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David obliges, raising his hands in the air immediately. This is crazy. What does Jordan think he’s doing?

  “Jordan, stop!” I yell. “You’re scaring him!”

  “Where have you been?” asks Jordan, finally acknowledging me.

  “Here!” I yell back, trying to steady my voice. I’m starting to feel scared. “We’ve been right here. We had hot chocolate, for God’s sake, not holding up a bank!”

  “You’re in serious trouble, Mira.” Jordan’s voice is loud and angry. “Luckily one of the kitchen staff alerted us when you turned up missing. Jesus! What the hell were you thinking?”

  I’ve never seen Jordan like this before, his eyes wild with rage. But his hand—the one holding the gun—is frighteningly steady.

  “I-I guess I wasn’t thinking,” I’m trying to find the words that will calm Jordan and allow David to run. God knows, by now he should want to run as far away from me as he can.

  “And you,” Jordan continues his tirade, aiming his words at David, “I should shoot you right here where you stand. Kidnapping is a very serious charge.”

  Shoot David? Would he really do that?

  “I didn’t kidnap her, sir,” says David, his voice surprisingly calm.

  Four members of Papa’s security detail exit the convention center. One spots us and begins speaking into the mic on his lapel.

  “It was my fault,” I stress. “I needed to get out of there, Jordan. I’m sorry I snuck away. I was only going to be gone for a few minutes. I swear! I just lost track of time. Please put the gun down. Please.”

  The security team jogs toward us, guns drawn. Jordan looks at them and then at the few spectators that have gathered to gape at us.

  Finally lowering his pistol, Jordan tucks it beneath his jacket. “It was nothing, boys,” he shouts out to the team, stepping away from David. They secure their weapons and turn their attention to dispersing the crowd.

  Just then Papa’s Mercedes pulls up to the sidewalk. The back window rolls down and Papa’s angry face appears. “Get in the car,” he demands.

  Jordan climbs into the car beside the driver, slamming the door shut. I turn to David with an apologetic expression. “Thanks for the hot chocolate.” I search my brain trying desperately to say anything that will make sense. “I’m so sorry about this.”

  To my surprise, David smiles and shrugs his shoulders. “No problem. It’s not every day I get mistaken for a criminal mastermind.”

  “It’s not funny, David.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s over now.”

  “Yeah,” I say. It is over, isn’t it? I barely know this guy and I’ve already blown it. I turn toward the car.

  “Hey,” David adds, “what about that date?”

  Our date? Is he serious? After all this?

  I really am shocked. “Sure. Okay.”

  Papa honks the horn, or at least he’s instructed his chauffeur to do the job.

  “Six o’clock tomorrow night?” asks David expectantly. “I’ll come by your house and pick you up.”

  He asks for my number, and I quickly recite it while he inputs it into his phone.

  “The media’s going to show up any second,” Papa states in an annoyed voice from inside the car. “And your mother’s not feeling well. Mira, get in the car. Now.”

  “Meet me at the park on Foothill Boulevard instead,” I tell David in a quick whisper.

  “You’ll be there?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Opening the back door, I slide into the car beside my mother. Her head rests against Papa’s shoulder and her skin looks a tad bit green. Jordan shoots me a reproving glare from the front seat before Papa slaps the driver’s headrest and the car lurches forward.

  I don’t dare look back.

  “Was that really necessary?” I ask once we’re on our way. My question is directed at Jordan, but Papa answers.

  “How could you be so irresponsible?” His voice comes out in a forced hiss. “Do you have any idea of the commotion you caused? Somehow I managed to keep the guests from finding out that the future governor’s daughter had outwitted security and run off to God knows where.”

  Papa’s eyes dart angrily to the back of Jordan’s head.

  “Don’t blame Jordan,” I snap. “The last place I wanted to be tonight was surrounded by a bunch of people I don’t even know. I just needed to get away for a few minutes.”

  Clamping his mouth shut, I can see the muscles tense along Papa’s jaw. He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He’s calming himself down, trying to act dignified.

