Page 10 of Thiago
She took her time in the produce section, examining apples, grapes, and strawberries before adding the chosen ones to her cart. Slowly, she browsed the other aisles, stopping to toss in a bag of chips before moving toward the refrigerated section with milks and creamers. She smiled briefly at a mother pushing a cart with her toddler seated in the basket, the little boy babbling away while his mother absentmindedly nodded andmhmmedas her eyes scanned the shelves.
In front of the refrigerated section, India gently gnawed the inside of her lip. There were so many choices for non-dairy milk nowadays. Not only almond, oat, or soy, but also organic, sweetened and unsweetened, vanilla flavored, and on and on.
She sighed. She just wanted something to splash in her morning coffee.
“First world problems,” she muttered to herself, swinging open the door to the case.
She reached for a carton of unsweetened almond milk but stopped when pressure bloomed in her chest. Tight and suffocating, the sensation spread quickly, clamping like a vise around her ribs and stealing her breath. Her heart thudded against her sternum, erratic and heavy.
Her hand gripped the refrigerator door for balance as a wave of nausea rolled through her. Suddenly, the overhead lightsseemed extra bright, and the distant hum of the conversations around her were rather loud. Downright harsh.
India pressed a palm against her chest, a panicked whisper of air slipping across her lips.
Oh no.
Was she having a heart attack? Like her mother had suffered when she passed in her late twenties?
Panic kicked in. She wasn’t ready to die yet, and certainly not in front of the non-dairy milk products of her local Whole Foods.
“Ma’am, are you okay?” The mother with the toddler trained concerned eyes on her.
Unable to speak, India could only give a vigorous shake of her head. Then she shoved the milk back onto the shelf and power-walked away, switching to a jog as she neared the front of the store. When she slipped through the automatic doors, a man coming in gave her a strange look.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she muttered to herself, as if saying the words out loud would make them true and force the pain in her chest to disappear.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d prayed, but she uttered a quick one now. “Please don’t let me die,” she whispered desperately.
As she approached her Audi, she removed the keys from her shoulder bag with a trembling hand and hit the power button. The doors unlocked, and she climbed into the driver’s seat. After quickly buckling herself in, she peeled out of the parking lot with her hands gripping the steering wheel.
Where is the darn doctor?
Clutching her purse on her lap, India shifted restlessly, the paper on the exam table making a crinkling noise beneath her. She shouldn’t be so grumpy. They’d led her back for tests right away when she told them she might be having a heart attack, but as far as she was concerned, that had been the easy part. The hard part was waiting.
She was terrible at waiting, and that’s all that ever happened in an emergency room, it seemed, which was worsened by the smell—like some horrible combination of antiseptic and overused grease from a fast-food restaurant.
She sighed, looking around the white room. At least her chest had stopped hurting. A good sign, surely.
A soft knock sounded on the door, and she perked up. In walked the doctor, a good-looking man with tanned skin, wavy hair, and glasses. He wore an easy smile and held a clipboard in the crook of his arm.
“India Monroe?”
“That’s me.” She breathed quietly through her mouth, waiting for his assessment.
“I’m Dr. Stone.”
They shook hands. His were large, enveloping hers in a warm grasp.
“I have great news,” he said, looking down at a sheet of paper on the clipboard. “Your EKG was normal, and the labs look fine. I can say with confidence you werenothaving a heart attack.”
India exhaled, her muscles relaxing. “Thank goodness. Then what the hell happened?”
“Classic case of heartburn. Dramatic heartburn, but heartburn nonetheless.”
She stared at him. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m not,” he said with a laugh. “It happens. Stress and diet are among the biggest contributors. You’d be surprised howmany high-powered execs come in thinking they’re dying after eating a spicy meal.”
“What makes you think I’m an executive?” she asked, considering how she was dressed.
