You hear that, heart? We’re even now.
I smile at the realization that I’m finally about to experience life on my own. I’m consumed with a sense of accomplishment. I open the bathroom door and flip on the light . . . then immediately fall to my knees.
Oh, God.
Oh, no.
No, no, no, no, no!
I grab her by the shoulders and turn her over, but her whole body is limp. Her eyes are rolled back in her head, and her face is pale.
Oh, my God! “Ridge!” I crawl over her and reach for the door to his bedroom. I’m screaming his name so loudly my throat feels as if it’s ripping apart. I attempt to turn the doorknob several times, but my hand keeps slipping.
She begins to convulse, so I lunge over her and lift her head, then drop my ear to her mouth to make sure she’s breathing. I’m sobbing, screaming his name over and over. I know he can’t hear me, but I’m scared to let go of her head.
“Maggie!” I cry.
What am I doing? I don’t know what to do.
Do something, Sydney.
I lower her head carefully back to the floor and spin around. I grip the doorknob more firmly and pull myself to my feet. I swing his bedroom door open and rush toward the bed, then jump on it and climb over to where he’s lying.
“Ridge!” I scream, shaking his shoulder. He lifts an elbow in defense as he rolls over, then lowers it when he sees me hovering over him.
“Maggie!” I yell hysterically, pointing to the bathroom. His eyes flash to the empty spot on his bed, and his focus shoots up to the open bathroom door. He’s off the bed and on the bathroom floor on his knees in seconds. Before I even make it back to the bathroom, he’s got her head cradled in his arms, and he’s pulling her onto his lap.
He turns his head to look at me and signs something. I shake my head as the tears continue to flow down my cheeks. I have no idea what he’s trying to say to me. He signs again and points toward his bed. I look at the bed, then look back at him helplessly. His expression is growing more frustrated by the second.
“Ridge, I don’t know what you’re asking me!”
He slams his fist against the bathroom cabinet out of frustration, then holds his hand up to his ear as if he’s holding a phone.
He needs his phone.
I rush to the bed and search for it, my hands flying frantically over the bed, the covers, the nightstand. I finally find it under his pillow and run it back to him. He enters his password to unlock it, then hands it back to me. I dial 911, put the phone to my ear, and wait for it to ring while I drop to my knees next to them.
His eyes are full of fear as he continues to hold her head against his chest. He’s watching me, nervously waiting for the call to connect. He intermittently presses his lips into her hair as he continues to try to get her to open her eyes.
As soon as the operator answers, I’m bombarded with a list of questions that I don’t know the answers to. I give her the address, because it’s the only thing I know, and she begins firing more questions I don’t know how to communicate to him.
“Is she allergic to anything?” I say to Ridge, repeating what the operator is asking.
He shrugs and shakes his head, not understanding me.
“Does she have any preexisting conditions?”
He shakes his head again to tell me he has no idea what I’m asking him.
“Is she diabetic?”
I ask Ridge the questions over and over, but he can’t understand me. The operator is firing questions at me, and I’m firing them at Ridge, and we’re both too frantic for him even to read my lips. I’m crying. We’re both terrified. We’re both frustrated with the fact that we can’t communicate.
“Is she wearing a medical bracelet?” the operator asks.
I lift both of her wrists. “No, she doesn’t have anything on her.”
I look up to the ceiling and close my eyes, knowing that I’m not helping a damn bit.
“Warren!” I yell.
I’m off my feet and out of the bathroom, making my way to Warren’s bedroom. I swing open his door. “Warren!” I run to his bed and shake him while I hold the phone in my hand. “Warren! We need your help! It’s Maggie!”
His eyes open wide, and he throws off his covers, springing into action. I push the phone toward him. “It’s 911, and I can’t understand anything Ridge is trying to tell me!”
He grabs the phone and puts it to his ear. “She has CFRD,” he yells hastily into the phone. “Stage two CF.”
CFRD?
I follow him to the bathroom and watch as he signs to Ridge while holding the phone in the palm of his hand, away from his ear. Ridge signs something back, and Warren runs into the kitchen. He opens the refrigerator, reaches toward the back of the second shelf, and pulls out a bag. He runs with it to the bathroom and drops to his knees next to Ridge. He lets the phone fall to the floor and shoves it aside with his knee.