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When I arrive home from work, I busy myself with cleaning a little, putting away odds and ends. My apartment has turned into a bit of a mess with all the stress surrounding work and Declan, and I decide to straighten up a little bit, hoping it’ll improve my mood.
Of course, it doesn’t. Mostly, that’s because cleaning involves putting away some of the designer clothes Declan bought for me in Paris, which threatens to send me on a new thought spiral. I eventually give up on the clothes and settle for the dishes.
Once my kitchen is sparkling clean, I start to think about dinner.
My fridge is empty. I’ve gotten too used to Declan taking care of me, taking me out to dinner or cooking for both of us. It’s been a while since I stocked up on ingredients to cook a meal for one.
I pull out my phone to scroll through some takeout options. Before I can look anything up, though, the screen shifts. I’m getting a call.
I blink in surprise as the name flashes up on the screen. It’s Nora.
I answer immediately. “Hello?”
“Sophie? I have the right number, yes?” There’s some strain in Nora’s voice. She sounds stressed, just like everyone else. At first, I think it must be for the same reason, but there’s a different kind of tension there. She sounds like she’s in pain.
“Yes, of course! Are you okay?”
“I’ve had a little bit of a fall,” Nora says. “Nothing too major, don’t worry. I tried to call Declan, but he didn’t answer. I just need somebody to come by.”
“Oh, my god. Do you need to go to the hospital?” My heart skips a beat.
“No, no, nothing like that. I just didn’t know who to call, since my grandson didn’t answer.”
I bite my lip. I think about calling Declan, but if Nora couldn’t get through to him, I’m sure I won’t be able to either. I know he’s busy, and I don’t know how long it will take for him to be able to get away from work.
“I’ll come over and help you out,” I offer.
“Thank you, Sophie,” Nora says. “I’m so sorry to put you out like this. I really appreciate it.”
I head straight over to Nora’s. On my way, I try to give Declan a call, but he doesn’t answer. He must be in a meeting.
When I arrive, Nora is sitting on the floor in her kitchen. She looks up at me sheepishly as I approach, kneeling down to help her to her feet.
“I’m so sorry for all of this fuss,” she says. “It’s fine, really.”
But I can tell it’s not. She seems shaken. She’s pale and trembling as I help her over to the sitting room, settling her down in an armchair.
I head to the kitchen to get her a glass of water, then tuck a blanket around her gently.
“How do you feel?” I ask.
She starts to answer, but then her face goes slack.
My heart lurches. “Nora? Are you okay?”
When she finally manages to speak, what comes out is just garbled nonsense, like she’s not capable of saying words.
She’s having a stroke, I realize with a sudden jolt of panic.
Immediately, I pull out my phone and dial 9-1-1. I don’t know much about medicine or strokes, but I know the warning signs and I know that this isn’t something to mess around with. Nora needs to get to a hospital—now.
The operator answers. “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”
“I’m with my boyfriend’s grandmother, and I think she’s having a stroke,” I say quickly, almost stumbling over the words. “I’m not sure, but she can’t talk, and she seems really disoriented.”
The operator’s voice remains steady and calm, the opposite of what I am. “Okay. Where are you?”
I give the operator Nora’s address, then add, “We’re in the sitting room—to the right of the front entrance.”
