Page 30 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

After parking the car, I wrestle a cart away from the rest and lead the way into the grocery store, noticing she’s slowed down since walking from the parking lot. She’s lost some of the confidence she had at home as she holds on to her purse with both hands, and I slow my pace to match her timid steps. First, we head to the produce section, where she wearily eyes fresh garlic and parsley before choosing which ones she wants. I notice the slight tremor in her fingers when she places the beans into the cart, but I don’t say anything.

When we move to the meat, she clings to the side of the cart, and I can tell her skin is ashen beneath the bit of makeup she’s put on. When she can’t decide on package of meat, I pick one out.

“You all right, Mom?”

She clears her throat, nods, and positions the cart toward the condiment aisle. This time, I don’t wait for her to stand there, lost in whatever thought she’s been struggling with, and I reach for a bottle of olive oil. We move farther through the store to the dairy section.

“I’ve been buying almond milk for myself, so we don’t have any regular,” I inform her, opening the glass door. “Do you want a gallon?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder.

My mother is bent in half with her hands on her knees.

I drop the milk and run to her. “Mom, what’s wrong.”

She wheezes, and I try unsuccessfully to stand her up straight. She’s completely white, but when I touch her cheek, she’s hot. Her hands are trembling in mine when I tug her toward me. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t breathe,” she pants, clutching at her chest.

Fear tears through me, and I look around for anyone. An older gentleman is at the end of the aisle, and I shout to him, “Help! I need help!”

He cocks his head but scampers away, returning with an employee a minute later as my mother completely gives out on me, and we sink onto the floor.

“What happened?” the employee asks me.

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I think we need an ambulance.”

The older man nods in agreement. “Could be a heart attack.”

Mom wheezes, and I’m helpless holding her. I vaguely remember a kid in grade school breathing into a paper bag when he was hyperventilating and think it couldn’t hurt. But there are none to be found in the dairy aisle of the supermarket.

More people gather around, and I wave down a young, acne-faced kid wearing the grocery store polo shirt. “Hey! You got a paper bag?”

He wrenches back, apparently frightened by me. “Where would I get one of those?”

“This is a grocery store! Find me one!” He runs off, and I hold Mom’s cheeks between my palms. “Breathe, Mom. You’re all right.”

“The ambulance will be here in a minute,” another employee says, and it takes everything in me not to wail. How is it I’m stuck in this position again? There’s nothing I can do for her except try to calm her down as we wait.

I find my cell phone and tap on my father’s cell phone number to call him, but he doesn’t answer, and I growl in frustration. Just as the high-pitched sirens blare outside, I stick my phone back in my bag. Two paramedics arrive with a gurney, and they ask Mom questions, her eyes fluttering open and closed as they strap her up with oxygen and wheel her outside.

“You can ride with us,” one of them says to me. I follow them out with Mom’s purse in my hands, our groceries and dinner long forgotten. The gurney clicks and clacks as the paramedics push it into the ambulance. I have to hop up into the back, and no time is wasted as instruments are pulled from compartments. Wires, tubes, needles.

Mom is stuck with an IV.

I hold her hand.

My head bumps against the wall as we take a turn.

It’s all horrible.

The paramedic writes something down on a chart. She’s so calm as she works; I don’t know how or why she could be in this atmosphere, speeding down the road with someone lying in front of her, possibly having a heart attack.

My heart beats out of my chest—maybe I’m the one having a heart attack.

We arrive at the hospital, and the paramedics wheel Mom into the emergency room, leaving two nurses to get her wired up to different monitors. It’s all a blur until a doctor enters. “It’s not a heart attack.”

I breathe out in relief and wiggle my fingers, forcing some sensation back into them after having them shut into tight fists for so long.

“What is it, then?” I ask since Mom is still breathing through a mask.

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