The phone call came at 11:42 on a Tuesday morning, right in the middle of checking the IV line on a patient in room seven at St. Catherine’s Hospital. I almost didn’t answer. I had three more patients to see before my break, and the shift wasn’t even halfway through. But something—some particular instinct that mothers develop over years of caring for people—made me step into the hallway and check the screen.
Unknown number.
I answered anyway.
“Ma’am? This is Officer Benny with the Seattle Police Department. I’m calling to let you know that your children are safe, but I need you to come home. Your older son was involved in a situation, and I think it’s important we talk about it in person.”
The world seemed to narrow down to just the sound of my own heartbeat.
“Are my children okay? What happened? Is Logan hurt? Where’s Andrew?” The questions came out in a cascade, each one tumbling over the last, each one carrying a different flavor of fear.
“Ma’am, there’s no immediate danger. Your sons are both safe. But yes, it’s important that you come home as soon as you can.”
The call ended before I could ask another question.
I told my charge nurse it was a family emergency. I didn’t wait to hear the response. I was already moving, already taking off my hospital badge with shaking hands, already heading toward the elevator. I was still wearing my scrubs, the fabric still carrying the particular smell of hospital disinfectant and the endless fluorescent lights.
The drive home should have taken twenty minutes. I made it in thirteen, which I understood only in retrospect as I was already past two red lights without consciously registering them until I was on the other side.
Leave a Comment