Inside the hospital, there’s a desk and there’s a person. She has a list and she has names. She can say who’s here. And who isn’t.
Coach walks over to her. Smiles. He pulls something from his pocket. He has credentials. A badge. Something official. Something that says he can be here.
I stand.
I shift.
I need them to hurry. I need to see my mom now.
Coach motions me over. He hands me a pen and points to a line on a piece of paper. I sign my name. Then we write our names on stickers that we fasten to our chests.
The woman at the desk points straight ahead and we walk that way. Down a hallway and to a door. Coach says something else to somebody there. They open the door.
And there she is. My mom.
She is tubes and beeps and bruises. Broken. Bundled. But she is also arms and legs. She is here and now. She is breath and air. I can see things aren’t perfect. I want her to move but she won’t. She can’t. It’s clear she has to heal.
She isn’t awake.
But she is alive.
My old fear creeps in. Hospitals are where people go to die. Is this how my mom felt when she came to see my dad? Am I going to have to say goodbye to her and watch someone sign papers to let her go?
Stop. I shake my head. This is where she needs to be. This is where people can help her. Being here is her best chance at getting better. The same way I did. There are Nurse Cathys and Doctor Patels here. People who can help. People who can heal.
Behind me the doctor explains that my mom has a concussion and some internal injuries. Broken bones. Dehydration. An ambulance brought her here earlier this week. He tells me how my mom was trapped. Buried. Stuck. Crushed. Just like I was. And Charlie. But she made it out.
“She’s going to be okay,” the doctor assures me. “She just needs time.”
Coach braces his hand on my shaking shoulder. Talks to me in his calm voice.
“Go see her,” he says. “She needs you.”