Chapters (65)
- Cover
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- Part One
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Part Two
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Part Three
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- About the Publisher
“We understand,” said Deena. She hated people explaining things she already knew.
“I’ll leave you to it,” said the doctor, and he was gone.
“What do you want to do?” asked Deena.
“If I’m gonna stay, I need a place to sleep,” I said.
“So the room with the foldout bed.”
I shrugged, like, Isn’t it obvious?
“CODE BLUE, CODE BLUE, response team to Level One,” said a loud voice. Over the speakers.
“Clear the way!” someone yelled.
A cluster of medics, nurses, and doctors wheeled a patient down the hallway. I watched him pass. Looked like a teenager. Looked unconscious. Serious shit. They were hustling and giving each other orders. Like something on TV.
Forty-Seven
Ruth
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 10, 2002
Very Early Morning
When I reached St. Mary’s, having rushed over in a taxi, it occurred to me how many times I’d been in hospitals in the last five days. I’d become an expert. And now I was confident I could conquer this place, too. Here, in Duluth, in the wee hours of the morning. But since it was after midnight, the security desk was unstaffed and the front doors were locked. A sign instructed visitors to check in at the emergency room.
At the triage desk, I asked the room number for Jake Olson and explained that he was in a coma, so he might be in ICU. The triage clerk typed Jake’s name into the computer and nodded, then asked, “Yes, and you are his mother?”
“Um, well,” I stammered, “I’m his stepmother.”
“Stepmother?”
“Yes, his father is my husband, who is on his way up here from Minneapolis, along with Jake’s brother and his mom, and they asked me to come over and sit with him until they get here, which could be three hours or maybe two and a half. Can you tell me where to find him?”
“Uh.” The clerk looked confused. “Sorry, are you a legal guardian?”
“No.” I was taken aback.
“Gary?” he asked the next cubicle. Then to me, he said, “One moment, please.”
I stood waiting while the clerk held whispered negotiations with Gary, whoever that was. This wasn’t a new experience for me. When I’d taken the boys to their doctor or dentist appointments, or called to excuse them for being absent from school, I was always asked this question: Who do you think you are?
Soon Gary approached. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but because it’s after visiting hours, we can’t allow anyone into ICU who’s not immediate family.”
I glanced around to see how many people were witnessing this humiliation. Only three souls in the waiting area. “Even though the immediate family asked me to be here until they arrive?”
“Yes, I’m sorry, ma’am.” Gary and the triage clerk stood next to each other, firm in their policy but both making sad faces to show how compassionate they were.