Disconnect (4 page)

“Okay. But hurry up.” He dashed out of the room.

Emmy was busy cutting paper, her tongue poking out between her teeth. I had run through all the local movie listings by the time Caden yelled down.

“I'll be right up,” I answered. I checked to see if Josie and Selena had posted anything on Facebook.

Caden yelled something else I couldn't understand.

“Daria!” Emmy looked over at me and rolled her eyes. Then she continued cutting.

A text beeped. Josie.
U still talking
to me? Us? Call me. Now. Im home. Call
me. OK? PP.

“I'm going into the living room,” I told Emmy.

“Caden wants you,” she said. “Can't you hear him?”

“I'll go up in a minute.”

I was settling onto the couch when I heard thumps overhead. What on earth was the kid doing now? Rearranging the furniture? My phone beeped again. I thought I never wanted to speak to Selena again. But what had Cleo said?
There's
always enough friendship to go around.

“Hi,” is all I said. I didn't plan to make this easy.

“I know you're mad at us,” Josie said. “I don't blame you. Honest, Dari. It wasn't my idea…”

“You could have stood up for me.”

“I tried. But I swear. It was Selena's mom. We didn't stand a chance once she suggested it to Justine's mom.”

“I can't believe—”

“I know. She'll wreck the whole trip. You know Justine's allergic to almost everything, right? And you know what? She's bilingual, she says. I bet she's going to practice all the way to Quebec.”

I held my hand against one ear to shut out the noise from upstairs. “
Comment allez-vous?
” I said in my clunkiest accent. “
Voulez-vous danser
avec moi?
”

Josie laughed. “
Mais oui, monsieur.
But I guess it might be useful having someone who speaks it,” she said.

“If you say so.”

“I didn't mean it like that. Honest, Daria. I hate that you're not coming with us. Hey, did I tell you about this great shirt I bought at Mexx last week?” And suddenly it was as if we were in the same room instead of separated by a thousand kilometers and a bunch of mountains.

As I lay back with my feet on the arm of the couch, the door flew open. “Go away, Emmy.” I held the phone against my chest. “I won't be long.”

She charged at me. “You've got to come. Caden is hurt.” She grabbed my arm.

“Just a minute.” I tried to shake free.

Her hard little fingers dug into me. “Caden's hurt,” she shrieked. “There's blood all over the floor. He won't get up. You've got to come!”

I threw down my phone and raced after Emmy. I overtook her halfway up the stairs and charged into Caden's room.

It was empty.

“He's in Mom and Dad's room,” Emmy screeched.

Caden lay on the floor between the bed and the dresser. One arm was flung above his head. The other was twisted underneath his body. His face was white, his eyes closed. Around his head was a pool of sticky dark blood.

Emmy dropped down beside him. “Cady. Wake up.” She patted his face. His eyelids quivered, but he did not open his eyes.

“Don't touch him,” I yelled. What had they taught us in First Aid? Something about pressing on the wound. But where was it?

Then I remembered another instruction. Don't move the patient.

But I couldn't leave him there. I hooked my arm under his shoulders and pulled him across my lap. I felt wetness smearing along my arm.

“Is he dead?” stammered Emmy.

“Of course he isn't,” I said. But how could I tell? He was so still and pale. “We have to call an ambulance. Get my phone.”

“I want Mommy.” Emmy's sobs grew louder. “Caden is going to die, isn't he?”

“Stop saying that!” I could hear the panic in my voice. “We have to call nine-one-one.”

She sat back on her heels, hugging herself. “I want Mommy.”

Caden lay like a dead weight in my lap. “Emmy.” I struggled to keep my voice low and level to make her do as she was told without frightening her. “You have to call nine-one-one. It's very important. Or get me the phone. You have to do it right now. Do you hear me?”

“Okay.” She was shaking. Her eyes were blank.

“Get up now. Go downstairs. Bring me my phone.”

Emmy looked around.

“Emerson!” I couldn't keep the panic out of my voice.

She stood up and turned around.

“It's downstairs,” I said. “Call nine-one-one. Do you know your address?”

