Page 143 of The Rom-Commers

“Now go to the airport,” Sylvie said. “Right now.”

I DIDN’T EVENshower—or change out of Charlie’sWRITERS DO IT ON THE PAGEsweatshirt. I brushed my teeth, raked my hair into its pom-pom, stuffed everything I owned into my suitcase and still-broken rolling carry-on, ordered an Uber, and left.

No time for a note, even.

Charlie was still asleep, of course.

As I climbed into the back of the Uber, Sylvie was calling me with an update. “We got the flight switched,” she said. “How fast can you get there?”

“How fast can we get to the airport?” I asked the driver.

“Hour and fifteen,” he said, “on a good day.”

“This flight’s at six,” Sylvie said.

“That’s not enough time,” I said.

“Just try,” Sylvie said. “There’s not another open seat until the red-eye.”

She did not say,And by then it might be too late.

Then, feeling semi-ridiculous, I said to the driver, “I’m so sorry, but do you happen to know any shortcuts for getting there faster?”

He kept his eyes on the road. “Not really.”

“I’m cutting it very close for my flight,” I said, like we might team up for a Formula One–style race against the clock.

“They know you’re coming,” Sylvie said. “Maybe they’ll hold the plane for you.”

“Airlines don’t hold planes for people, Sylvie,” I said. “They have regulations. And rules. And requirements. And other passengers!”

“But maybe,” Sylvie went on, unfazed by reality, “given the whole situation—”

“Whatisthe whole situation? I have no idea what’s going on.”

Now that we had a minute, Sylvie took a deep breath. “He had a drop attack on the apartment stairs and took a very hard fall.”

“He knows not to take those stairs!” I said in protest.

“The elevator was out of service,” Sylvie said. “He must have thought,It’s only one flight. He must have thought,What are the odds?But it happened. He fell all the way to the landing. His face is all cut up and swollen, and he had to get stitches on his forehead, and he doesn’t even look like himself. I took a picture at the ER, but I can’t even bring myself to send it to you. If I could unsee it, I would.” Sylvie’s breath sounded ragged. “He lost consciousness when he hit the landing, and he hasn’t woken up. Mrs. Otsuka’s seven-year-old grandson called 911 right away, and they stayed with him the whole time.”

“Theseven-year-old grandsoncalled 911?”

“He’s very mature.”

I sent a silent thank-you to Mrs. Otsuka’s grandson.

Sylvie went on. “The scan of Dad’s brain showed a subdural hematoma, which is bleeding between the brain and the skull. But the skull doesn’t have any give. So when bleeds happen there, there’s nowhere for the blood to go. If the pressure builds up too much, it can cause brain damage or even death.”

“How bad is Dad’s bleed?”

“It’s…” Sylvie hesitated. “It’s not good. They showed us the CAT scan of his brain, and the blood is pushing his entire brain off-center. I mean, the doctor circled the pool of blood on the image with his pen and said, ‘This is the blood,’ and I was like, ‘Dude, even I can see that.’”

“So what do they do? How do they get it out of there?”

“Surgery,” Sylvie said, giving the short answer. “He’s in right now. Basically, as soon as they saw the scan, they rushed him to the OR. It’s called”—I heard paper flipping like she was checking her notes—“a ‘burr hole.’” Now she sounded like she was reading: “They drill a small hole in the skull to siphon out the blood.”

“He’s in emergency surgery right now?”

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