“Gabe,” I shout from the doorway. When he glances up with a start, I flick my hand in a beckoning motion for him to come to me.
“Keep watching,” he tells Henry as he jumps up and hurries toward me, barefoot.
“You need to get over to the house,” I whisper. “Your mom collapsed for some reason and paramedics are here, working on her.”
“Jesus.” There’s panic in his eyes. He takes five frantic seconds to shove his feet into a pair of espadrilles by the coffee table, and then he’s off, charging up the path toward the house.
“Is something the matter?” Henry asks, finally tearing his eyes off the screen.
“Gee’s not feeling well, and Dad needs to check on her.”
“Should I pause the movie?”
“Uh, no, why don’t you keep watching, sweetie. And do you mind staying here for a little while by yourself? I want to check on Gee, too.”
“Okay. Is she throwing up?”
“No, not throwing up,” I tell him. If only it were that simple.
Though I’m only a minute or so behind Gabe, he must have run like crazy because I don’t spot him ahead on the path. By the time I burst through the side door of the house and reach the living room, no one’s there. I find them all in the circular driveway, joined now by Keira and Hannah, watching in anguish as Claire is hoisted on a gurney into the back of the ambulance. Blake and Ash are talking to the driver through the window about which hospital she’s being taken to. The paramedics jump into the back of the ambulance and pull the doors shut with a double clang.
“Okay, Dad and I are going to follow them to the hospital in Doylestown,” Blake announces as the ambulance pulls out of the driveway. It’s a town I know is about twenty-five minutes away. “Who’s coming with us?”
Marcus and Nick shout in unison that they are.
“Wh-why don’t I drive my own car,” Gabe says. “The keys are in it. And it’ll be better to have two there.”
“I’m coming, too,” Wendy announces and grabs Blake’s hand.
“I want to go,” I tell Gabe, “but someone needs to stay with Henry.”
He nods distractedly, like he’s clicking onto automatic pilot. “I’ll call you as soon as we know anything.”
Keira and Hannah quickly ask if they can accompany the group, but Blake nixes that idea.
“We need people to hold down the fort here,” he calls out as he hurries toward his Mercedes with Wendy and Ash alongside him.
Seconds later the cars are roaring out of the driveway: Blake, Ash, Wendy, and Marcus in one, Gabe and Nick in the other. I stare helplessly, feeling like I’m watching a movie about another person’s life.
Behind me I hear someone choke back a sob, and I turn to find Bonnie with her hands pressed to her face.
“I can’t believe this,” she murmurs.
“Why don’t we go to the kitchen,” I say, touching her shoulder. “I’ll fix us each up a cup of tea.”
Before we retreat, I turn back to Hannah and Keira, making eye contact with only my sister-in-law.
“Are you coming in the house?” I ask.
“Yes—I think I’ll wait in the living room with my phone. I don’t know what else there is to do beyond that.”
“I’ll come check in on you in a little while, okay?”
Keira nods while Hannah simply stands there, looking surprisingly unsure of how to play the scene. Could she be secretly happy that she’s been granted a momentary reprieve? If she was the one Claire was chewing out, there’s certainly nothing to be done about it at the moment.
I lead Bonnie by the arm to the kitchen, where Ginger and Bella are waiting on the other side of the door, all stressed out.
“It’s okay,” I say, giving each dog a couple of pats on the head. “Go lie down now.”
After encouraging Bonnie to sit at the table, I fill the electric teakettle with water and flick it on. I seem to be functioning on autopilot now, too, trying my best to hold my anxiety at bay.
“Do you think it’s a heart attack?” Bonnie asks bleakly, her sun-weathered cheeks wet from tears.
“Maybe. Do you know if she had any heart issues?”
I doubt that Claire would have told Bonnie if she had—she’s too private for that—but as housekeeper, Bonnie might have noticed certain medications tucked in a cabinet or drawer.
She shakes her head. “Not that I’m aware of.”
But certainly it’s a possibility, a problem Claire might not have even been cognizant of. Claire, after all, is seventy-two. Or is it seventy-three? On the other hand, she’s superfit for her age. When I spoke with her after lunch, she’d seemed uncharacteristically subdued, but hardly unwell, and if she’d been experiencing any chest pain, she’d done a good job of disguising it.
Of course, maybe she’s collapsed for some other reason altogether—a brain aneurysm or a seizure of some kind. Just thinking those words makes my stomach clench.
“You were the one who found her?” I ask Bonnie.
“Yes, it was me,” she says. “I’d come back from my break at four and started getting stuff ready for dinner. Claire’s usually in the kitchen around that time, but she never showed up, so I finally went looking for her and saw her at the end of the living room.”
“Was she conscious?”
“I’m not sure, to be honest. Her eyes were closed. And she was writhing on the floor, like she was in a lot of pain. I ran outside and yelled down at the pool for Ash and Blake, and they came running. Blake started CPR right away.”
I shudder. It’s horrible to think of Claire suffering like that. “I’m so glad you found her when you did.”
“I just pray she’s okay,” Bonnie says.
“She will be,” I insist. “You know how strong Claire is.”
The kettle clicks off and I fill two mugs with hot water. As I’m grabbing tea bags, my eyes fall on a row of empty ceramic vases on the counter, still waiting for Claire to fill them with her glorious arrangements. What if she never has the chance? No, I can’t allow myself to think that way. I carry the mugs to the table and join Bonnie there.
“I know it seems awful to worry about this now,” Bonnie says, cupping her mug, “but what about dinner tonight? I was planning on grilling flank steaks. People will need to eat—though we have no idea when.”
“You could always serve it at room temperature, right? And put out some sliced tomatoes and maybe one of those great pasta salads you do.”
“That would work.”
I think suddenly of my mother’s macaroni salad, to which she added hard-boiled eggs, peas, onions, celery, and gobs of mayo. She used to make it for friends if they lost a loved one or had a family member in the hospital. It was a dish that could keep in the fridge for a few days and people could help themselves to when they had a chance to eat. Not the kind of thing that would ever get whipped up in this kitchen, but it’s exactly the type of comfort food I could use right now.
“I’m going to check on Henry,” I announce, rising from my chair and abandoning my tea, “but I’ll be back—and I’ll let you know if I hear anything.” I pause for a moment. “Um, do you have any help coming later?”