Boomerang (39 page)
Authors: Noelle August
“Mia?”
I look up, and of course, it’s Adam, standing there in all of his elegant glory, in charcoal jeans and a tailored black oxford.
Then I notice that he’s left a button in the middle of the shirt undone, and for the first time since we’ve met, his expression is grim.
“What’s—”
“It’s your mother,” he says, holding his cell phone out to me. “She’s been trying to reach you.”
 | |
Ethan
Q: Crises: wake you up or shut you down?
Z
eke designed the advanced mode on the boomerang game so it’s like skeet shooting: when you hit
Start
, a series of three targets—hearts, which I thought were going to be cheesy but actually look pretty badass—appear across the sky on screen. Only one of them is the “right” heart—distinguishable by the quick flash of red that illuminates it the instant before you have to throw. The goal is to hit that one while avoiding the others and still catch the boomerang when it comes back.
It’s genius—and addicting.
The only problem, for me, is that the red is right in my color-blindness blind spot, which makes it almost impossible for me to see the cue.
Almost
impossible.
I hit
Start
, wiggle my fingers in the glove, ready to try again. Most of my booth is set-up, and I can feel the other vendors’ envy. Once Mia figures out her file problem, I’ll have a little more competition, but right now, my display is the one to beat.
“Ethan,” Rhett says, catching my arm just as I’m about to launch the boomerang. “You better get over here.”
His tone of voice sends a shot of adrenaline through me, and I wonder if someone else is hurt. This exhibit floor is a hazard. One of the GetLucky.com people already fell off a stepladder and twisted an ankle. I follow Rhett, hoping none of our team is hurt—that Mia isn’t—and that it’s just the file problem she needs help with. But as I come around to her side of the booth, all bright white and stylish, I stop in my tracks.
Mia stands by one of the café tables, a cell phone pressed to her ear. Her shoulders are bunched, and she’s still, like her entire body is bracing and distressed. Adam stands beside her. Adam, whose personal worth is about fifty million dollars over anyone else’s in this convention hall, and who isn’t supposed to show up until tomorrow, when the show starts.
As soon as he sees me, he waves me over. His hair is wet and uncombed like he had to rush from a shower, and he has a five o’clock shadow—which he’s never had before.
“Her grandmother,” he says quietly.
Jesus.
My whole body goes numb. Nana.
Mia still hasn’t said a word. She stares vacantly into space, listening to someone on the other end.
“What happened?” I ask.
“She’s in the hospital,” Adam says. “I don’t know anything else. Mia’s mother called me. She had my number from a piece I commissioned. I guess this hall is a dead zone for Mia’s phone.”
We stand there, me and Rhett and Adam, a small protective circle around Mia. Cookie wanders over, quiet and rigid. I give her a look, letting her know if she dares say a word—about anything—I will physically silence her, and she avoids my gaze, wisely choosing to stand down.
Across the booth, Paolo, Sadie, Pippa, and Mark watch—and even beyond, people have taken notice. Our booth was generating lots of buzz before. Now it’s drawing the somber attention that only comes from tragedy.
“How critical, Mom?” Mia says finally, her voice thin and shaky. It’s quiet again as she listens. Then, “but she’s going to live, right? She’ll be okay, right?”
Fuck the job. Fuck everything.
I put my arm around her shoulders, and her eyes are still far away, in Los Angeles, but her weight shifts slightly onto me.
“Okay,” Mia says. “Okay. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine, okay? You just worry about Nana. I love you. Bye.” She hands Adam his phone and says, “Thank you,” and we’re all standing there waiting for her to explain, but she doesn’t. She’s off the phone, but it’s like she’s still listening to her mother’s voice.
“Mia,” I say. “What happened to Nana?”
She looks up. When she speaks, it’s only to me. “She was hit by a car. She’s in bad shape. All broken. They don’t even know how badly yet. And she has some internal bleeding, and she hit her head, and—” her voice breaks, and I tighten my arms around her.
“It’s okay, Mia. What else?”
“The doctors don’t know if she’ll make it.”
I draw her against me because she’s so close to the edge now, so close to losing control. I can feel it like it’s me, my own body. And I can’t give her privacy but I can give her me. My arms will have to do right now.
“I’m going back with her,” I say to Adam.
It should have been a question. He’s my boss. But it wasn’t.
Paolo’s here. I only notice him when he speaks. “We just checked all the major airlines,” he says. “Flights are booked out of Vegas until noon. You’d get there faster if you drove.”
