Chapter 2 - The Six Plates and the Empty Line
"They're sending a unit, Arthur," my mother said softly as I hung up the phone. She shook her head, a look of disappointment settling over her features. "You always were prone to hysterics, just like your father. An ambulance for a dizzy spell."
"She isn't just dizzy, Mom! She's unconscious!" I snapped, my eyes burning as I brushed a strand of damp blonde hair away from Clara’s face.
I pulled the blue fleece blanket out from under the kitchen chair and draped it over Clara’s shivering shoulders. Leo was still screaming in the bassinet, his small face turning a frightening shade of deep purple. I reached into the bassinet with one hand, gently patting his chest, but he was far beyond being self-soothed.
"Where is his bottle?" I asked, looking up at the kitchen counter. "Mom, pass me his bottle."
My mother picked up her ceramic mug again and took another sip. "I don't know where she put them. She was supposed to handle his feed while I finished the chicken."
Just then, Clara let out a long, ragged gasp. Her eyes rolled back, and then, slowly, her blue eyes found mine. They were unfocused, dilated, and glazed with deep confusion.
"Artie?" she whispered, her hands clawing weakly at my sleeve. Her grip had no strength in it; her fingers were trembling like autumn leaves. "Artie... the baby... is he crying?"
"I've got him, honey. I'm right here," I soothed, pressing a kiss against her cold, sweat-drenched temple. "Don't try to sit up. The ambulance is on its way."
"No... no ambulance," she stammered, her eyes darting around the room in terror. "I... I have to finish... your mother said..."
"Shh, don't worry about anything," I pleaded. "When did you last eat, Clara? Did you eat lunch today?"
Clara turned her head slowly, her eyes locking onto the large digital clock mounted above the double wall oven. She stared at the red numbers—8:22 PM—with a blank, hollow expression, as if she were looking at ancient hieroglyphics she had no hope of deciphering.
"I..." she murmured, her throat working hard as she swallowed. "I was... I don't know..."
My mother stepped over, carrying a tall glass of tap water. She leaned down, offering a sweet, comforting smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"There now, sweetheart," my mother said, her voice dripping with maternal warmth. "See? She just needed somebody calm in the room. You're alright, Clara. Drink a little water."
I snatched the glass directly out of my mother's hand before she could tip it toward Clara's lips. I held it myself, supporting Clara’s neck while guiding the glass so she could take two small, shuddering sips.
Outside, the faint, wailing rise of a siren cut through the rainy evening air. Within seconds, red and blue lights flared through the front living room blinds, casting pulsing, surreal shadows across the warm kitchen walls.
Two paramedics—a tall, dark-haired man named Mark and a younger woman named Sarah—rushed into the kitchen carrying heavy medical bags and a folding gurney. Mark immediately dropped beside Clara, checking her vitals, while Sarah pulled out an blood pressure cuff and a glucose meter.
"Blood pressure is eighty-four over fifty-two," Sarah called out, her expression tightening. "Heart rate is one-twenty. She's severely dehydrated and her blood sugar is dangerously low—forty-one."
Mark looked up at me. "When did she last eat or drink, sir?"
"I don't know," I said, my heart sinking into my stomach. "I was at work all day. I just got home."
Mark turned his eyes toward my mother, who was standing beside the island with her hands folded neatly over her apron. "Ma'am? Do you know when she had her last meal?"
My mother smoothed her apron with her fingers. "Well, she was up and around all afternoon. I told her to sit down, of course, but she was determined to prepare a proper dinner for the family. She was running around the kitchen since three o'clock."
"And the baby?" Sarah asked, glancing over at the bassinet where Leo’s cries were degenerating into weak, exhausted gasps. "When was his last feeding?"
The kitchen went dead silent.
The only sound in the room was the hum of the overhead light fixtures and the sharp, loud click of the refrigerator motor kicking on in the corner.
Clara turned her face toward the floor, tears overflowing her eyes and pooling on the tile beneath her cheek. "I... I was going to make them," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the fridge. "I washed them... I put them out..."
My mother stepped forward instantly, speaking over Clara before I could even process my wife's words.
"She simply got distracted with dinner, officer," my mother said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "You know how new mothers get—so overwhelmed trying to do everything at once that they lose track of time."
I looked up from the floor, my eyes moving past my mother, past the stove, and into the formal dining room through the wide archway.
The long mahogany dining table was meticulously set. Six complete place settings were laid out on fancy woven placemats. Shiny sterling silver forks and knives lined the sides of fine china plates, and cloth napkins had been carefully folded into stiff, crisp triangles at the center of every seat.
Only three adults lived in or were visiting this house: me, Clara, and my mother.
I stared at those six folded triangles of paper and cloth. Without realizing what I was doing, I stood up, walked into the dining room, picked up one of the folded napkins, and smoothed it flat with the palm of my hand against the dark wood of the table. I rubbed my hand over it over and over again, flattening every crease, until my palm was hot from the friction. Then I turned around and walked back into the kitchen.
They were loading Clara onto the folding stretcher.
"We need to transport her immediately," Mark said, wheeling the gurney toward the hallway. "Her vitals are unstable. Sir, you can follow us to St. Jude’s Emergency Department."
"I'm coming right now," I said, grabbing Leo’s portable car seat from the corner.
May you like
As the paramedics pushed Clara through the front door, my mother walked over to the stove, picked up her ceramic mug, and picked up a towel to wipe down the counter.
"Don't worry about the house, Arthur," she said, her tone light and bright, as if we were discussing a minor alteration in weekend plans. "I'll keep everything warm until you get back."
