I returned to the kitchen, my finger still throbbing slightly, but my mood remained buoyant. A small cut couldn’t ruin my blissful morning, especially when things had fallen into place for me.
Mr. Clinton’s subtle acceptance of our relationship and teasing remarks had really lightened my day, and also Erin’s disappearance felt as if the heavens were on my side today.
I felt truly grateful for this peaceful morning, free from the tension and drama that had once plagued me.
As I continued cooking, my eyes strayed to the peanut jar, now sitting at the far edge of the counter. I halted, my forehead creasing in thought. Wasn’t that jar an arm’s length away earlier? Or did I shift it over there a while ago? No, I was sure I didn’t.
I pursed my lips, staring at the peanut jar, trying to remember, but I had no memory of taking it to that position.
“Whatever,” I mumbled, averting my eyes and returning my gaze back to the almost ready meal before me.
The sizzling vegetables and simmering pasta filled the air with an irresistible aroma. I took a long sniff, my eyes shut as I reveled in the mouthwatering smell of grilled steak and plated our breakfast, adding a flourish with fresh parsley.
“Breakfast is ready,” I announced, carrying the plates to the dining table.
Miss Ross came downstairs with a slight smile on her face. “My whipped spaghetti is ready,” she said playfully as she sat down in her usual spot at the dinner table-right next to Mr. Clinton.
While I had to sit at the end of the table as it gave me a direct view of Mr. Clinton’s face because he normally sat opposite me.
Speaking of the devil, he appeared right after I slumped down on the chair.
I cast a brief glance at Miss Ross, whose eyes were fixed on her plate, before shifting my focus back to Mr. Clinton, flashing him a playful wink.
His expression remained unreadable as he ignored my signal, as if we hadn’t just had a banter not long ago.
Seriously, this man could be unpredictable at times.
My lips twitched as I shot him a sideways glance, my eyebrow arching in silent inquiry, challenging him to reveal what was behind his sudden stoic facade.
His eyes dropped to his plate, completely ignoring me again!
Never mind; anyway, I would get back at him later. I stifled a silent chuckle, berating my playful behavior. I could be a pest sometimes; it seemed to be becoming a habit.
Amidst my humorous reprimand, I was startled by Miss Ross’s sudden coughing fit, snapping me out of my carefree reverie.
I quickly reached out for the glass of water in front of me, attempting to pass it to her, but was taken aback by Mr. Clinton’s alarmed reaction.
Instantly, he knocked the glass from my hand. I didn’t even notice him moving, but suddenly he was right beside us, his face etched with a mask of horror, his eyes widened in sheer panic.
“Oh my God,” his words tumbled out in a rush, filled with overwhelming fear as the volume of his voice rose higher. “Shit, how did this happen?”
“What’s going on?” I asked, confusion written all over my face as my gaze shifted back to Miss Ross.
Her hands were tightly gripping her throat as she continued coughing; then she started choking uncontrollably, her mouth widened, gasping for air, and then realization struck within me.
Her allergy! I instantly recalled what Mr. Clinton warned me about just a few minutes ago, and it was happening right at that moment.
But how did she eat peanuts? I hadn’t added it to the pesto sauce.
… I stepped back, my mind disoriented as my eyes darted between the two of them, trying to figure out how to help.
“Call 911 now!” Mr. Clinton hollered, his panicked voice reverberating throughout the whole place, prompting me to take immediate action.
But my phone… where is it?
Shit!
I dashed out of the living room, my heart pounding relentlessly as if it was going to explode.
Mr. Clinton wasn’t exaggerating when he mentioned she almost choked to death.
Looking at her, it was as if she was dying.
Shit!
I cursed under my breath, grabbed my phone, and bolted out of the room. The door banged behind me with an ear-piercing thud, only intensifying the panic surging through me.
I descended the stairs in a blur, having sprinted down, jumping over four stairs all at once, all the while dialing the emergency number on my phone.
I flew over the last stair and found Mr. Clinton pressing his mother against himself, performing the Heimlich maneuver. He plunged his fist just above her navel in a quick upward thrust. It seemed to be administering first aid.
I gripped the phone tightly to my ear and stuttered as the line immediately went through. “Hello… hello…” my voice quaked haltingly, desperately trying to deliver the report.
“My mother is choking on a peanut; she is 66. I’m a doctor, and I’m performing the Heimlich maneuver. Please provide the ambulance immediately. Address: 111 Main Street, Anytown, CA 1245.”
Mr. Clinton relayed the report in my stead; his words tumbled out in a rush, desperation creeping into his voice.
He continued thrusting his fist upwards on her belly; his movements were less rapid, though his voice had been desperate a while ago. He had controlled his emotions and was now calm and collected, trying to do all he could before the ambulance arrived. The next second, his gaze snapped to my direction, his eyes flashing with unease.
“Get the Epinephrine….. EpiPen from my room quickly,” he ordered, and my feet immediately wobbled as I sprinted back upstairs.
Epinephrine? I didn’t even know what that was. EpiPen? I think I know that one.
I puffed out a gush of air as I contemplated bolting into his room in search of his first aid kit.
Thankfully, I found it and took several long strides back down, handing it over to him.
I watched in horror as Mr. Clinton administered the Epinephrine to his mother, his hands steady despite the panic etched on his face.
“Hold on, Mom,” he whispered, his voice firm but laced with concern.
Miss Ross’s eyes rolled back, and her body went limp.
“Oh God,” I whispered, feeling helpless and scared; my palms were already sweaty. Everything that happened was like a blur; it erupted without warning, sending me spiraling with fear.
Seeing her struggle a while ago gave me bad thoughts; I couldn’t stop thinking that she was dying…
Mr. Clinton’s gaze snapped to mine, his eyes filled with desperation. “Call them again,” he ordered, nodding toward the phone still clutched in my hand.
I took a deep breath, dialed the number again, and spoke into the receiver. “Please hurry… she’s… she’s not responding.”
The operator’s calm voice on the other end guided me through the next few minutes, reassuring me that help was on the way.
Just then, the sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. “Thank God,” I whispered, relief washing over me.
I glanced at Mr. Clinton; his face remained tense, and his eyes were still fixed on his mother’s pale face.
The next second, the doorbell rang, and I rushed to open it, revealing paramedics with a stretcher.