Cinnamon (Shooting Stars 1)

"You're Mrs. Carlson's daughter?"

"Yes," I said. "What's wrong? Isn't she getting well?"

"I'm Mrs. Fogelman. The doctor was here earlier today and left instructions that I should personally greet any immediate family. There's been a little setback." she said.

"Setback? What does that mean?"

"Isn't your father with you?" she asked instead of answering.

I felt myself tighten like a wire being stretched to its limit. She actually looked past me toward the door.

"Unless he's invisible. I'd have to say no," I told her sharply. "What's wrong with my mother?"

"She's drifted into a comatose state," Mrs. Fogelman revealed after a moment of indecision. "However, the doctor feels it is only a temporary condition. We've moved her to our intensive care area and we're monitoring her carefully. I thought the doctor had reached your father and that's why you were here," she added.

"No, I think my father is unreachable at the moment." I muttered. "Can I see her, please?"

She nodded.

"Yes, that might be very good. She should hear your voice," Mrs. Fogelman decided. She smiled and we walked to the elevator.

"Are you in high school or college?" she asked me when the doors closed.

I hadn't been in many elevators in my life, but I always hated the deep silence, the way everyone avoided looking directly at anyone else, and waited uncomfortably for the doors to open again. The quiet moments seemed to put everyone on edge as if being closed in a small area with other human beings was alien to our species.

I barely heard Mrs. Fogelman talking.

"High school," I muttered. Who cares? I thought. What difference did that make now? What difference did anything make now?

She smiled at me and the doors opened mercifully one floor up. She led me down the corridor to the ICU ward and then to my mother's bedside. Her eyes were shut tight, the corners wrinkled..

"She looks like she's in great pain," I moaned. Mrs. Fogelman didn't deny it.

"Mental pain," she said, trying to make it sound like it wasn't as bad as physical pain, but there was no hiding the truth. Mommy was in agony.

I reached for her hand and held it tightly in mine. Then I leaned over the bed railing and wiped some strands of hair from her forehead.

"Mammy, it's me, Cinnamon. Please, wake up. Mommy. Please."

Her face seemed frozen in that grimace of anguish. Her lips were stretched and white.

"What are you doing for her?" I demanded.

"We've got to be patient," Mrs. Fogelman said. "She'll snap out of it soon."

"What if she doesn't?"

"She will," she insisted, but my urgency and concern made her sound less confident.

"Do they always snap out of it?" When she didn't respond. I said. "Well?"

"Let's not think the worst. dear. The doctor is watching her closely. Keep talking to her," she advised and walked away quickly to seat herself behind the sanctity of the central desk where she busied herself with other things and glanced my way only occasionally.

"Mammy," I pleaded. "please get better. You've got to get better and come home. I need you. We've got to be together again.

"Grandmother is taking over the house, just as you always feared. I want you to come home and make her put everything back the way it was. Please. Mommy. Please get better."

I sat there pleading with her until I felt my throat dry up and close. Then I kissed her on the cheek and looked at her face. Her eyelids fluttered and stopped.