Asked another question.
Signed.
Only after the decision was made did I call my parents.
I wasn’t calling for permission.
I wasn’t asking them to vote.
I thought grandparents would want to know.
I thought they would come.
Mom answered over music.
“Heather, what’s wrong?”
“Sophie’s appendix perforated. They’re taking her into surgery tonight.”
The silence lasted only a second.
Then she asked, “Where’s Matt?”
“Driving back.”
“How far?”
“More than two hours.”
Mom lowered her voice.
“Then shouldn’t they wait until he gets there?”
“No. The surgeon specifically told me not to wait.”
Someone laughed near her.
I could hear Mom move somewhere quieter.
“Are you sure you understood him?”
“Yes.”
“I’m just asking.”
“I understand.”
“Because sometimes doctors give options and everything sounds urgent when you’re frightened.”
“Mom, there was no confusion.”
I looked through the glass wall toward Sophie’s room.
“They need to do it tonight.”
Then I said the part that should not have required explanation.
“I need you and Dad to come.”
Mom hesitated.
That hesitation became the beginning of a line I would remember for a long time.
“Sophie is already at the hospital.”
“I know.”
“She has doctors and nurses. You’re there.”
“That isn’t the point.”
Dad eventually took the phone.
Then came the conversation that ended with “Keep us updated.”
A nurse arrived a few minutes later.
“We’re ready to take her toward pre-op.”
I slipped my phone into my bag.
Sophie reached for my hand before I reached for hers.
We walked beside the bed until a pair of doors marked the point where I could not go farther.
She looked up at me.
“Will Dad be here when I wake up?”
“He’s on his way.”
“Promise?”
“I promise he’s coming.”
That was the promise I could safely make.
She nodded.
Then the doors closed.
There are moments when a hospital becomes unbearably quiet even while surrounded by sound.
Monitors beep.
Carts roll.
Shoes squeak against polished floors.
Phones ring.
Yet somehow the one thing you need to hear disappears.
For me, it was Sophie’s voice.
I sat down.
My phone was in my hand without me remembering taking it from my bag.
There was a message from Matt.
ETA 1:05. How is she?
Going back now.
I typed.
He called immediately.
“Already?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
He exhaled.
“Okay.”
Neither of us meant okay.
“I asked if they could wait.”
“And?”
“They said they shouldn’t.”
“Then you did the right thing.”
I pressed my fingers against my eyes.
“My parents aren’t coming.”
Silence.
“They’re still at the shower?”
“Yes.”
Matt did not respond for a few seconds.
Then he said, “We’ll talk about that later.”
There was no useful anger available yet.
Only waiting.
At some point, I walked to a vending machine and bought water I barely drank.
At some point, a nurse asked whether there was any custody issue involving Sophie’s father that the hospital needed to know about.
The question struck me as odd.
“No.”
“You and her father agree on her care?”
“Completely.”
“All right.”
I assumed it was routine.