Adam looks from Paolo to me. He fishes his keys out of his pocket and holds them out. “It’s faster than her Prius,” he says, handing them to me.
I take them, tuck Mia under my arm, and we’re gone.
Back to Los Angeles.
| |
Mia
Q: Who always has your back?
T
he drive back to Los Angeles goes by in a blur. Highway. Desert. Dust.
My dad calls at one point to fill me in, and I find out that my grandmother wandered down the canyon road in her nightgown. In the dead of night. The car that struck her had a seventeen-year-old girl at the wheel, the daughter of new neighbors my parents just had over for dinner.
I give Ethan the report. “Nana’s in surgery to stop the bleeding and repair a punctured lung. She’s got a broken hip, a broken nose, and one of her legs is completely shattered. They still don’t know . . .” But I can’t say the rest of it.
“It’s going to be okay, Curls,” Ethan says, his voice soft but so filled with certainty, he almost convinces me. He takes my hand and squeezes it. “Let’s just get you there.”
And he does. Faster than should be possible, we pull up to the entrance of Cedars-Sinai.
“I’ll park and find you,” he says. Then he lifts my hand to his lips, and immediately, the tears I’ve been working so hard not to shed spill out of me. “I’ll be right there. Go.”
Vision fogged, I race through the sliding glass doors and find my way through a maze of sterile hallways to the Surgical Intensive Care Unit, in a totally different building. There they have me call from the lobby before I’m allowed to head up to the surgical floor. By the time the elevator doors close, my body is drenched in sweat, and I can’t stop the tears from coming. I feel like I’m in a nightmare where letters blur to nothing in front of my eyes and where every step feels like it takes an inhuman effort.
Finally, I find the waiting area. My mom sits on a vinyl-cushioned chair, staring up at a monitor that lists patient names and statuses. She sees me and gets to her feet. We collide in a clumsy hug, and my mom’s tears wet my cheek. I tighten my arms around her, and we stand there for a bit, then she sinks into a chair and pulls me down beside her.
“Where’s Dad?”
“He went for coffee,” she replies. “And your grandmother’s on her way out of her first surgery. They stopped the bleeding and repaired the damage to her lung. I guess they did what they could with her broken bones too. But . . .” It feels like my heart stops beating while I wait for her to finish. “We have to see if she wakes from surgery. Her brain’s injured, and she just might not . . . regain consciousness.”
I think about the photos she just showed me and of that bold, wry look on her face, the same expression I’ve seen a thousand times. That girl who marched in Alabama, who was one of only nineteen women in all of New York State to receive a paralegal degree in 1963, still lives in my grandmother. I can’t imagine this is the end of that person or the end of the life she’s lived since.
Even though she’s been slipping away for years, I’m not ready to let her go.
“She’ll wake up,” I say. “She’s so strong.”
“And stubborn.”
I smile. “That too.”
My dad arrives with a cardboard holder loaded with coffee cups. He sets them down on a scratched laminate table and gives me a fierce hug. Then he smooths the hair back from my face and kisses my forehead.
“Where’s Ethan?” he asks.
“He’ll be up soon.”
“I’m glad he brought you,” my mother says. “I couldn’t stand to think of you traveling here alone.”
I know what she means. I’ve had this feeling since we left Las Vegas of being more vulnerable, of having spent my life in some kind of protective bubble that burst with Nana’s accident. I know it’s crazy, that no such bubble exists, but I’m still drenched in that feeling of fragility.
“What happened? Why was she out there this time?”
My mom shoots a look at my dad, but neither of them speaks.
“What? What it is?”
My dad sits down next to me and puts a cup of coffee in my hands. “She got on a tear this afternoon. Going on and on about that girl again. The one she thinks keeps stealing things from her.”
“Who
is
that girl? Is it one of the home health aides?” I don’t believe she’s stealing from Nana, but I can believe my Nana would get that idea in her head and not let go. “What was she missing this time?”
“Her photos,” my mom says softly, and she gives me a strange, sad look. “And the film reel from Selma.”
“She gave those to
me
.” I start, and then the reality sweeps through me, and it’s like a punch in the gut. “Wait.
I’m
the girl?” How can that be?
But I can’t deny the sense of it. The way she constantly tried to give me things—her jewelry and old photos. That video. And the last home health aide I met was Grace, an older woman. I don’t know why I didn’t put it together sooner.