Grandpa drove so fast that we were only about a minute behind the ambulance. The paramedics and hospital personnel had just carried Willie and Myra into the emergency room. Grandpa pulled into a no-parking zone and bolted out, barely closing his door. I ran to keep up with him. He looked like he would walk right through the emergency room’s glass door rather than take a second to open it. In fact, when he did open it, he nearly ripped it off its hinges. The sight of him still in a rage stopped people talking.
There were many other adults in the lobby, mostly patients waiting to be seen because of minor accidents or illnesses and some of their relatives or friends. There was a great deal of commotion in the hallways. My grandfather was never one to stand and wait for someone to ask if he needed help. He marched in past the admittance nurse despite her protestation, and I followed in his wake.
When one of the doctors stepped out of an examination room and looked at us, Grandpa simply said, “It’s my grandson.”
“Which one?” the doctor replied.
“What?”
“We have two little boys just brought here. One brought by ambulance and one left here by some idi—” He sucked in what he was going to say when he saw me standing there, too. “Someone who left without giving any information.”
“My grandson was in the ambulance. He was hit by a drunk driver, and my nanny was also brought in.”
“Okay. Just give me a minute to check on your grandson. Your nanny is in the far right examination room,” he said, and went down the hallway to a room where some other doctors and nurses had gathered.
When a fancy-looking machine was wheeled into that room, Grandpa looked at me gravely. “Stay here,” he ordered, and walked ahead, even though the doctor had told him to wait. He looked into the busy room and then took a step into it.
I waited, holding my breath. No one seemed to notice me. I think everyone was simply too busy to waste time inquiring about my presence. Nurses rushed by. Another doctor appeared, this one in a suit and tie but with a stethoscope around his neck. He went quickly into the room Grandpa had entered. I had no idea how much time had passed; to me, every second was a minute, and every minute was an hour. When I finally saw my grandpa emerge, he had his head down, and the doctor in the suit was standing beside him, talking to him softly, his hand on Grandpa’s shoulder. The doctor stepped away, but Grandpa remained there looking down.
I know anyone would think I made it up, but there was the same high whistle I’d heard when I was told our parents had been killed in a freak boating accident thousands of miles away on a blue sea with the sun shining and excitement and laughter whirling about them. It was as if all the air was being sucked away from me. I could hear it seeping off—the whistling sound. I would hear the same sound years later, too, when Grandpa returned from the hospital to tell me Grandma Arnold had died from a massive stroke. I don’t think I was breathing either time, and I didn’t think I was breathing now.
When Grandpa Arnold finally lifted his head and looked at me, I knew: Willie was gone.
But I would soon learn in a strange way that he would not be gone forever.