  “I called your cell phone several times,” he says in a restrained tone. “You could have just told me where you were going.”

  “And have half your security team hovering over my shoulder? Your little surprise attack back there was embarrassing enough, thanks.”

  “If I’d been able to reach you, maybe we could have avoided a scene.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. I left my phone at home.” Where would I have carried a cell on an evening dress with no pockets?

  “That’s a bad habit, Mira. There’s a reason I bought you that phone.”

  Yeah, so he can track me day and night. Stupid parental controls. GPS sucks.

  “It was all good,” I tell him. “We just got something to drink and were on our way back.”

  “Who the hell is he anyway?” Papa asks.

  “His name is David. He was a server at your party.”

  “Oh, that’s just great. You ran off with the hired help.”

  “That’s not fair, Papa, and you know it. He’s actually very nice.”

  “Fine, if you’re interested in that sort of thing.”

  “He plans to go into politics.”

  Papa casts me a derisive glance. The car radio is playing and a news report comes on, but Papa tells the driver to shut it off.

  We drive for a few minutes in silence. Mama’s eyes are closed. I’m jealous. She’s the lucky one; she’s fallen asleep. Papa looks down at her. He tugs off one of his evening gloves and touches her hair, gently shifting it away from her face.

  “I was worried about you,” he says, his voice so low that I doubt Jordan or the driver can hear him. He looks up just long enough for me to catch the apologetic expression on his face before turning back to Mama.

  The city is quiet, just the lights from the shops and gas stations, and headlights from the occasional car can be seen. I let the events of the day play over in my mind, taking care to avoid the part about stepping on David’s foot and the evening’s disastrous ending. Instead, I think of David’s eyes. Deep, warm brown. The kind of eyes you can get lost in and never want to be found. I think of his hands. Strong hands with long, lean fingers and broad palms. I felt them when he stopped me from falling at Dr. Walsh’s office, and again when he helped me up from the floor at the fundraiser.

  I glance at Papa. He’s got the evening glove clutched in his fist and he’s slapping it against his knee.

  “You really are worried, aren’t you?” I ask.

  “Hmm?” The slapping stops. “About the inquiry? Heavens no.”

  It’s not what I meant, but I don’t tell him so.

  “Like I told the press,” he continues, “what that Stark did on his own time has nothing to do with me. The matter will soon be forgotten.”

  He offers me a smile but quickly turns away, staring out the window. I can see his reflection; he looks apprehensive, and soon he is lost in thought again. Somehow it doesn’t seem right to intrude, so I turn to my own window. And yet I cannot shake the feeling that no matter how adamantly Papa insists everything will be fine, deep down he knows it won’t be.

  As Monday dawns a shard of sunlight slices across my eyes. But I don’t mind. Today waking up doesn’t seem so bad. I stretch and swing my feet out of bed. As wonderful as I feel right now, I know this is going to be the longest day in history. My clock says it’s barely eight a.m., which means I’ve got ten whole hours to go until I see David again. I’m sure I can
find some way to pass the time. But first—breakfast.

  Throwing on my robe, I head for my bedroom door, but before I reach it my cell vibrates on my nightstand. It’s a text from Papa. It was sent hours ago. I must have been too deep asleep to hear it:

  Check on your mother

  I delete the text and drop the phone into my robe pocket. “Can’t I at least go pee first?”

  After last night’s shindig and Mama’s condition on the way home, I doubt she’s going to appreciate my waking her up and pricking her with a metal barb. Her sugar levels will probably be soaring. Too much alcohol will do that to a diabetic.

  I use the restroom and wash my hands. Then I enter my parents’ room to see Mama lying on her stomach in the bed, her feet peeking out from beneath her yellow sham. Her face is half buried in a pillow. I watch her breathe for a moment. She’s gone, really gone.

  “Mama?” I speak gently. No sense in startling her. Her insulin bottle and a used syringe lay nearby along with her other prescriptions. At least she took Papa’s advice last night and gave herself a little extra. Maybe her levels won’t be through the roof after all.

  “Mama,” I say more firmly. “It’s time to test.”

