My heart plunged down around where my pad had fallen. “What? What happened?”
I flipped my phone over, realizing I had gotten so wrapped up in sketching and distracting myself from Cricket’s sting operation that I hadn’t looked at it in fifteen minutes. There were ten texts and two missed calls.
“I don’t know. He didn’t say,” Jade said.
I lurched from the chair, scooping up my phone. “You good to cover the store?”
“Of course. I can stay. Go.” Jade disappeared as I went out the back door, all thoughts of Cricket, Dak, and how to dump Ty fleeing from my mind. Gran was sick. Gran could be dying.
Please don’t let her die.
I unlocked my car, climbing in and dialing Ed Earl.
“’Lo?” he said, sounding like he was driving.
“What’s wrong with Gran?” I demanded.
“Not sure. I’m on my way, following the ambulance. She just sorta collapsed and said she felt funny. She’d gone to the dentist and had a tooth pulled, so at first, I thought it was that. She said she hadn’t been eatin’ much. But then she looked weird, like part of her face was drooping.”
“That’s a stroke,” I barked, squealing tires as I left the parking lot. “Which hospital?”
“I don’t know. I think WK Bossier. That’s the closest.”
I hung up on him. Then I turned toward downtown, jetting out in front of a Land Cruiser, which honked at me. Like I cared. My grandmother, the only person who was an anchor in my life, could be dying.
“Please don’t die,” I murmured as I stepped on the gas. “I promise to do better, God. I know I’m a bad person and do bad things, but please, please don’t let this happen. I need her.”
And as I said those words to my empty car, I knew they were true. I needed her. I needed my family. I had let what Ed Earl did to me separate me from my past, from the place where I had learned to be stubborn, to be resourceful, to make do, and to make the best of my circumstances. Those were the lessons I had learned at my grandmother’s knee, and though I had unhealed wounds, staying away from the people I thought were bad for me had not allowed my sores to scab over and go away. Instead of moving forward, I’d carried my burden like a prisoner lugging around his chain, and I’d hurt no one more than myself.
“I’m so stupid. I will do better,” I said as I merged onto the interstate that spanned the Red River, uniting the two sides of the metro area. Perhaps even an analogy to my life. Bridges and all that stuff.
By the time I got to the hospital, I felt desperate with panic. I hurried toward the sliding doors and slammed into the triage desk. The nurse eeped in alarm, rolling back in her chair.
“Hey, I’m looking for Eunice Balthazar. She came by ambulance,” I barked at the poor woman.
“Ruby,” someone called behind me.
I turned to find Ed Earl and Jimbo sitting in the waiting area, muddy boots marring the carpet, jeans covered in motor oil, plaid shirtsleeves cut off at the shoulders. They looked like they always did—a bit slovenly, country as a turnip, and ready to kick ass if needed. Other people in the waiting room eyed them with trepidation, except for three or four who were on their phones and probably wouldn’t notice if Elvis himself entered the building.
“How is she?” I asked, moving toward them.
“Don’t know yet. Some sissy-looking doctor came out and said they were running tests and had given her some kind of shot that was supposed to help,” Jimbo said.
“We’re going to have to wait,” Ed Earl said, giving his brother a look that said Move down. Jimbo did, but I knew I couldn’t sit. I had too much nervous energy. I shook my head and went and slumped against the wall, pulling out my cell phone and googling “stroke.” So much information, but website after website said that time was of the essence. Thank God that Ed Earl lived with Gran. If she had been alone . . .
And really, when had I ever uttered the words Thank God in relation to Ed Earl?
Maybe never.
But in this case, I was grateful for him.
We waited thirty minutes, during which time Ed Earl stomped down the hall and bought two packages of white-powdered doughnuts and two Cokes. He brought me a bottled water without asking, like he knew a Coke would be unwelcome. Like I was the kind of girl who always drank bottled water. I used to be the girl who would have had the root beer and a Snickers.
In my mind I heard my thrifty gran complaining about fools buying water when it was free from the faucet. My lips twitched. Goodness, she’d taught me so many things in life, some amusing, some so valuable. I hoped that she was okay. Please.
My phone vibrated. Cricket.
I wanted to take the call, but that would require stepping outside. I wasn’t going to miss the doctor giving us an update. So I quickly texted my situation. In true Cricket fashion, suddenly her situation wasn’t important and mine was. She wanted to come to the hospital. I told her no. And then I went back to sit next to Jimbo and Ed Earl to await word on Gran.
Thirty excruciating minutes later, a thin, balding man in scrubs came out and said, “Is there a Ruby Balthazar here?”
I had legally changed my name, of course, but Gran had refused to accept my new one. I stood. “Right here.”
Behind me I could hear Jimbo complaining that they were her sons and why did she call for Ruby, but I didn’t have time to explain that sometimes a woman needs another woman. Or that I would make Gran less nervous than they would. The doctor motioned me back through the double doors.
“I’m Dr. Angelo, and I’ve been taking care of your mother—”
“Grandmother,” I clarified for no real reason. What did it matter?
“Yes, well, we think Mrs. Balthazar has had a TIA, a transient ischemic stroke. What that means is that there was a brief time where blood didn’t flow into the central nervous system. Most of her initial symptoms—the numbness, the slurred speech—have abated, but we still need to run a few tests to rule out some things like dehydration and a bladder infection. Both of those last things can cause the same sort of symptoms, so we’re running a blood panel and a urinalysis.”
I had just spent the last half hour reading about the various kinds of strokes. This was the best to have because it was considered a ministroke and usually didn’t cause long-term effects. “Is she feeling okay?”
“Most of her symptoms seem to have abated,” he said, gesturing toward a long row of curtained bays. “You can go and see her. She’s in number six. Once we have the results of her panels, we will determine if we need some follow-up diagnostics. We will probably do a CT. And then perhaps an MRI if we need more information.”
“Thank you,” I said, nodding at a nurse who hurried by carrying an IV bag.