Reaching The End

The phone lay faceup on Mara Ellison’s kitchen table, its screen still lit with the hospital’s number and the time beneath it: 11:47 p.m.

She had not moved since the call ended. The refrigerator clicked off. Somewhere in the apartment above hers, a child thudded across a floor, then stopped. Mara listened to the silence that followed, waiting for the phone to ring again.

It did not.

She snatched up her keys.

“Calvin,” she said, though no one was there to hear.

Her father’s name seemed to change the shape of the room. It pressed against the cupboards, the half-filled mug beside the sink, the coat she had left over a chair three days ago. The nurse had said only that Calvin Rourke had been brought to St. Brigid General and that Mara needed to come in.

“We need to speak with you in person.”

Not Is he awake? Not What happened?

Mara shoved her feet into boots without fastening them. Her fingers slipped twice on the laces. She left the kitchen light burning, grabbed her coat, and ran down the stairs with the phone clenched in her hand.

Outside, rain silvered the pavement. It struck the windshield hard enough to blur the streetlamps as she backed from the curb. Her hands shook on the steering wheel, but the engine caught, and she pulled into the empty road.

At the first red light, she called the number back.

A recorded voice answered. St. Brigid General Hospital. If this is an emergency, hang up and call emergency services.

Mara hung up and dialed again.

This time, a man answered. “Emergency department.”

“I’m calling about Calvin Rourke. He was brought in tonight. I was told to come immediately.”

“Are you family?”

“I’m his daughter.”

“Date of birth?”

She gave it. The light turned green. A horn sounded behind her.

“Ma’am, I need you to pull over if you’re driving.”

“I’m almost there. Is he conscious?”

The man paused. In the pause, Mara heard keyboards clicking and someone crying in the background.

“Please come to the desk when you arrive.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I understand, but - ”

“Is he conscious?”

Another pause.

“I don’t have that information.”

The car behind her sounded its horn again. Mara drove through the intersection, the tires slipping briefly on the wet road.

“Which entrance?”

“Emergency entrance. Tell registration you’re next of kin.”

The line went dead.

St. Brigid rose ahead of her in blocks of yellow windows and dark glass. Its emergency sign glowed red above the covered drive, reflected in puddles like broken warning lights. An ambulance idled beneath it, exhaust rolling low around the wheels.

Mara left her car crooked at the curb and ran inside.

The automatic doors opened on a blast of overheated air. Wet coats crowded the entrance. A child slept across two plastic chairs while his mother pressed a towel to his forehead. A security guard argued with a man in a torn sweatshirt. Phones rang behind the reception desk, one after another, never answered quickly enough.

Mara stepped forward. “Calvin Rourke. He was brought in tonight. I’m his daughter.”

The receptionist kept her eyes on the monitor. “Name?”

“Calvin Rourke.”

“Date of birth?”

Mara gave it.

“Relationship?”

“Daughter.”

The receptionist typed. Her acrylic nails struck the keys like tiny hard knocks.

“I was told to come immediately,” Mara said. “A nurse called me.”

“Have a seat.”

“Where is he?”

“Have a seat, please.”

“Is he in a treatment room?”

The receptionist finally looked up. “I can’t discuss patient information at the desk.”

“I’m his daughter.”

“And I still need to verify that.”

A stretcher burst through the doors behind Mara. Two paramedics pushed a gray-haired woman beneath a clear plastic mask. One wheel caught on the threshold. The stretcher lurched, and the woman’s hand slid from beneath the blanket.

Mara stepped aside. The woman’s fingers brushed her coat.

“Room twelve,” one paramedic shouted.

“No, trauma three,” someone shouted back.

The stretcher vanished down a corridor.

Mara turned to the desk. “Please verify me faster.”

The receptionist’s mouth tightened. “You’re not the only person waiting.”

The words landed with more force than they deserved. Mara glanced at the waiting room: the child, the man in the torn sweatshirt now sitting with his head in his hands, an old woman rocking gently beside a vending machine. Everyone was waiting for a body to be returned to them in some recognizable condition.

A nurse in blue scrubs approached with a clipboard. “Mara Ellison?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Nurse Patel. Come with me.”

Mara followed her through a set of swinging doors. The corridor narrowed immediately. Curtains hung from ceiling tracks, some drawn, some open. Monitors chirped from every direction. A man called for water. A woman behind a curtain said, “No, no, don’t leave me,” again and again.

“Where’s my father?” Mara asked.

“Calvin Rourke?”

“Yes.”

“He’s been assessed.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the physician has seen him.”

“Is he conscious?”

...