Page 576 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

When she sees me, she leans forward with a whisper. “Allison, amore mio, se mi vuoi bene, if you really love me, you go to the vending machine when we get there.”

As Andrew’s sliding on her seatbelt,

his head snaps up. “Ma.”

Maria settles back in the seat,

not looking at him.

Soon as he shuts the car door,

Maria snaps forward again.

“Peanut M&M’s,” she whispers fast.

“Yellow bag.

“Don’t tell Andrew.”

The driver’s side door swings open, and Maria throws herself back into the seat behind me.

He slides in, offering me a steaming travel mug. “For my girl,” he says, eyes flicking to mine. “Can’t have you lookin’ like some asshole broke your heart.”

Paola slides on her seatbelt and claps loud. “Let’s go get a fuckin’ liver!”

// 5:09 AM - HOPEFIELD MEDICAL HOSPITAL - WASHINGTON HEIGHTS, NYC //

Once we arrive at Hopefield Medical Hospital, and Andrew says ‘liver,’ everything moves at hyperspeed:

one nurse is getting her into a wheelchair, another’s taking her name, another’s asking Andrew to confirm date of birth before snapping a band around her wrist.

Andrew’s signing her in while answering the list of questions as if he’s been waiting a decade to get them off his back.

I stand at the back of the chaos, holding my coffee and Andrew’s binder, the room bright white and piercing my eyes.

Paola’s hand stays in Maria’s, phone wedged between her ear and shoulder. “Lisa! Wake your ass up and call me back.”

Andrew turns and reaches back to confiscate Paola’s phone.

Paola holds it away from him.

“The family should know.”

Andrew moves closer to say, “Not yet. I’m serious.” But then when her face hardens, his softens. “Please don’t make me be the bad guy right now. Ain’t havin’ everybody cryin’ and prayin’ over somethin’ that can still fall apart, aight? Just wait until we get confirmation. Deal?”

“Fine,” she grumbles, shoving her phone back into her purse.

The heavy doors split open, and a woman in blue scrubs appears. “We’re going straight to pre-op,” she says, taking the handles of the wheelchair.

One second Maria’s next to us, and the next she’s being rolled away down the bright corridor, the badge-guarded doors automatically shutting behind them.

Paola’s face breaks.

‘Cause this is actually happening.

And it’s happening fast.

Until it’s not.