“9631 Lakeview Crescent, Delta, BC, Canada.” Emmy spoke slowly as if she was memorizing it. “9631…”

“Emmy! Get my phone,” I yelled. “Now!”

“There's one here.” She picked it up from the table under the window.

I took a deep breath. “Dial nine-one-one. Can you do that?”

“We learned that in Brownies.”

“That's great.” I tried to keep my voice normal, even though my heart pounded in my chest like a hammer. “Now dial. Tell them where we are. Then hold the phone up to my ear so I can hear what they say.”

Emerson prodded the keypad. She pressed the phone to her own ear for a moment before she held it toward me. “Do we need the police or the ambulance?”

“Ambulance!” The pool of blood seeping into the carpet seemed bigger and darker.

“Ambulance, please.” Now Emerson spoke as coolly as if she was asking for a peanut-butter sandwich. She repeated the address twice. Then she leaned across Caden and held the phone toward me.

It took all of my self-control to answer the dispatcher's questions. To repeat everything twice. Admitting that yes, I had moved Caden. That he was not conscious. But that I could feel him breathing. “There's blood,” I said. “Lots of it.” My voice was shaking.

Emerson was huddled on the floor next to me. Tears streamed down her face. Her red and swollen eyes did not leave my face.

“No, I don't know where it's coming from,” I said into the phone.

“Stay on the line with me,” said the dispatcher. “Can you do that? Emergency Services will be there in about six minutes.”

“Hurry. Please.”

“Don't hang up. Can you put a blanket over the little boy?”

I eased one hand from under Caden and dragged the quilt off the bed behind me. I draped it over him and across my own shoulder. Emmy tucked herself against my side.

Six minutes had never seemed so long. I held Caden while his sister's sobs vibrated against my arm. I should comfort her. But all I could think of was the little boy in my arms and the blood soaking my sleeve and spreading around us.

The dispatcher suddenly said, “Daria. They're at the house now. Is the door open?”

I could hear sirens on the street. Then banging downstairs.

“It's them!” Emerson dashed out of the room.

“Hello!” Voices from the front hall were followed by heavy footsteps on the stairs. “It's the paramedics.”

“Everything's fine,” I whispered to Caden. “You'll be fine now.”

It sounded good. Even if I did not believe it.

Chapter Eight

Emmy wandered around the waiting room. She checked out posters and studied the signs at the admissions desk. She watched a pair of paramedics wheel an empty gurney outside.

“Come here.” Even wrapped in a blanket, I could not stop shivering. “Emerson. Stay with me.”

“Will Caden be better soon?” She leaned against my leg. “Where's Mommy?”

“She'll be here.” The paramedics had called Cynthia from the cold, stark ambulance. Shining equipment hung above Caden as he had lain still and silent under the covers, his head almost completely covered in a gauze pad.

“Here's Mom!” Emerson rushed into Cynthia's arms. She burst into tears. “Cady got hurt,” she sobbed. “There was blood everywhere.”

“It's okay, Em.” Her mother stroked her back. “Let's go see him, shall we?” When I stood up to go with them, she said, “ You stay here. We need to see what the doctor has to say.”

They disappeared through the swinging doors.

I huddled inside the blanket, desperate for someone to talk to. Anyone. Anything to distract me from wondering how long Caden might be unconscious. If he had brain damage. How he had ended up lying in a pool of blood.

I looked around, then remembered that my backpack was still at the kids' house. So was my phone. If I ever needed to talk to someone, it was now.

As I picked up an old
Us
magazine, the doors wheezed open, letting in a gust of cold air. My mother rushed toward me.

As soon as I stood up, I started to cry.

Mom hugged me quickly, then eased me into a chair. She pulled another one close and sat down. “I drove Cynthia. I had to park across the street.” She pushed a strand of hair away from my cheek. “Want to tell me what happened?”

“I don't know.” I took a deep breath. “He was upstairs playing while I was downstairs with Emmy. She must have heard Caden fall.” The image of his pallid face rose in front of me. “There was so much blood…”

“Head wounds are often like that,” Mom said. “Is Emmy with her mother?”

“They went to see the doctor,” I gulped.