  She doesn’t stir. After donning a pair of surgical gloves, I prep the monitor and insert the strip. I lift the index finger of her limp left hand, prick the pad of her finger, and a small bead of red appears. Touching the blood to the end of the test strip, I watch the numbers count down.

  3-2-1…

  I read the monitor. This can’t be right. The number is low, way too low. Quickly I prepare the monitor for another reading, but the result is the same.

  Oh my God.

  Juice! She needs juice! I grab a box from the shelf. My hands shake as I insert the straw. What the heck am I thinking? She’s unconscious, damn it! How is she going to drink this?

  Glucose.

  I drop the box not caring where it lands. Hurrying to the bathroom, I rummage through my parents’ mess of a medicine cabinet and find a nearly empty canister of glucose tablets. I run back to Mama and place one of the thick, chalky discs under her tongue.

  “Mama, wake up.” I pat her hand and rub her arm, my gloved hands slide clumsily across her skin. Mama doesn’t move.

  I fish in my pocket for my phone. My fingers tremble as I dial my father’s cell number which, of course, goes to voicemail. “Papa, she’s not waking up. I gave her glucose, but—I don’t know what to do! God, please get this.”

  I press end, then dial 911.

  Is this real? It couldn’t possibly be. Why does Papa have to be gone today? Why won’t he answer his phone?

  The chaos happens so fast—the sirens, the paramedics, the ambulance. I climb into the back with Mama and hold her hand, but I’m crying so hard I can’t think straight.

  We arrive at the hospital, and the ambulance doors swing open. Looming above us, the skeletal frame of the half-finished wing glares at me like a disapproving deity. Mama’s whisked away, vanishing through the doors to the ER.

  A nurse with a plump, kind face leads me to the check-in counter. “What’s your name, honey?”

  Another nurse, chomping on a wad of gum, gestures with a pen. “Louise, that’s the Ortiz girl. Hey, sweetie, is that your mom they just brought in?”

  I nod, unable to find my voice.

  “Christ,” Louise mutters.

  “You know what that means,” says Gum Chewer, rolling her eyes. “The media’s gonna be here any minute.”

  The automatic door slides open and Papa rushes in followed closely by two security guards. Through the glass I see some reporters gathering. It feels like we’ve turned back time; it’s last week all over again. Only this time I don’t care that the media’s here.

  Papa hurries over, his face puckered with worry. “I got your message and tried to call you back.”

  Noticing that I’m still wearing my bathrobe, I pat the empty pockets. Once again I am without my phone. I must have left it in Mama’s room.

  “I tried the house,” Papa continues, “but Helen said you’d just left with the ambulance, so I came straight over. Are you all right?”

  I shake my head. The tears won’t stop coming. “She won’t wake up,” I say, choking on the words. “Why won’t she wake up?”

  Louise the nurse spots Papa and ushers him away from me. She’s taking him to see Mama. Gum Chewer leads me to a private waiting room, sits me in a chair, and turns on the overhead TV, like I could pay attention to some stupid show right now. A moment later…I’m alone.

  I don’t know how much time passes, but eventually Louise comes in to check on me. She offers me a granola bar, but I can’t eat anything.

  “There are some magazines here.” She picks up a stack and flips through a few. “People? GQ? Martha Stewart? Damn, this one’s a year old. Can you believe that?” She lays them down again. “I’m sure someone will be in soon, honey.” She smiles warmly. “The moment there’s any word, any word at all, I’ll let you know.”

  As the minutes wear on, I finally turn my attention to the TV. Anything’s better than sitting here wringing my hands. When the morning news comes on, I turn up the volume. The lead story is about Mama. A reporter appears on screen standing in front of the hospital doors:

  “Ana Ortiz, the wife of Alberto Ortiz, has been taken to the hospital in what is believed to be critical condition. Sources say Mrs. Ortiz may be in a coma.”

  Someone should get fired for leaking this to the press.

  The report is followed by a recap of last night’s story—Papa’s investigation. I shake my head…I wish they would just leave us alone.

