Somewhere Out There(51)

Claire didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t move. Her skin was white.

“Claire!” Brooke said, feeling her heartbeat thudding inside her head as she climbed into bed, kneeling next to the older woman. “Please! You have to wake up!” Again, Claire didn’t respond. “Claire!” Brooke shrieked, feeling the noise she made tearing at her vocal cords. “Help! Somebody . . . I need help!” She put both hands on her foster mother’s body and rolled her over onto her back. Claire’s jaw was slack, her mouth open, her tongue lolled partway out, a sight that made Brooke’s stomach turn.

Just then, their neighbor, Mrs. Connelly, an older woman whom Claire sometimes invited to join them for dinner, appeared in the bedroom doorway wearing one of her brightly colored housecoats and fuzzy pink slippers. “What in the world are you screaming about, child?” she said as she entered. Her eyes landed on the two of them in Claire’s bed. “Oh no. What happened?”

“She won’t wake up!” Brooke cried. Hot tears wet her cheeks as she shook Claire again.

Mrs. Connelly took a few steps across the room and reached for the cordless phone.

“Please, Claire!” Brooke sobbed. She could barely hear Mrs. Connelly talking over her tears, but it sounded as though the older woman had called 911. Brooke smothered her face against Claire’s ample chest, the smell of sweat and vomit mixed in with her foster mother’s favorite lavender body wash. Brooke liked the soap so much, Claire had bought her her own bottle.

“Help’s on the way,” Mrs. Connelly said, placing a hand on Brooke’s back and then pulling it away. “They’ll be here any minute.”

“She has to be okay!” Brooke said. “She just has to!” She didn’t know what she would do if Claire died. “Where’s her list?” Brooke asked, looking up at Mrs. Connelly with stinging and swollen eyes.

“What list?” Mrs. Connelly said. Her white, finely spun hair was thin enough for her pink scalp to show through, and her face looked like tissue paper that had been crumpled and unsuccessfully smoothed back out.

“Her list!”

“Honey,” Mrs. Connelly said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She reached out to Brooke again, but Brooke batted her hand away.

“Don’t touch me!” she screamed, feeling as though something fragile inside her had shattered. Her heart was beating so fast, she could barely catch her breath. She wrapped herself around Claire’s body again, burying her face into Claire’s neck. This couldn’t be happening. She’d practically just found Claire; she couldn’t lose her already.

A few minutes later, the medics arrived and two men had to pry Brooke from the bed. “No!” she cried. “I won’t leave her!” She fought them, kicking and scratching and doing anything she could to stay next to Claire. In the end, one of the paramedics had to stand with his thick, muscled arms holding Brooke with her back to his chest, her arms restrained while the other medic examined Claire.

“Is she all right?” Mrs. Connelly asked in a tight, worried voice. “Is she going to be okay?”

“We need to take her to the ER,” the medic who was examining Claire said. “Can you stay with the girl?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Connelly said.

“No!” Brooke said. “I want to go with her!”

“I’m sorry, but you can’t,” the man who was holding her said. “And I need to help my partner, so if I let you go, will you promise to let us do our work?”

“Yes,” Brooke whimpered, forcing her body to relax. She would do anything, anything at all, if it meant that Claire would be okay. The man released her, and Brooke watched as the medics lifted Claire onto a yellow backboard and transferred her to the gurney they’d brought with them. One of her arms fell off to the side, looking as though she were reaching out for help, and Brooke rushed over to squeeze her hand. “I love you, Claire,” she whispered. “I love you so much.”

“Let them go,” Mrs. Connelly urged her, and Brooke released Claire’s hand, stepping aside so the medics could wheel the gurney out of the bedroom, down the hall, and out the front door. Brooke stood in the living room, feeling helpless, the tears still running down her cheeks.

“Why don’t you come sit down?” Mrs. Connelly said as she lowered herself onto the couch. When she patted the cushion next to her, the sagging jowl beneath her chin jiggled. “We need to call your social worker.”

“No, we don’t!” Brooke said, shooting the older woman a hateful look. Her throat felt raw from crying; she thought about how the last time she had a cold, Claire had made her lemon tea with lots of honey and fed her cinnamon-sugar toast until Brooke felt better.

“She needs to know what’s happening,” Mrs. Connelly said. She reached for the yellow pages Claire kept on the end table. Brooke had to fight the urge to run over, take the thick book from her, and toss it out the window. Instead, she shut the front door and shuffled to the couch, slumping down in the corner farthest away from her neighbor. She held a pillow to her chest, gripping it tightly, waiting as Mrs. Connelly looked up the number for Social Services and eventually spoke with Gina, relaying what had happened. After Mrs. Connelly hung up, she picked up the remote control and turned on the TV. “Just for distraction,” she said as Bob Barker appeared on the screen, asking if the contestant on The Price Is Right wanted what was behind door number one or door number two.