“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, she’s passed on.”

What did he just say? I know he didn’t just say what I thought he said. Did he just say “she’s passed on”? Did he? No. Yes he did. He just said that my mama has passed on. Passed on to where? To what? Why? Wait a fucking minute, here. I take a deep breath, but it feels like helium has somehow gotten into my head and it’s spinning a million miles a second, so I blow air balls out in spurts and try to control myself, because I know I’m hearing things, I know that this man pretending to be a doctor on the phone did not say what I thought he just said. “What did you just say?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Price. But in my fourteen years as a doctor, I’ve never had to do this over the phone. I’m so very sorry.”

“So you’re telling me that my mama has died?”

“Yes, she has.”

I sit here for what feels like forever, and then what the doctor has said registers in my brain, but then I want to know something else. “Did she suffer long?”

“No, she didn’t. It happened very quickly. I can assure you of that.”

How long is very quickly? And how does he know she didn’t suffer? My stomach starts heaving in and out and won’t stop. It feels the same way it did when I was sixteen and I’d pitched a fast ball to Esther Washington and she hit it anyway, a line drive right to my navel at about forty miles an hour, and knocked the wind out of me. Just like now. I press both hands against my belly to stop it from jerking, but it doesn’t help, because now I’m crying so hard I can hardly breathe. What happened to the air in here? And my shoulders hurt. Now they’re burning. And my chest feels like somebody just stuck me with an ice pick. Stop this! She can’t be dead. My mama’s not dead. She can’t be. I just bought her a new hat and a new pair of shoes and she has to wear them. She has to. She asked for the hat, but the shoes are a surprise. I want to surprise her. I love surprising her. My mama cannot possibly be dead. She’s only fifty-five fucking years old! She has asthma. She’s had lots of asthma attacks and survived them all. Other people’s mothers die when they’re old. My mother is not old, so this has got to be some kind of mistake.

I think I may have let out a long howl, I don’t know. I do know that now my stomach is shivering and my hands have no feeling whatsoever, which is why I suppose the phone falls to the floor and stays there until I’m able to stop screaming and crying. When I do, I look around this room. What an ugly room it is. Too many flowers. Everything’s so fucking bright. And why did I spend so much money on all this bullshit I don’t need? That nobody needs. I mean, who really gives a shit what color my sandals are or how many hats I wear? Who gives a fuck if I wear a Vivienne Westwood scarf or a dress from Voyage or a slick silver coat from Harvey Nichols, or that I bought black caviar and quail from Harrods? Who really gives a flying fuck?