By the time I reached my car, a second text message from an unknown number arrived. It was from the hospital admissions desk, stating that my daughter had been admitted to the emergency department at St. Agnes Children’s Hospital.
The drive across the bridge was a blur of brake lights and grey Seattle mist. I kept my hands locked on the steering wheel, my mind replaying the nurse’s transcript over and over.
The hallway of the children’s emergency wing smelled of lemon floor wax and the faint, sweet scent of lavender detergent from a nearby laundry cart. The steady, rhythmic beep of a heart monitor sounded from one of the half-open rooms down the corridor, a rapid, tinny sound that seemed to pace my own footsteps.
A nurse in green scrubs with yellow ducks printed on them stepped in front of me, her hand held out to stop my progress.
“Are you Sarah Carter?” she asked.
“I am,” I said. “Where is my daughter, Lily?”
The nurse did not move out of the way. She placed a firm, steady hand on my forearm, her grip surprisingly warm.
“Her airway is open now, Mrs. Carter,” she said. “The emergency team administered the epinephrine thirty minutes ago in the ambulance. But I need you to stay steady before you walk through that door. Your daughter is frightened, and she needs to see you calm.”
“Who brought her in?” I asked.
“An ambulance,” the nurse said. “We received her at two-forty.”
“Where is her father?”
The nurse looked down at her clipboard, flipping the top page over. “No one has arrived yet besides you. We tried calling the father’s number, but it went straight to voicemail.”
“And my mother-in-law?” I asked. “Patricia Carter?”
“No one by that name has checked in,” the nurse said.
