“Is this Martha Hayes?”
The voice on the other end was female. Young. Incredibly careful.
I shifted the heavy box against my hip, my brow furrowing. “Yes, speaking.”
“Mrs. Hayes, my name is Brenda. I’m a registered nurse at the Providence Hospice Center up in Anchorage. I am calling about your daughter, Sarah.”
The cardboard box slipped entirely from my hands.
Hundreds of bandages burst across the linoleum floor in a chaotic spray of white paper sleeves, but I didn’t even hear them hit the ground. All the air was sucked out of the tiny closet.
“What about Sarah?”
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.”
