“Jesus,” I say, “Ava, are you okay?”

I try to turn in my seat and put my hand on her forehead. It feels hot and clammy at the same time and her eyes are wild as she takes in short, sharp breaths.

Everything inside me freezes, wanting to take me hostage in a panic-induced horror, but it doesn’t last. I push it aside. I function.

“What is it?” Steph yells in my ear and Bram immediately turns off the radio and starts pulling over to the side of the road.

“I don’t know,” I say, my voice trembling. I keep brushing Ava’s hair back from her face and once we’re parked, Bram flips the light on in the car.

Now I can see better and I’m absolutely horrified. Vomit covers the front of her dress and she’s pale as anything. Her chin keeps dipping down and when she looks up, she’s looking at me like she doesn’t know who I am.

I don’t think I have ever been so scared.

“Mommy?” she finally asks, sounding breathless.

I grab her hand and squeeze it. “It’s okay, angel, mommy’s here.”

“Do you have a doctor?” Bram asks. “Or should we go to the hospital?”

I don’t want to admit right now that I don’t have insurance. “Let me try my doctor,” I say, trying to fish my phone out of my bag but I drop it, my hands are shaking so much.

Steph picks it up and says, “Let’s take her to the emergency room.”

I shake my head. “No. Just…”

But I know if I try my doctor, he won’t answer. I don’t have his home line and the clinic is closed.

“Nicola, it’s okay,” Steph says, squeezing my leg. “Let’s take her to the hospital. Just in case. This could be an allergy.”

“She’s not allergic to anything.”

“But they pop up all the time when you’re a kid, right?”

“That’s right,” Bram says and I finally look over at him. He’s trying to be casual but I can see the concern threaded through his brow. “When I was a wee one, I suddenly developed an allergy to strawberries. I threw up in class in front of everyone including Mrs. Haversham whom I had a mad crush on.”

I can’t even smile at that admission. I just nod, knowing I have to do what’s best for Ava, even if it’s going to cost me an arm and a leg.

“Let’s go,” I tell him. “Any hospital, it doesn’t matter. Whatever is closest.”

He nods and we speed off down the street. Bram is driving like an absolute maniac, or like he’s trying to recreate scenes from “Bullet.” I’m not paying much attention, though. I’m listening to Ava breathe, trying to keep her focused and calm even though I’m not.

Soon, we’re zooming up to the ER and I’m flying out of the car trying to get Ava out of her seat. I lift her into my arms and run inside to the hospital. The smells of rubbing alcohol and plastic and blood fill my nostrils. Suddenly the cost is the last thing on my mind. All I want is to see a doctor and to see one fast. My mind spins a million different ways and all of them are bad.

What’s wrong with her? Did I do something wrong? Is she going to die? Is she going to be okay? What could I have done differently?

I wish Phil was here.

I don’t often think that. But he was there for the first year of her life and it’s hard to forget that I used to have someone who cared just as much about Ava as I did. Then again, if he cared, he never would have left. Sometimes I think it would have been better if he had just skipped town when he first found out I was pregnant, instead of being there for that first year. He had a chance to know her – how come he didn’t love her the way I did? I understand why he left me. I neglected him, I became that doting, obsessed mother I swore I would never become. But how the hell could he leave her?

I swallow down the hard lump in my throat as razor-sharp memories threaten to undo me. I have to be strong. Always so damn strong.

Because the ER is packed, it takes what seems like forever to get the doctor to see us. Steph yells at the receptionist a bunch of times and I think Bram and Astrid are still milling around, even though I’m not really aware of anything except my daughter in my arms. Ava is still having trouble breathing and it’s only when she vomits again that a nurse takes pity on us and leads us away from the moaning, bandaged, sick people in the waiting room.

It’s all going by in a blur. The doctor comes in, but all I can hear is my own heartbeat, not his name. His face is a blank smudge. Steph holds my arm but all I feel is Ava.

He gets Ava on the bed and examines her. Takes blood. Asks me questions.

“What did she eat?”

Steph tells him pasta and cheese, I fill in that she normally has that and has never had a reaction.

“What did she drink?”

I tell him I gave her orange juice with water.

Then Steph tells him Linden gave her some caffeine-free Coke.

This was news to me and now Steph is looking sheepish. I try my hardest to have Ava eating as healthy as possible. Coke is the enemy, as is any soft drink, diet or not. But I also can’t see how Coke could have caused this. It’s not like she’s never had any in her whole life.

The doctor nods at that and then quizzes me more about her dietary habits and other issues.

“She’s totally healthy,” I tell him defensively. Then I remember the last few trips to the doctor. “She’s been really lethargic lately. Tired. Irritable.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“A few months. But the doctor, her doctor, said she’s fine.”

“Has she always been this thin?”

“She’s got more gangly since January,” I explain. “I brought it up with the doctor and he said it was normal.”

“It can be,” the doctor says. “But I think this is something else. Has your daughter been excessively thirsty?”

That question hits me hard. I remember being a thirsty child growing up, always opting to drink something rather than eat, so it never struck me as unusual that Ava is the same.

“Yes,” I say carefully, looking over at Steph. She nods.

“Mrs—“

“Miss,” I quickly inform him. “There is no Mr. in the picture.”

His stoney blank face attempts a look of sympathy. “Okay, Ms. Price. We’ll have to see what the tests say, but it looks like your daughter might have Type 1 diabetes.”

I gasp. I can’t help it. Steph holds my hand tight, but I’m already going numb.

He goes on, “And what she’s going through right now could be diabetic ketoacidosis. Do you know what ketones are, Ms. Price?”

“The stuff your body produces too much of when you’re on the Atkins Diet,” Steph fills in.

He raises a brow. “Yes. We’re going to have to take a urine test to look at her levels and for now we’ve got the IV full of electrolytes to rehydrate and stabilize her. But we may need to give her an insulin injection. And if we do, you’re going to have to give her injections every day for the rest of her life.”

I can’t breathe. Diabetes? “But no one in my family has it,” I blurt out. “She’s always eaten so well. There must be some mistake.”

“We’ll know for sure soon,” he says. “But type 1 has nothing to do with diet or history, not always. Her pancreas just doesn’t produce enough insulin. Just sit tight and I’ll be back.”

I don’t know how long he’s gone for. Ava is still breathing hard, though her eyes are closed. I keep talking to her to make sure she’s awake but she’s just too tired. The nurse assures me that her vitals are doing a bit better and she’s not in danger anymore, that we brought her in right on time. But still, panic and guilt weighs down on me like a damp, dark cloud.

Somewhere in the back of my head, I’m aware that Steph is here with me, dolled up to the nines and she’s missing her husband’s birthday party. But I’m also afraid to tell her she should go, afraid that she will, that I’ll be alone.

So I don’t say anything and she stays right by my side.

The night stretches on and on. The doctor comes back.

It’s bad news.