrium. Somehow both of our styles worked, but it took a damn good interior designer to marry the two opposites.

“It was nothing, just an old woman being nasty by claiming my cab. She flew in on her broomstick and stole the damn thing.”

“Shit, you did have a bad day,” he said with a laugh.

“No.” I smiled, feeling more relaxed smelling the fragrance of the lilies he’d bought me after we’d gotten into a stupid fight over something I couldn’t remember anymore. “I was having a great day until that woman came around. Now, Jackson’s trying to work some skill with staying over at Paige’s because we met her parents.” I rolled my eyes and half-smiled when I heard Warren laugh.

“And so, it all begins,” he chuckled again. “Let him stay. Her parents seem just as responsible as we are.”

“No, that’s not the point, Warren.” I sighed for what seemed like the hundredth time since answering Jackson’s phone call. “If we allow this, he will take more and more liberties. He’s only sixteen. Just forget it,” I said, sitting up and slapping my palms on my knees. “I need to get ready to go. Let’s all revisit this conversation later, shall we?”

“We could have the night alone?”

“Um, no,” I said, marching toward the steps leading to our master suite. “You’re not getting anything tonight.” I smiled, hearing Warren’s laugh. “I’ll see you at the game.”

“Love ya, babe,” he said, and we ended the call.

I was at my usual spot in the stands, watching and cheering on my son’s team as they led the game in the third quarter by fourteen points. I loved everything about football nights, especially watching my son play so well and throw the football with such ease and finesse.

The cool, crisp air had me chilled to the bone. I was counting on Warren to be here and keep me warm, but no dice. As usual, he got held up and had to go back to the office to handle a last-minute deal instead of putting it all to bed for the night and dealing with work in the morning.

I wasn’t surprised, though. Warren’s job held him prisoner, and that’s why I was wrapped in my fuzzy, warm blanket, watching intently as the ball was being thrown in a beautiful spiral by Jackson. That was until everything stopped, and my ears rang while things went into slow motion as if I were watching a horror movie with my son as the star.

After the ball was thrown, Jackson was rushed by the biggest player on the opposing team. The guy got past Jackson’s offensive line, and Jacks was slammed into the ground so hard that I felt it in my bones.

As any mom would, I stared in disbelief at first, and that’s when I saw it. Jackson’s body was rolling into a seizure as the coaches and team medical staff ran out to him. I bounded down the bleachers, skipping multiple steps at once, knowing that I needed to get to my boy as fast as possible. He hadn’t had a seizure in so long that he was cleared to play ball, and now this?

I was on the field, running to him, when the ambulance drove onto the grass. Jackson was in the final jerks of this seizure, and tears streamed down my face as I had to stand back and let the medical team aide him.

“Mrs. Stein,” I hardly heard Coach Wartham’s voice. “This is Jackson’s mother.”

My head snapped over to the medic. Jackson’s body was limp as the medic checked his pupils and called out the vitals to someone I couldn’t focus on.

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