“Thank you,” our father said.

Two more hours. “I should call Sallie,” I said.

“After you eat,” John said.

I shook my head, watching the nurse move from family to family. Observing their reactions—relief, resignation, tears. “I’m not hungry.”

“He’s right,” Jo said. “You should eat something.”

“You go. You’ve been waiting longer than me. I’ll stay with Dad,” I added as she looked at our father.

Not that he was paying attention to us.

“Can I get you anything, Dad?” Jo asked.

“No, thank you.”

Hospital time is measured in moments, weighted with worry. The count of my contractions, the catch of my breath, the day the twins were born. And then a nurse whisked DJ away, and time stopped altogether, along with my heart. We could only wait, for news, for reassurance, while the experts did something just out of our sight. I’d felt anxious. Helpless. Powerless. Just like today.

Jo came back with another foam cup of coffee and dropped gracelessly into a chair. “I wish the girls were here.”

I nodded. “Don’t come,” I’d told them. “Momma will be fine.”

“I talked to Beth,” Jo said. “Meg . . . What if something goes wrong?”

Our eyes met. Amy, I thought, would cope somehow. Tenderhearted Beth would forgive me. But I’d never forgive myself.

I reached across and squeezed Jo’s hand.

At least I had John to keep me company. Poor Jo didn’t have anybody but me. And our father. I glanced at him, sitting in the gray light from the window, silently reading a book with disciplined attention.

Time crawled. John kept checking his phone. He’d taken off work to spend the day—all day—with me. Of course he’d want to keep in touch with the dealership. All those end-of-year sales.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

He nodded. “Just texting Trey.”

Jo jumped up to pace, unable to sit still. “How is he?”

“Haven’t you seen him?” I asked.

“Not since I got back.”

John started to say something and stopped. I threw him a grateful look. Now was not the time to offer my sister relationship advice.

Infected by Jo’s restlessness, I called Sallie. The twins were fine. I texted Beth and Amy, typing reassurances in place of actual news.

Eventually, the nurse emerged with another update. My father closed his book to listen, one finger between the pages to keep his place. “Not finished . . . vital signs still stable . . . another few hours . . .”

Jo yanked on her ponytail. “Why is it taking so long?”

“I really can’t say,” the nurse said.

“Is everything all right?” I asked.

Her eyes were sympathetic. “The doctor will be out to talk with you as soon as he’s finished.”

“When?” Jo demanded.

The nurse looked regretful. “I really . . .”

“Can’t say,” Jo finished grimly.

“Yes. Please let us know if you leave the waiting area.”

The nurse continued her rounds of waiting families. I heard a gasp. A whisper. A whimper. Bad news. My heart constricted in sympathy. I met Jo’s gaze, my own shame-faced relief reflected in her eyes. At least our mother was all right. Vital signs stable. She had to be all right.