Page 11 of Close Match
“Let’s get to a private room and I’ll explain fully.” The doors to the elevator open. We pass by a sign that indicates we’re in the Cardiac Care Unit. Approaching a U-shaped desk, Dr. Pilchner calls out, “Bobbie, is family care room six open?”
“Yes, Doctor. Do you need anything else?”
“Not right now.” He begins to lead us down the corridor to a room labeled FC-6. He holds the door for us, and we step inside. “This room will be for your exclusive use,” he tells us kindly.
Bristol flops down onto the couch; Simon drops next to her. I take one of the chairs. Dr. Pilchner remains standing. Feeling both appreciative and apprehensive, I gesture to the other chair. “Doctor, please. Have a seat. I imagine whatever you’re going to say can’t be any easier standing.” Bristol’s head snaps toward me before turning toward the doctor.
With a sigh, he perches on the end of the remaining chair in the room. “Before we get started, this may be tremendously misplaced, but your mother has provided decades of entertainment to my family.” His hard demeanor softens. “I took my daughter to celebrate her graduation from high school to seePowerhouse. Ms. Brogan was magnificent.”
Feeling both pride and dread, I do what my mother would have wanted me to do. “Thank you. I’ll be sure to let her know.”
His eyes close behind his wire-rimmed frames. “Ms. Brogan—”
I interrupt. “Evangeline.”
He nods. “Evangeline, your mother had what is called a STEMI myocardial infraction.”
Out of the corner of my eye, Bristol shakes her head in confusion. “In English, please,” I beg.
He takes a deep breath. “She has a complete blockage of several of her coronary arteries. We have her stabilized for now. We need to perform bypass surgery as soon as possible to try to save her life.”
The world slows around me. Pilchner is droning on about whether or not my mother has a living will. Bristol is sobbing into Simon’s shoulder hysterically. And me? I’m wondering when I’m going to wake up from this nightmare and be able to tell my mother about it before we go on tonight to sing.
Because that’s what this is—a living nightmare.
Blindly, I reach down for my purse. Digging through it one-handed, I pull out my cell. We each had all the necessary paperwork drawn up through our lawyer, Eric Shea, years ago to protect our money. While we were there, I vaguely remember him having us sign paperwork just in the event something like this happened. Mom laughed at him and said, “Darling boy, I’m going to live forever.”
With a pain in my heart that makes me wonder if I’m not having my own heart attack, I scroll through my contacts. One ring, two. A male voice answers on the other end, brusquely, “Ms. Brogan, what can I do for you?”
Dully, I respond, “My mother’s in the hospital with a heart attack. I need her living will paperwork immediately.”
There’s a long pause before he responds much more gently, “Find out the fax number of the floor you’re on, and they’ll have it within fifteen minutes. If that’s not soon enough, let me talk with the doctor.”
Blindly, I hold out the phone to Dr. Pilchner. “Here. It’s for you,” I say, right before I fall out of the chair. On my knees, I crawl toward my sister and her boyfriend. We’re a huddle of whimpering tears while my mother’s doctor gives our lawyer the information he needs, puts my phone down, and leaves the room.
All without saying another word to us.
Six
Evangeline
“She kept saying she was fine.” My voice is flat. “Every time we’d ask, she blew off our questions.”
It’s seven thirty the next day. After keeping Mom stable through the night, Dr. Pilchner said her best chance of survival was to attempt a coronary bypass surgery. He warned us it might take close to six hours; the damage to her arteries is so extensive.
It’s only been about two hours since the procedure began, but I’m already freaking out.
“We can’t make it go any faster,” Bristol says practically.
I love her; I do. But practicality is absolutely not what I want right now. I want a million chocolate bars. I want to scrub up and hold my mother’s hand. I want to lose myself in dancing…oh, shit. Gulping, I turn to Bristol. “Did you call Veronica?”
Gaping, Bristol accuses, “I thought you would have. You’re the one who’s her goddaughter, for Christ’s sake!”
I groan knowing there’s no dance class, no choreography on stilettos, no demeaning comment while I’m at her barre that will make up for the fact I didn’t call her last night when all of this went down. Looking at my watch, I mutter, “I’ll call her now. I’m fucked no matter what, but at least she’s not in class yet.”
Bristol lays a gentle hand on the side of my face before saying seriously, “Make sure you pull your phone away from your ear. You know how she is when she screeches.”
Good advice.