“Let's wait, then.” She held my hand as she looked across at a woman in a bright purple sari holding a sleeping baby. A girl my age cracked gum as she read a magazine. Two little boys chased each other around an empty wheelchair.

One announcement after another came over the pa. Paging a doctor whose name I couldn't make out. Telling another to report to radiology. Asking for an admissions nurse. Phones rang. Doors opened and closed. The sound of footsteps and voices, moving trolleys and clattering equipment seeped out from the treatment rooms. Ambulances wailed in the distance.

After what seemed hours, the door opened. Emerson darted through. “Hi, Daria's mom,” she said. “Caden woke up. He's mad that I got to ride in the front with the driver and he didn't.” She plonked down on the empty chair beside Mom. “His arm was in the wrong place. They yanked it back the right way. He's going to get stitches. I bet we'll hear him yell from here.” She bounced on her seat. “Can I have some chips?”

Mom dug into her purse and gave her some coins. “Go ahead.”

“I can't reach the buttons.”

“I'll help you.” I stepped out of the blanket, glad to have something to do.

“I want your mom to do it,” said Emmy as she grabbed Mom's hand. “Not you.”

Emerson had eaten her chips and drunk a can of apple juice by the time her mother came out.

“He's conscious. He tried to be brave.” Cynthia's eyes filled with tears. “But that's a lot of stitches for a little boy.”

“How many?” asked Emerson.

“Twenty-one.”

Mom stood up and hugged Cynthia. “How bad is it?”

“He has a mild concussion. But it's probably not as bad as it looks.” Cynthia watched Emerson playing peek-a-boo with the baby on the woman's lap. “He had been bouncing on my bed, he told me. Even though he knows he's not allowed in my room.” She glanced at me, then back toward the treatment rooms. “They want to keep him overnight. I'm going home to get some things. I wonder, if it's not too much to ask…?”

“Emerson can stay with us,” said Mom. “Daria will be happy to help, won't you, love?”

“I'd prefer that you watched Emmy,” said Cynthia.

“Why? What's wrong?” asked Mom.

“I asked Emerson why Caden was in my room,” said Cynthia. “Where Daria was when he was jumping on the bed.”

“Daria was downstairs with Emmy.” Mom frowned at me. “Isn't that what you said?”

I studied the scuff marks on the floor.

“Emmy was in the kitchen working on her science project.” Cynthia's voice was cold. “Daria was in the living room. On her phone. She ignored Caden calling her. And she did not hear him fall. Emmy was the one to find him unconscious on the floor. His seven-year-old sister.”

I felt a flush spread up my face as Mom, Cynthia and Emerson stared at me.

Chapter Nine

On the way home, I was aware of every sound. Mom's breathing. The road noise under the tires. A hiss of wind through a crack in the back window. I wanted to speak. But I did not know what to tell her. I willed Mom to talk to me. But I was afraid of what she would say.

All she had said since we left the hospital was, “Buckle up.”

When we pulled into the driveway, Mom reached for the door handle. But instead of opening it, she sat back and closed her eyes. “That little boy could have died.”

“They said the wound was superficial.”

She gave me such a cold look, I shrank away from her.

“It was
your
job to take care of those children,” she said. “But you were too busy, what? Calling your friends? Texting? Emailing?” Her voice rose with every word. “Watching some damn thing on YouTube?” She closed her eyes again and tipped back her head.

“It was only for a minute or two.”

“That is all it takes.”

I swiped at the tears that trailed down my cheeks. “I am so sorry. But Caden is going to be all right. They said so. It was just a superficial wound.” My mouth was running on even though my mind was telling me to shut it. “You know little boys. They fall off things all the time.” I looked through a smear of tears at my father moving around indoors. “It's not my fault that Caden went into his mother's bedroom, is it?”

Mom's turned to glare at me. “You didn't see his mother's face when she got that call from the paramedics.”

She slammed the car door and walked into the house.

The cooling metal of the car ticked under the hood.

I turned to grab my backpack from the backseat. Then I remembered it was still at the kids' house. And my phone was on the floor where I had dropped it when I dashed upstairs.