  I get the feeling I’m being watched; that odd sixth sense that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up washes over me. I turn around and find Papa observing me from the doorway.

  “Is it true?” I ask, though I don’t need to. I can see the answer clearly on his face. “The news says Mama’s in a coma.”

  Papa stares at the wall behind me. He looks exhausted, wrung out. Just then a doctor comes in. He’s in green scrubs and is pulling off a pair of surgical gloves. Mine are still on. I’d forgotten all about them. I peel them off behind my back and stuff them in my pocket.

  “Your daughter?” asks the doctor. My father nods.

  “I’m Dr. Zimmerman. You did the right thing calling 911.”

  “Will my mother be all right?”

  “She’s in a coma. Her blood sugar dropped dangerously low.”

  “But she’ll wake up.”

  “It is possible, in theory. But—”

  “But?”

  “When the sugar level in the blood drops that low sometimes damage occurs, irreversible damage.”

  “But I don’t understand. Mama’s levels drop all the time. She always wakes up. She says it makes her feel sick.”

  The doctor glances at Papa and then back at me. “Your mother takes Trazodone, a mild tranquilizer. There was quite a bit of it in her bloodstream. Not enough to hurt her, but enough to put her into a deep sleep. That, combined with the extra insulin she took before she went to bed last night, well…she just couldn’t wake up when she needed to.”

  Louise comes in and turns off the TV. Papa sits down and buries his face in his hands. I should say something, but I decide it’s best to let him alone—at least for now. I look up at Dr. Zimmerman. He’s younger than Papa, with eyebrows and freckles that match his auburn hair.

  “I want to see her,” I tell him.

  He pauses, his face full of concern, and then looks toward Papa for approval, but Papa is too absorbed in himself at the moment to notice. Dr. Zimmerman fingers the end of his stethoscope. “Of course,” he says, finally. “Come with me.”

  I follow him out of the waiting room through a wide automatic door and down a hall with a yellow stripe painted down the middle of the floor. We pass several glass-fronted rooms and the nurses’ station. Dr. Zimmerman says something to one of the nurses about my presence, and then takes me to patient
holding room eight.

  Mama is on the bed covered with a thin white sheet up to her chest. The side rails are up, and she’s got an IV going. Such a familiar sight. I was here in this ER only a week ago, lying in a bed and hooked up to an IV just like this. I lower one side of the rail and sit down on the orange plastic chair beside Mama’s bed.

  How did this happen? How did I let this happen? My brain is spinning with questions. I watch Mama’s face, peaceful like she’s sleeping.

  “Mama?” I say quietly. I lean a little closer. “Mama, can you hear me?”

  My throat feels tight. I don’t fight the tears when they come, or the anger. I blame myself, though I don’t know what I’ve done to cause this. If I’d gone in to check on her sooner…if I had called 911 before giving her the glucose…if I hadn’t left the fundraiser so Papa could have brought her home sooner…? I don’t know. I don’t know.

  “I’m so sorry. I just—I want—”

  A sob explodes out of me and I bury my face in Mama’s sheet, letting my tears soak the coarse fabric.

  “Mama, I just want to know you’re still here.” My voice is muffled against the bed. I lift my gaze to look at her. Can she hear me? Deep down does she know I’m here, know what’s happening around her?

  I stare at my fingers, alien to me, always hiding away in my pockets or gloves. I watch them hover like spirits over Mama’s face. Then slowly they come down and make contact.

  Papa and I drive home in complete silence, each left to our own thoughts. A thin rain begins to fall, and the only sound is the car wipers slapping against the windshield. The signals and brake lights from the cars ahead of us are indistinguishable blurs of color. The sky is a drab shade of gray.

  The grandfather clock just chimes six p.m. when we walk in the front door.

  Six o’clock. I was supposed to do something at six.

  The aroma of cornbread and chili permeates the air. “Smells like Helen’s been cooking,” Papa says. He pulls off his overcoat and lays it across the dining table. I am already halfway up the stairs.

  “I’m not hungry,” I tell him, and I mean it even though my stomach rumbles.