Page 2 of Peppermint Bark

“Guess you don’t think all men are drone bees.”

“Hashtag NotAllBees. Although like drone bees, he’d probably pass out immediately after sex,” she said with a good natured laugh. “But I’d fake a heart murmur to get onto his exam table, if you know what I’m saying.”

I bit back a grin as the Hospital CEO finished his remarks. “If you’ve bought a house in the last 30 years, you probably recognize our final speaker as a real estate closing attorney, but you might not know he’s also a generous philanthropist.”

From the back of the room, Mallory and I watched Bruce step onto the small stage and wipe his brow. I whispered, “Your dad looks hot.”

“Gross, Grace, stop checking out my dad,” she elbowed me in the ribs.

“No, he’s sweating.” Although I’d be sweating if I had to give a speech, too.

Bruce stepped up to the podium and pulled index cards from his suit jacket. “Thank you for coming to the dedication of the hospital’s pediatric sensory room! When I heard about this project from a person near and dear to me, I had to donate.”

He lifted his head to find me and Mallory, eyes glassy. “I’m proud to be a part of the team that made this …” Bruce took a deep breath and grimaced. “That made this,” his eyes met mine, expression pained, “that made this …”

And then he collapsed.

Dr. Tran rushed to the stage to start CPR as a nurse hustled over with a defibrillator. Mallory and I pushed forward, watching as they lifted Bruce onto a gurney and sped off to the emergency department. From collapsing to being whisked away took less than five minutes.

Mallory stood beside me in shocked silence as they began rolling her dad away. I nudged her. “Go with him, I’ll call your mom.”

She startled, then pressed her phone into my hands. “My brothers too, they’re both in my emergency contacts. Nick’s filming in Cambodia, so don’t worry if there’s no answer. Alex rarely answers my calls, so keep trying.” She grimaced, genuine remorse replacing the worry. “And I’m sorry in advance for his attitude.”

As she ran after her dad, the remaining crowd murmured their disbelief before the commotion settled and staff returned to their jobs.

That’s the thing about working in a hospital: You sometimes forget that every moment can be life or death. Tragedy strikes and life goes on.

My boss Jennifer found me, arms limp in shock, eyes locked on the crimson fabric across the closed door. “I knew he wasn’t ok. He was sweaty and shaky. I chalked it up to nerves, but —”

“Hey,” Jen interrupted, her hand gentle on my shoulder. “You’re a social worker, identifying heart attack symptoms isn’t your job.”

Tears lined my eyes. “I’m the one who asked him to give the speech, Jen.”

“And he agreed because he believed in the sensory room.”

I understood that logically, but now Bruce was in the OR because of me.

The custodial crew arrived to disassemble the stage, reverting the room into a children’s play area. The music speakers, silenced for the speeches, began piping in Elvis crooning about having a Blue Christmas.

Glancing down the hallway where Bruce had been carted away, I wondered how the Clarkes’ Christmas would look. I’d spent the last three holidays with Mallory’s family. Reluctantly at first, fearful of being a charity case, until I realized that when her two older brothers stopped coming home, they wanted to fill the vacant seats as a distraction from their absence.

“Think of it this way: He was already in the hospital, so he didn’t have to wait for an ambulance. Being here may have saved his life,” Jennifer said, interrupting my spiraling guilt. “Why didn’t you go with your family?”

“They’re not my family."

“They sure seem like your family. Nobody in my life would spearhead a fundraiser solely because of how much it matters to me.”

I held up Mallory’s phone, which I’d been gripping so tight that the gems of her bedazzled case imprinted in my palm. “I have to go call his wife and actual children now.”

“You want me to stay?” Her eyebrows furrowed as her expression changed from my boss to fellow social worker. When I shook my head, she walked me to my office door and gestured to the limp ribbon. “Take the afternoon off. We’ll take care of all this later.”

I flicked my badge and flopped into my desk chair, the adrenaline of the event’s traumatic and abrupt ending catching up to me. I took five deep breaths before I got to work.

My first call was to Bruce’s wife, Helen. I recounted the event in my calmest voice. She burst into panicked tears, and her car door slammed as she rushed to the hospital.

I tried Mallory’s brother Nick next, but the call rolled to a full voicemail.

My thumb hovered over the final name in Mallory’s emergency contacts: Alexander Clarke. I tried to remember any stories. One memory jumped out, from right after I started working part-time at her yoga studio.

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