“Don’t try to speak, Eleanor,” Maya said softly, her hand resting firmly on my mother’s shoulder.
“We have help coming. Just breathe.”
I watched my wife’s calm, steady hands.
Two weeks ago, my mother had left Maya in a freezing apartment without food or medicine.
Now, Maya’s pediatric first-aid certification, the training my mother had once dismissed as a simple schoolteacher’s chore, was the only thing keeping Eleanor alive.
The distant wail of a siren began to rise over the sound of the Brooklyn traffic.
The sound grew louder, rattling the glass in the front windows until the red and blue lights began to flash against the wallpaper.
Two paramedics in dark blue jackets pushed through the front door, carrying a heavy orange trauma bag and a folding gurney.
“What do we have?” the first paramedic asked, kneeling where Maya stood.
“Acute stroke,” Maya said, her voice remaining perfectly level.