There are nurses behind her, waiting. Her parents behind them.
“They want to do some tests.”
I stand up. Frown. “Tests?”
There’s a doctor with the nurses, white lab coat, stethoscope, carrying an iPad. Older Indian male with thick-rimmed glasses. He looks at me, at Jo, at the monitors and then his iPad. Says nothing.
“Come.” I’m pulled, and I allow myself to be drawn out of the room.
Machines are turned off, tubes and leads disconnected but not removed from her, other things are transferred to stay with the bed. They wheel her out of the room and down the hall, pause at a set of doors, which open with a tap of a keycard, and then she’s gone.
Grandma, Sherri, Charlie, Beth, Macy…we’re the only ones in the waiting room. It’s silent. A TV plays an oldCHEERSepisode.
“Why are they running tests?” I ask.
Charlie clears his throat, opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His eyes are red, with dark bags under them. He tries again. “They, um. She—she should be…she should have passed on already.”
I’m not following. I look to Grandma. That’s how I think of her, feel about her; we’ve exchanged few actual words, but when we sit together at Jo’s side, something bonds us on a soul-deep level. My own grandparents have either passed or I’m not close to. So to me, she’s…Grandma.
“She’s holding on longer than they anticipated,” she says. “So they’re going to scan her. Just…to see, I suppose.”
I don’t think anyone wants to say out loud what we’re all thinking: what if she’s…pulling through it?
Is that even possible?
Hours pass.
More hours.
I don’t remember bringing it here with me, but I somehow have my laptop and headphones in my bag; I don’t even remember bringing a bag with me, to be honest. But, on the laptop I have the raw recording file from our session in the studio. I spend the hours mixing it, refining it, tweaking the details. Process it into a final master file.
I sit in the waiting room, staring at my screen, contemplating. One click of the mouse, and our impromptu recording session will be released out into the world, on Apple Music, on YouTube with a series of still selfies of her and I taken at various times over the past month or so, on Spotify, Soundcloud, everywhere. It’s a remarkable recording. I left some of the conversation in, which makes it feel real and raw and personal, vulnerable.
I stare at the publish button.
Should I?
Without asking her? She knew I was recording, but she doesn’t know I’m doing this.
I’m proud of it, though. Of her, of her talent, her bravery, her passion for the music.
With a deep breath, I click the mousepad. Sigh a slow, ragged breath out, and watch as the screen tells me our EP is live. I titled itCaptured Voices: Jolene Park & Westley Britton in the Studio.The album artwork is a selfie of us, snapped in my Range Rover in the parking lot of the diner outside Cheyenne—the sun washes us with brilliant golden light, bathing her skin and turning her red hair into fire. She’s leaning against me, nose in my throat, a huge grin on her face, lighting her features with joy and vivacious life. Her eyes are closed, and my head is thrown back, laughing as she said something funny at the exact moment I hit the shutter button on my phone. I’m blurry, in motion, and she’s in sharp focus.
It’s a reflection of us.
I hope she’d be proud of it. I know I am.
* * *
The doctor entersthe waiting room, and we all stand up. He waves us back to our seats and takes one for himself. He moves as if his limbs weigh a thousand pounds each. I can tell nothing of his news from his face.
“So,” he begins, and then hems, clears his throat. “There’s an anomaly.”
Charlie stands up again, paces four slow steps away from the doctor and passes his hand over his head. Returns. “An anomaly? Meaning what?”
“We scanned her…several times, actually.”
Sherri grips her hands together and wrings them until her skin goes white. “Doctor, please.”
