The ICU was on the fourth floor. Six days. My only child had been fighting for her life for six days, and I’d been taking selfies at the Trevi Fountain, oblivious.
The elevator ride to the fourth floor stretched into an eternity. My mind raced with questions that grew more frantic by the second. Why hadn’t Blake called me? I’d left my international contact information with both of them. Had something happened to him, too?
The ICU doors whispered open, revealing a nurse’s station where a middle-aged woman looked up from her computer.
“I’m Rebecca Harrison,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady despite the earthquake inside me. “My daughter, Olivia Thompson, is here. I just found out.”
Recognition flashed in the nurse’s eyes. “Linda,” according to her badge.
“Mrs. Harrison, we’ve been trying to reach family members all week.” Her voice held a note that sent ice through my veins. “Your daughter’s condition has been critical since admission. Where’s her husband?” she asked.
“Blake should be here. He should have called me immediately.”
Linda’s eyes flicked toward a colleague before returning to mine.
“Mr. Thompson was here briefly during admission. He signed the initial paperwork but hasn’t returned since. We’ve called him multiple times regarding medical decisions.”
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