Promptly at seven the next morning I stand at the Union Square subway station main exit, away from the stairs to avoid the raging river of commuters, waiting for Gloria.
And I still stand there, alone and ignored, at seven thirty.
I’ve used the time well, of course, answering some emails and checking my task list on my phone, but still. Why couldn’t she just once do what she promised? I didn’t grab a smoothie on the way, since I wanted to be early so if by some amazing coincidence she was on time she wouldn’t get to lord her punctuality over me, and if she doesn’t hurry up I won’t have time to get one before my staff meeting at nine and I’m starving.
Aggravated, I call her but it goes straight to voicemail. As I start to put the phone away without leaving a message, it rings, and I answer with, “About time, where are—”
“Valerie, Valerie, oh, God…”
It’s too early in the morning to deal with my mother’s hysterics. “What’s going on?” I say, craning my neck to look down the stairs for Gloria.
“Your sister’s—” Mom gulps. “Gloria’s in the hospital. We’re on our way but you’re closer. Hurry over, please. I don’t really understand what’s going on, but…”
She breaks down, and I hear Dad in the background calling, “We’ll see you there, Valerie. Go now.”
“Okay, I’m on my way,” I say, because I know I have to, and Mom manages to get out the hospital’s address then hangs up.
I give myself a moment to be annoyed then I fire off a quick text to Jaimi to have her inform the office I’ll be late before heading back down the stairs into the subway. There is no way this is anything important. Gloria’s probably got a splinter or something equally ridiculous. Mom’s been unable to handle anything of significance since Anthony died, and Gloria was a drama queen long before then and she still is, so of course this is nothing.
*****
I truly believe that. So when I finally arrive at the hospital and am directed to the intensive care unit where a hushed doctor informs me that my sister took such a severe blow to the head that she is now in a coma, I can do nothing but stare at him.
“We’re doing our best for her, of course, but the first twenty-four hours are critical. She did survive the night, which is a good sign. I’ll be back to you as soon as I can. And unfortunately I cannot let you see her right now.”
I don’t want to see her at all. Gloria half-dead in a hospital bed? How would I ever get those images out of my mind? I can barely remember how Anthony looked when he was alive and happy, but I can far too easily recall the panic and pain in his tiny twisted face as he lay on the living room floor clutching his throat and—
I force that memory away and thank the doctor, who nods then hurries off.
My mind stunned silent, I drop into an uncomfortable waiting room chair, and it isn’t until I notice my hand cramping that I realize how tightly I’m clutching the paper bag I brought.
The bag containing a bagel.
I stopped at a coffee shop, while my sister lay in a coma, to get myself a bagel.
I first looked around for a branch of my usual smoothie place, then a smoothie place that at least felt like they understood basic hygiene, and when I couldn’t find either of those I found a health-department-approved coffee shop with small bagels instead of those ridiculously huge monstrosities and I waited while the slowest worker ever toasted and buttered one for me, then I insisted she make me a new one because she used too much butter. I spent all that time feeding myself, while Gloria was…
Self-hatred floods me and I let go of the bag like it’s burning me. Yet again I focused on food and did the wrong thing by a sibling. If fourteen-year-old me hadn’t been rushing out to have lunch with her first boyfriend she would have been more careful with the balloons, and Anthony would have had a wonderful third birthday party instead of a sudden terrifying death.
At least this time it won’t be my fault if—
“No,” I think, refusing to allow the thought to take root. “She can’t. I won’t lose another— I can’t let her die. I have to do something.”
But what? I have no control here.
That thought manages to root itself in an instant, wrapping itself around my heart and choking me like a strangling vine.
I try to fight it off, fight off the panic it brings with it. No. I cannot have zero control. Not again. Not ever again. I always have control, and I need it now too. I have to do something. Something, anything. But what? I’m not a doctor, not even close, so I can’t help Gloria medically. I have to think. There has to be something I can do.
But what?
I start to stand up, my fear and dread making it impossible to sit still, which nearly knocks my paper bag to the floor. I grab it, then sit back down and stare at it.
Gloria wants to lose weight. She can’t feed herself in a coma, so she can’t diet either, but I can. That’s something I can do.
I get up, feeling certainty filling me, and throw the bagel into the garbage can. I bought the stupid food when I should have been here for my sister, so I don’t deserve it anyhow.
Back in my chair I scoop up a magazine, though I don’t want to be bothered with it, to give myself something to do. When I see the front cover, emblazoned with “Eat less and live longer!” I feel a hint of peace despite my fear for Gloria. I will eat less, and she will live longer. I’m not sure how that’ll work exactly, but I don’t want to think too much about it or I might panic again. Making the decision has calmed me a little, so even if it doesn’t make sense I’m sticking with it.
Putting the magazine aside, I sit thinking about nothing but my rumbling stomach, taking a strange enjoyment from my refusal to feed it, until my parents rush into the room.
“Valerie,” Mom cries, throwing herself toward me. “Is she okay? Have you seen her? Is—”
“Lana,” Dad says, and Mom and I turn to see the doctor at the door again.
“Mr. and Mrs. Malloy?”
Mom nods.
“I’m Doctor Wise.”
A good sign, I hope.
Dad shakes the doctor’s hand then said, “How is she?”
He tips his head to one side and back again. “She’s deeply comatose, but still with us. We had a bit of trouble around the site of her breathing tube, but five minutes ago she bounced back fairly well from that.”
Dad sighs with relief and pulls Mom close. “Thank God. We’ve been so worried.”
The doctor nods. “I should tell you, we can provide you access to counseling if you’d like. A lot of people find—”
He’s cut off by my parents’ emphatic “No” in unison. He looks surprised, but I’m not; they’ve never believed in getting outside help for your problems.
The doctor recovers and goes on about Gloria’s breathing tube issue and the potential for her to get a life-threatening pneumonia or infection that could kill her within hours, and I take a peek at my watch. Gloria rallied five minutes ago, when I threw out the bagel.
I’m doing the right thing, not feeding myself. It’s the only thing I can do, so I will do it. Gloria can somehow have the energy I don’t take in, and it will help her stay alive.