"Hi, this is Debra. I'm calling from Shire Hospital for Vincent Hazelwood. If you could please give me a call back..."

What does that mean? Why would the hospital be calling?

Unless—unless. Maggie fell. Broke a leg, a wrist, a hip. She's a tough old dame, but she's got the bones of a bird like anyone her age would. I'll try not to be mad when I see her. I guess a broken bone is a good enough reason for having missed out on my important day. Though I wish I would've known so I could spare myself the agony of walking across that stage.

I don't call Debra back. The hospital's between here and home, so I'll head over there. If Maggie broke something, she'll need me to drive anyway. Right? Right.

#

I've never really been in a hospital before. Never needed to. So I turn in circles until someone points me to a nurse's station and I tell them my name, and that I'm looking for Debra. They send me to another nurse's station down the hall where I find a short, pudgy lady with graying hair, and a name tag. Debra. I stand in front of her desk and stare at her until she looks up.

"Oh, I didn't even—I'm sorry. Can I help you?"

I hold up my phone, like that'll somehow answer anything. "You, uh. You called me."

A frown tugs at her face.

"I'm Vince Hazelwood," I say, then repeat, "You called me."

Debra's expression immediately smooths out. Softens. "Oh, honey..." She pushes her chair back and stands, stepping around the desk to draw me off to one side, out of the hall. "I called about Maggie Atkins. You're her...?"

"Foster son." My voice wavers. Where the hell did that come from? I would have liked to say I'm her real son and she's my mom, where is she? Except Maggie never adopted me officially. I wouldn't let her. "What'd she do, trip carrying laundry into the house? Fall in the shower?"

The look she's giving me...I don't like it. Makes my insides twist all up.

"She had a heart-attack, sweetheart," Debra says.

I squint at her, not understanding. "Okay."

"Earlier this afternoon. A neighbor was there. But by the time the ambulance arrived, there was nothing they could do."

She strokes my arm but I don't really feel it. Kind of numb all over, actually. All I can think to say is, "Women don't die from heart-attacks."

"They..." Debra purses her lips. "What makes you think that?"

I stare at her because I don't have an answer. It seems true. Statistics or something, isn't it? Maybe if I say it enough, think it enough, it'll be true.

But it's not.

At the end of the day, I'm still peddling the four miles home where Maggie left chicken thawing on the counter for dinner and the book she was reading is open on the table. I wonder if it was a good book. I wonder if she would be disappointed she didn't get to finish it.