My voice came out much steadier than I actually felt. Decades in the ER had taught me how to sound perfectly calm before my brain even processed the panic. Keep the voice level. Get the clinical facts. Fall apart later.
Brenda hesitated for one beat too long.
“Mrs. Hayes, I am so incredibly sorry to be the one telling you this, but Sarah was admitted to our end-of-life facility three weeks ago. Her condition has deteriorated significantly in the last forty-eight hours. I found your number in her unlocked phone under ‘Mom, Emergency.’ She begged me to call you as soon as she was lucid enough to speak. I really think you need to get on a plane.”
Three weeks.
Those two words struck me harder than a physical blow. Not hospice. Not deteriorated. Not come quickly.
Three weeks.
My beautiful, vibrant daughter had been dying in the freezing dark of Alaska for twenty-one days, and I was just now hearing about it from a total stranger.
“Where is Greg?” I demanded, my grip on the phone tightening until my knuckles turned white. “Her husband. He is her emergency contact. Why on earth didn’t he call me?”
There was another agonizing pause on the line. This one told me that Brenda knew far more than she was legally or professionally comfortable saying.
“Mr. Lawson hasn’t been here,” she said, her voice dropping to a sympathetic whisper. “Not once since Sarah was admitted. He filled out the intake forms, listed himself as traveling out of the country for a vital business acquisition, and left. Mrs. Hayes… I don’t think your daughter has had a single visitor.”
