Just my name.
The way people say it right before.
“Jason’s in surgery,” she said.
“Broken leg.”
“Ribs.”
“A bad concussion.”
“He’s going to live.”
“And Ruby?”
Meredith’s grip tightened.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again.
And again.
I pulled it out without thinking.
Unknown number.
I answered because my brain had stopped working.
“Hannah?”
A man’s voice.
Low.
Rushed.
“I heard it on the scanner.”
“Calloway Road.”
“Which hospital?”
“Mercy Ridge,” I said.
I didn’t think about it.
I just said it.
“I’m coming,” the voice said.
I hung up.
When I looked up, Meredith was staring at my phone.
Her face had changed.
Something in it had closed.
Like a door.
“Who was that?” she said.
“Nobody.”
“Meredith, where’s Ruby?”
She was quiet for a long time.
Too long.
Then she said it.
“Hannah, I’m so sorry.”
“Ruby didn’t make it.”
The floor tilted.
I heard a sound.
It took me a second to realize it was coming from me.
“I want to see her.”
“Hannah—”
“I want to see my daughter.”
Meredith held my arms so hard it hurt.
“Please.”
“Please don’t.”
“Don’t make that the last thing you remember.”
“I’m her mother.”
“I know.”
“That’s why I’m asking.”
“Remember her in the kitchen this morning.”
“Remember her twirling.”
I don’t know how she knew about the twirling.
I didn’t ask.
I slid down the wall.
I sat on the floor of the ER.
A nurse brought me a paper cup of water.
I held it until it went warm.
Nobody let me through those double doors.
Not that day.
Not ever.
Jason’s mother got there an hour later.
Linda Mercer.
Sixty-one.
Church pearls.
A tissue always tucked in her sleeve.
She ran to Meredith first.
Not to me.
They stood by the vending machine with their heads close together.
Whispering.
Linda put her hand over her mouth.
Then she looked at me.
Then she looked away.
She came and sat beside me on the floor.
In her good slacks.
She put her arm around me.
She was shaking.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she kept saying.
