"I've spent too much time in hospital waiting rooms lately," my mother said wearily.
I squeezed her arm and settled beside her in a blue waiting room chair.
I was speechless. My father had never had so much as a cold that I was aware of—at least, that he'd admit to. Now he was in a room somewhere on the ward with wires attached to his chest, tubes up his nose, and a blood pressure cuff on his arm. Doctors were graphing every breath, every stir in his blood.
Mack insisted on coming with me after Don's call that opened with "I just got a text from your mother. They've rushed your father to the emergency room at St. Luke's General Hospital. They think it's a heart attack. I'm sorry, Ellen."
It didn't occur to me until much later to wonder when Don and my mother started texting one another
