“Good,” I said and imagined tagging @cocacola, imagined them reposting, sharing my account with a new audience, growing my followers from 60,000 to 100,000 with that short, simple gesture, winning me a blue check mark, verifying my personality, my account. It was possible.

My mother took another, longer sip, then handed me the can. I took it back, heard bubbles fizzing on the inside. She stilled and stared at the room in front of her.

“Mom?” I said. And that’s when everything sped up. Her body in fast forward, pitched as if pulled. My body, rushing to help hers. Diet Coke-colored vomit, again and again, in waves. The paper towels I ran for, the button I pressed, once, twice, three times, four, to summon someone, anyone, to save us.

“DIET COKE, SERIOUSLY?” Nancy the nurse said when she hustled to my mother’s side. She wore gloves, grabbed a wad of sopped towels, chucked them in a pink vomit pail.

“I didn’t know,” I said, and my own voice sounded like a whine, a buzz, the noise any device made to signal a call, a text, a notification of someone else’s love. I looked to the windowsill where I’d left my phone, then back to Nancy, who was leaning over my mom.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, and I meant it. But I was also stung. By my mother’s weakness, by Nancy’s clipped and critical tone.

“Let’s get you clean,” Nancy said, and started to work off my mom’s soiled gown. I apologized again, but Nancy didn’t answer.

I said, “It might help to know my mom has a history with pain medication.”

Nancy still didn’t look up. “I’ll check her chart,” she said.

“I have to go to the airport,” I said. I had plenty of time before Leah’s flight landed but wanted to leave; I wanted Nancy to think I was competent, not mortified as I truly was. I added something about family flying in. Nancy should think my mom and I were supported, loved. But she didn’t respond.