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Authors: Elizabeth Bass
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her sister haunting her conscience.
The brrrrrringggg of the telephone whiplashed her upright. Her hand groped for the princess phone on the table, which she answered with a dazed “Hello?”
The snuffling over the line confused her at first. She’d been expecting Derek to call. They usually got together on the weekend.
“Who is this?” Bev asked.
“It’s me,” a familiar voice answered.
For a moment, Bev’s heart stopped.
Diana?
“Alabama.” The name came out more like a croak, as if Alabama was on the verge of crying. And there were noises in the background. People talking in loud, urgent voices.
Bev’s nerves jumped in alarm. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Gladdie. They’re going to take her to the hospital. She—” Alabama broke off and silence stretched over the line.
“Alabama?” The handset shook in her trembling hand. “Hello?”
“Gladdie’s . . .” Alabama’s voice cracked again. “She . . . she’s having some kind of attack.”
C HAPTER 4
A labama rode in the back of the ambulance, perched on a narrow seat as an EMS guy hovered next to Gladdie, taking her vital signs. Now that she was strapped to a gurney, Gladdie questioned the seriousness of her condition. “I probably just have indigestion,” she said, before closing her eyes and shuddering as if a bulldozer of pain were rolling over her.
“Mm-hm,” the EMS guy said, unconvinced.
The driver hadn’t turned on the ambulance’s siren, but the vehicle made rattling noises Alabama didn’t understand until the emergency guy turned to her.
“Are you okay?”
She gulped. “Me?”
The rattling stopped momentarily and she realized where the sound had originated—from her own teeth clacking together like dice in a Yahtzee cup.
The rest of the way, she focused on maintaining an outward calm. Or at least not shaking visibly or audibly. It took a lot of effort, because her insides had jellied. Even holding herself upright required effort.
Mom. Wink. And now Gladdie.
She was the angel of death.
An unspoken prayer tapped through her head like Morse code, over and over. Please don’t let her die, please don’t let her die, please don’t let her die. I’ll do anything.
At the hospital, they rolled Gladdie away almost immediately. Vomiting in the emergency room got results, evidently. After that, a woman behind the admitting desk peppered Alabama with questions about Gladdie. Address? Alabama didn’t even know the street address of The Villas. High blood pressure? Medications? Family doctor? Supplemental insurance? The woman asked the information in a rushed manner, not paying attention to the fact that the person she was talking to was only fourteen.
“I don’t know anything,” Alabama finally said. “You’ll have to wait for my aunt. She’s on her way. She lives in a place called New Sparta? She’ll know.”
The thought of Aunt Bev’s arrival bumped her anxiety level up a notch, and yet she was impatient for her to get there because she felt so useless. So helpless.
The woman said they had taken Gladdie in for diagnostics and Alabama would have to wait, so Alabama hovered in a hall near the emergency admitting area. Worrying. Dreading.
This was all her fault. The whole moving scheme had been her brainchild. House hunting in the heat of the afternoon, which had obviously worn out Gladdie? Alabama’s idea had instigated it all. Then Woodrow, her grandmother’s ancient friend, had taken them out to a late lunch—Italian food, Alabama’s favorite—and Gladdie had appeared exhausted but had insisted they live it up and even have cheesecake for dessert, as a treat for Alabama.
I should have said I wanted to go back. What if Gladdie died because of her?
Standing there in the emergency wing’s main hallway, white fluorescent tedium punctuated with tragedy, she lost track of time. She couldn’t say if it had been minutes or hours when she looked down the corridor and saw Aunt Bev bearing down on her. All
The brrrrrringggg of the telephone whiplashed her upright. Her hand groped for the princess phone on the table, which she answered with a dazed “Hello?”
The snuffling over the line confused her at first. She’d been expecting Derek to call. They usually got together on the weekend.
“Who is this?” Bev asked.
“It’s me,” a familiar voice answered.
For a moment, Bev’s heart stopped.
Diana?
“Alabama.” The name came out more like a croak, as if Alabama was on the verge of crying. And there were noises in the background. People talking in loud, urgent voices.
Bev’s nerves jumped in alarm. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Gladdie. They’re going to take her to the hospital. She—” Alabama broke off and silence stretched over the line.
“Alabama?” The handset shook in her trembling hand. “Hello?”
“Gladdie’s . . .” Alabama’s voice cracked again. “She . . . she’s having some kind of attack.”
C HAPTER 4
A labama rode in the back of the ambulance, perched on a narrow seat as an EMS guy hovered next to Gladdie, taking her vital signs. Now that she was strapped to a gurney, Gladdie questioned the seriousness of her condition. “I probably just have indigestion,” she said, before closing her eyes and shuddering as if a bulldozer of pain were rolling over her.
“Mm-hm,” the EMS guy said, unconvinced.
The driver hadn’t turned on the ambulance’s siren, but the vehicle made rattling noises Alabama didn’t understand until the emergency guy turned to her.
“Are you okay?”
She gulped. “Me?”
The rattling stopped momentarily and she realized where the sound had originated—from her own teeth clacking together like dice in a Yahtzee cup.
The rest of the way, she focused on maintaining an outward calm. Or at least not shaking visibly or audibly. It took a lot of effort, because her insides had jellied. Even holding herself upright required effort.
Mom. Wink. And now Gladdie.
She was the angel of death.
An unspoken prayer tapped through her head like Morse code, over and over. Please don’t let her die, please don’t let her die, please don’t let her die. I’ll do anything.
At the hospital, they rolled Gladdie away almost immediately. Vomiting in the emergency room got results, evidently. After that, a woman behind the admitting desk peppered Alabama with questions about Gladdie. Address? Alabama didn’t even know the street address of The Villas. High blood pressure? Medications? Family doctor? Supplemental insurance? The woman asked the information in a rushed manner, not paying attention to the fact that the person she was talking to was only fourteen.
“I don’t know anything,” Alabama finally said. “You’ll have to wait for my aunt. She’s on her way. She lives in a place called New Sparta? She’ll know.”
The thought of Aunt Bev’s arrival bumped her anxiety level up a notch, and yet she was impatient for her to get there because she felt so useless. So helpless.
The woman said they had taken Gladdie in for diagnostics and Alabama would have to wait, so Alabama hovered in a hall near the emergency admitting area. Worrying. Dreading.
This was all her fault. The whole moving scheme had been her brainchild. House hunting in the heat of the afternoon, which had obviously worn out Gladdie? Alabama’s idea had instigated it all. Then Woodrow, her grandmother’s ancient friend, had taken them out to a late lunch—Italian food, Alabama’s favorite—and Gladdie had appeared exhausted but had insisted they live it up and even have cheesecake for dessert, as a treat for Alabama.
I should have said I wanted to go back. What if Gladdie died because of her?
Standing there in the emergency wing’s main hallway, white fluorescent tedium punctuated with tragedy, she lost track of time. She couldn’t say if it had been minutes or hours when she looked down the corridor and saw Aunt Bev bearing down on her. All
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