Page 67 of Shattered Queens: Veronica
What do I do? I’m freaking out. I’ve never had to deal with one of her episodes by myself. “Mom, what do I do?” I can feel the panic rising in my chest, a cold tide, but I force it back. There isn’t anyone in the house but us. I have to press the panic button, but I have to get her comfortable first.
Okay, Veronica, you can do this,I chant to myself. “Mom, let’s get you comfortable. I need to call the doctor. Mom? Mom?”
She’s mumbling now, the words incoherent and slurred. Something is very wrong. I manage to haul her toward the couch, thanking whatever higher power granted me this new strength. Lowering her onto the cushions, I realize she’s no longer responsive.
“Mom, please wake up!” I begin to cry, the tears blurring my vision.Veronica, you can do this.
I slam my hand onto the panic button. Security is on its way. I scramble for my phone and call her doctor—no answer. I hear the heavy thud of boots as security runs inside the house. I don't wait for them to ask; I start shouting orders. “Call the ambulance! We need to get her to a hospital! Call my father!” I grab my mother’s hand and squeeze. “Mom, please be okay. Please.” I’m sobbing now, but I don’t let go. I try her doctor again—still no answer. I dial the only other doctor I know.
Ten minutes later, I’m in the back of a wailing ambulance. I don’t leave her side for a second. The paramedics work with practice, blurred motions, checking her vitals, and pressing an oxygen mask over her face.I realize my phone is still clutched in my hand. I look down at the screen. There is a string of missed calls. My family. We skid to a halt at the hospital entrance, where Tomas is already waiting.
“Veronica, I went through her chart,” he says, his voice a calm anchor in the chaos. “I’ll take care of her. You need to sit in the waiting room.”
“Okay. I’ll call my family. Tomas, please…please take care of her.”
He nods solemnly and follows the gurney as they wheel my mother away. I stand alone in the hallway, watching the double doors swing shut. Back-to-back missed calls from my father light up the screen.
I hit the dial button. I update Dad. He’s already on the plane, but it will be hours before he touches down. Ian is racing back from Santa Barbara, and Gabe is en route from wherever he was. For now, it’s just me in the waiting room. Alone with my thoughts. I don’t know how much time passes. I hear footsteps and look up to see Tomas enter the waiting room. I straighten my posture, trying to look strong, though I feel like I'm on the verge of breaking down.
“How are you holding up, Veronica?”
“I’m as good as I can be," I tell him, my voice steadier than I expected. "My family is on their way.” I make sure he knows so he can be prepared to update them when they arrive. He walks me to the private hospital room where my mother was moved. She’s lying in the hospital bed—unconscious. She looks so fragile. The rhythmic beep of the monitors is the only sound breaking the silence.
“You acted quickly," he says, checking the IV drip. "She’s lucky you were there.”
“Lucky I was there?” I repeat, the weight of thewhat-ifshitting me all at once.
He gives me a reassuring look. “Yes. She could have fallen and hurt herself.” He takes a breath, and I see his expression shifting intoprofessional focus. “The medication she is on isn't the issue. It’s the dosage she was prescribed that’s the problem. It needs to be adjusted. In cases like this, they sometimes do. I’m going to review her case with my colleagues, but she should be good to go home in a couple of days.” He reaches out, taking my hand and giving it a supportive squeeze.
“Tomas,” I call out as he turns to leave. “Thank you so much for everything.”
“You’re welcome. Also…” He pauses at the door, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Can you please call Miles? He’s blowing up my phone.”
Shit.
I look at mine and see that it died, so I ask for a charger. When it turns back on, there are dozens of missed calls and messages from Miles.
The ocean between us that I was thinking about earlier feels very small right now. I take a deep breath and hit his name.
Lapdog: What happened?
Lapdog: Answer the phone. I see you’re at the hospital.
Lapdog: Is your mother okay?
Lapdog: Answer your phone.
Lapdog: I’m hacking into the hospital’s security.
Lapdog: I’m boarding my plane.
His plane? He has a plane? I call him because I don’t have the energy to type a message or messages. The phone doesn’t even ring.
He answers immediately. “I’m on my way. I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”
“Hi.” I breathe, the sound of his voice grounding me. “Um, you don’t have to leave work because of me.”
“I know I don’t have to do anything,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “But I want to. Now, how’s your mom?”
