Chapter 7: She Said Isabel
1071 Words
Daniel
My phone buzzed on the stone counter.
I glanced at the screen. I knew that area code before I saw the name. It was the direct line to the cardiology floor at St. Jude's.
I stood up fast enough that my chair scraped the floor.
"Daniel?" Jade's fork stopped mid-air.
"I need to take this."
I rushed into the hallway, my mind already racing.
“You asked me to call you if there’s any update”, the doctor said.
Dr. Aris gave me the information the way good specialists do. Just calm and specific, without softening anything.
“She had a breathing crisis at four in the morning. Her heart valves are not able to keep. She’s been officially admitted to the hospital. Things are getting worse. You should come before noon if possible," he said.
"I'm on my way," I told him.
After I hung up, I stood there in the hallway for a minute, straightening my tie and adjusting my cuffs. Just small, automatic actions, the kind a person does when they want to feel in control. Then, I walked back into the kitchen.
Jade looked up. "Everything okay at the office?"
"My mother's in the hospital. I need to go."
Her thumb stopped moving on her phone. She put it down.
"Oh, Daniel." She came around the island toward me. " Is she alright?"
"It’s her heart. The doctor says it's serious."
"Do you want me to come?"
I looked at her. I was thinking about what I'd need at the hospital: calmness, peace, someone who could sit in a tense room for hours without making it about them. Someone who wouldn’t even ask if I wanted her there, she’d already be in the car.
I pushed the thoughts away. "You don't have to."
"I'll come for a bit," Jade said, nodding to herself. "Just to be there for you."
…
The hospital always smells the same. Bleach, floor cleaner, and that old, stale air.
We took the elevator up to the fourth floor. Jade held her purse tightly and breathed through her mouth.
My mother’s room was at the end of the hall. It was small, the blinds halfway down, blocking out the sunlight. The oxygen mask made a hissing sound.
My mother looked asleep. Her skin was pale, and her hands laid still on top of the white blanket.
I pulled a chair to the bedside.
Behind me, Jade settled into the plastic chair in the corner. I heard her trying to get comfortable on a surface that was not designed for comfort.
Ten minutes passed.
"Gosh! The air in here is so heavy," Jade said quietly, leaning toward me. "That hospital smell. You know? Drugs and cleaning solutions. I so hard to breathe"
I said nothing. I was watching my mother.
The nurse came in, a woman in her fifties. One of those nurses who has seen it all and doesn’t react to anything.
She checked the readings on the monitor, adjusted the drip, and wrote something on her clipboard.
"Is she likely to wake soon?" I asked.
"Hard to say. She didn’t do well on the night shift. More rest will be good for her." She looked at the chart. "Her numbers are better than they were this morning. That's a good thing."
"This smell," Jade said. Louder this time. To no one in particular — or to the nurse, which was worse. "I don’t know how you work in it every day. I’m already feeling dizzy. Is there any airflow in these rooms?"
The nurse just looked at Jade for a moment, not willing to give a reply. Then she looked at me.
"I'll leave you to your visit," she said, and left.
The room was quiet again.
I looked at Jade. She was fanning herself with her hand, her purse on her lap, her eyes fixed on the door the nurse had just walked through.
"Go home, Jade," I said.
"I want to be here for you"
"I know. Go home."
She stood up quickly, like someone who’s been given permission to do what they wanted to do anyway. She kissed my cheek. Her perfume filled the room, too expensive and out of place.
She said she would have dinner ready or that maybe we could order from my favorite place, and to text her whatever. Then she left.
The door closed. I moved my chair closer to the bed. I looked at my mother's face.
An hour passed. Maybe more.
There was only the beeping of the monitor and my mother's slow, labored breathing and the specific quality of a Tuesday afternoon going about its business outside the half-closed blinds.
Then her hand moved.
Just a little, a slight shift of her fingers on the blanket. I leaned forward.
Her eyes opened.
Not completely, but just enough. She looked at the ceiling first. Then she turned her head and saw me.
“Daniel.” Her voice was weak, barely there. The oxygen mask made it even harder to hear.
“I’m here.” I moved closer and covered her hand with mine. “I’m right here, Mama.”
She looked at me. Her eyes were clearer than I expected, sharper than the rest of her, like the medication had taken her body but not her mind.
"Have you spoken to Isabel?"
The room went very still.
Hearing that name hit me hard, like a punch.
"No," I said. Carefully. "No, I haven't."
My mother let out a slow breath. The monitor beeped steadily. She looked at me with those clear, tired eyes.
"You should.", she said.
I frowned.
"Why?"
But she was already drifting off. Her eyes closed, her hand went still under mine, and her breathing slowed into sleep. Whatever had woken her up had disappeared again. She was lost to me again.
I sat there, her words hanging in the silence.
Not a suggestion. Not curiosity. Something else.
Why? She didn't answer. She was already fast asleep.
The door opened. Dr. Aris came in, making his rounds, clipboard in hand, calm and professional. He checked the monitors, said her numbers were stable, and that rest was good. He said I could stay as long as I wanted.
I nodded and thanked him.
He left.
I sat alone in the room with the beeping monitor, my mother’s sleeping face, and those two words I couldn’t ignore.
You should.
- Writer
