Maria’s shoes had been digging into the backs of her ankles all day. Her lower back ached from sitting for six nearly uninterrupted hours in her cubicle at the tall, gray office building. She worked two jobs. The office job was her well-paying, mindless job that provided for her rent, food, and necessities. Her other job at the food bank was not quite as lucrative, but she kept it for personal reasons. It paid for her one Gucci article of clothing every other year and assuaged her conscience at the same time. Of course she put aside a few dollars for rainy days and for the poor children she saw on those television commericials designed to send as many people as possible on expensive guilt trips. She fancied at times that if she were given frequent flyer miles for each of her guilt trips, she would never again need to pay for an airline ticket.

Maria’s parents phoned her in the middle of her manicure. She couldn’t comprehend how they knew she was at the salon since she hadn't felt the need to tell them her daily comings and goings; she had moved out of their home a few years ago. But still they found her at the salon, in the middle of her weekly stress reduction exercise.

The young receptionist called out above the general hum of ladies talking and hair dryers whirring. "Maria! Is Maria here? Maria!"

Maria looked up from her hands that were soaking in an herbal wash. Swiveling in her chair, she faced the teenager who handed her the cordless phone.

“It's your father, Maria. He says he must speak with you. It sounds urgent.” The girl stepped a few feet away so she could be within earshot but without the appearance that she was eavesdropping.

Maria held the phone to her ear but her father’s hurried words meant little to her. She heard the words “aunt” and “pressure,” “hospital” and “blood.” She mumbled to her father that she would be there as soon as she could and handed the phone to the woman preparing to do her manicure.

“I'm sorry,” Maria said to her. “I have to go. I think it's a family emergency. I'll be back as soon as I can, though.”

"“That's alright, dear,” the manicurist said and handed Maria a towel. “And don't worry about the bill this evening, we'll take care of things next week.” The lady whispered to Maria as if she was going to keep it a secret. Maria was doubtful; she didn't think the woman knew the meaning of the word “secret,” even though she looked the epitomy of repression in her caramel colored suit complete with contrasting chocolate boots and scarf. Maria eyed the caramel woman’s dull brown hair that was pulled tightly into a librarian-style bun and unconsciously gloated at her own luck of inheriting her often complimented glossy black hair.

Maria waved a half-hearted and confused goodbye. She stepped outside, into the chilly and damp evening, and boarded a bus at the nearby stop. Already in the heart of the city, the intellectual and cement heart of the city, she was close to the only hospital. Minutes later, she stepped off the bus at the entrance of St. Thomas Hospital and hurried inside.

A short man behind a convex desk greeted her as soon as she walked through the revolving doors and into the warm, bright lobby. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“I hope so,” Maria answered him, peering past the sanitary gleam of the reception counter. “My father called me and said something about my aunt being here. An emergency, I think.” Her words were jumbled in her mind, which happened whenever she felt flustered or out of control. It was as if her mouth would rather speak a language other than English and anything that she wanted to say sounded foreign in her ears and tasted bitter on her tongue.

“Alright, I can definitely help you there,” he answered, happily scooting his chair towards the computer. “Now, ma’am, what's your aunt's name?”

"Carla Peixoto."

"Could you spell that for me, please?" he asked, without turning from his computer screen.

She spelled it for him. Twice, she noted with disdain.

"Thank you. Alright, let me see, yes, Carla Payhoto. Did I pronounce that correctly? And you’re a relative?"

“Sure. That's close enough. Yes, I already told you she’s my aunt. Does she have a room? Can I see her?” Maria grew impatient with the man's slow speech and methodical movements.

“Yes, now, just one question at a time, please, ma’am. She was in the emergency room about an hour ago it looks like, but she, hmmm, yes, I see. She's in the hematology wing now.”

“Can you please tell me what happened?” Maria asked, staring above him at the clock on the pale green wall.

“Sorry, but I can't tell that from this screen here. You would need to ask the doctors that, anyway.” The man rolled his chair backwards, away from the counter and looked at the hurried woman demanding more knowledge than she was allowed. He crossed his arms and nodded in agreement with his own sagely advice and continued speaking to her, just as slowly as before. “Now, the hematology wing is two floors up, down the corridor, and to your left. Just follow the red tiles on the floor or the signs on the walls. Her room number is three forty-eight.” He pointed down the hallway and watched her walk towards the elevator. The heels of her shoes beat against the tile floor, filling the hall with a rythmic clatter like the percussion section of a marching band.

“Thank you.” She hurried in the direction he pointed, repeating his instructions to herself. Red tiles. Three forty-eight. I don’t understand why Tía Carla is here, though. I hope it’s not genetic, she thought.

Maria pulled absent-mindedly at her hair while waiting for the elevator; she was pleased to note it was finally long enough that she could reach behind her back and finger the curls. As soon as the elevator arrived at the floor and opened its doors with a BING, Maria rushed inside. She was relieved to find it empty. I need to relax, to breathe. She’s probably fine. Just a little too much running, I'm sure. She composed her thoughts, certain that this was a minor issue to be logically and efficiently dealt with. It would pass, just like that bad dream always faded when she awoke with the sunrise each morning.

To Be Continued...