The Whole Enchilada by Diane Mott Davidson Page B

of us trotted, some walked. The kids, worried about Drew, raced. But everyone suddenly stopped by Marla’s mailbox. It was there that Julian, who’d arrived first, put out his arms. He ordered everyone to stay where they were, then called for Tom.
    When I saw Holly sprawled on the street, I stopped breathing. I was close enough to know something was very wrong. The logical part of my brain was asking, What? But my emotions were way ahead of that, and I found myself gasping for breath.
    Drew was screaming, “Mom! What’s wrong? Mom! Talk to me! ”
    My knees buckled and I pitched forward. Tom grabbed me.
    â€œMiss G.,” he said softly. “Sit down. Don’t move.” He called to one of the parents to stay beside me. I barely registered Patsie Boatfield putting her arms around my shoulders.
    Bob Rushwood was hollering something about knowing CPR. Tom called for him to help, and they dashed past us, as did Marla. I was having trouble getting oxygen into my lungs. Someone handed Patsie a paper lunch bag, and she ordered me to breathe into it.
    I did so, then shakily stood. “I have to be with Holly,” my voice squeakily announced.
    â€œI’m coming with you,” Patsie said. She felt my wrist, and I finally looked at her. She had curly red hair that she had allowed to grow into a long, attractive mop. Her clear blue eyes matched the sleeveless dress she wore. “Your pulse is thready,” she added. “Goldy? Do you remember I’m a nurse?”
    â€œYes,” I mumbled, mentally adding, I think so .
    Patsie held me up until we got to the bottom of the driveway, where Julian let us through. Drew was kneeling next to his mother’s prone body. Marla sat on the curb, stunned. Tom’s presence gave me a chill of relief. Tears spilled down my cheeks. Bob Rushwood was performing CPR on Holly. This isn’t happening, my logical mind said.
    Tom took Drew’s cell phone from him and began speaking to someone I assumed was the emergency operator. Drew, his hands empty, leaned in close to his mother and sobbed.
    â€œPatsie, help me,” I finally said. I choked up and couldn’t speak for a moment. “We have to get Drew away from this. Holly needs air.”
    â€œI’ll do it,” she said authoritatively. “You go be with Marla.”
    This I did. Marla and I sat next to each other, shivering.
    Despite Patsie’s pleas, Drew would not move. Big-boned and strong, he barely registered Patsie, who finally gently pulled on his forearm. He wouldn’t budge, even shoved her away with such force she almost toppled over. She righted herself, pressed her lips together, and came over next to Marla and me on the curb.
    Arch, whom Julian had allowed through, tugged my sleeve. “What happened?” he said. “Is Drew’s mom okay?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I told him. We were about ten feet away from where Bob, his dreads incongruously hanging over Holly’s shoulders, was still working on her.
    Patsie spoke again, the voice of authority. “Arch? You need to help Julian keep everyone away from this. Tom and Bob have to work on Holly. The ambulance will be here soon.”
    â€œFather Pete,” I said, my voice disembodied. “He’s here. Let him through, if you can.”
    â€œSure, I’ll go get him,” Arch said. “But . . . what happened to Drew’s mom? Did she lose her balance on the driveway?”
    When I didn’t reply, Patsie shook her head grimly. “Please go get the priest, Arch. He needs to be with Drew.”
    I stood and motioned for Arch to follow me. The parents and kids were rubbernecking to see what was going on. “Something else?” Patsie called after us. “Make sure no one films this with a cell phone.”
    But Julian was already telling the guests to put their phones away now, or he would confiscate them. Arch walked to the driveway and added,