All of a sudden, her face drains of color. Her freckles become more pronounced against her pale skin, and her eyes become wide with fear.
“Em, I don’t feel well,” she says looking at me, non-blinking. I look at her and cock my head curiously, trying to imagine what she’s feeling.
“Are you alright? Do you want to go the bathroom? Water maybe,” I say casually, reaching for the bottle of still water on the dinner table.
“Oh, Emi,” she breathes, “I really don’t feel well.” My hand stops in mid-air, halfway to reaching for the water. I put my hand down in my lap, not knowing what she wants, not knowing what exactly to do. We stare at each other, my mind beginning to race, her mind beginning to slow.
“Can I do anything?” I ask curiously, my anxiety rising. She answers with a burp, covering her mouth, embarrassed. She stares at the tablecloth, her hand still at her mouth. She begins to vomit into her barely touched pasta with meat sauce, her whole body starting to shake.
My stomach lurches, and I jump up to bend down next to her, putting my hand on top of hers. Think, I tell myself. What’s happening? I look over to the couple sitting to my left, and they stare at their cappuccinos. Uhh uhhh, I think. Or maybe I don’t think at all. It all happened so fast, it was hard to process what was happening.
The waiter rushes over, looking alarmingly towards me, eyebrows arched in concern.
“What happened?” he asks in an Italian accent. “Is everything okay, what does she need?”
“I don’t know!” I exclaim. God, if I knew what to do I would do it, idiot, I think. “She has heart problems,” I tell him. “She’s had a stroke and a heart attack,” I explain. “She needs a doctor. Call a doctor.” I say firmly, urgently. He nods furiously and escapes to the front of the restaurant where the phone is to make the call.
I turn towards the couple next to us, still holding my Nana’s hand. The man meets my gaze and asks in broken English if everything was okay. I tell him I’m unsure.
“Emi, what’s happening,” Nana mumbles.
“I’m not sure, but we’re figuring it out,” I say softly, stroking her hand. “You’re going to be fine, just fine, alright?” I say, giving her hand a squeeze. She answers with another burp and continues to vomit into her bowl.
I direct my attention back to the man sitting beside me. “Put a wet napkin on her neck to try to cool her down,” he says. I nod, grabbing my cloth napkin, and dunk it into the cold water in my glass across from me. I fumble with the napkin, and place it on her neck, her strawberry blonde waves already wet with sweat. My eyes dart to the half-finished fish and red wine that I was enjoying minutes before.
The waiter comes behind me once more, and mouths to the couple that they should move into another room. They nod and smile uncomfortably, rising from their table. The woman strides past, and the man follows. He squeezes my shoulder as he passes. I look behind and manage a tight smile.
“The doctors are on their way,” the waiter tells me. “Does she have any allergies? Is it the food?” He asks, gesturing to her bowl.
“No, no, it’s something more. I don’t know what’s happening,” I tell him, my tone rising as I finish the sentence. A waitress comes into the room with a bigger, empty bowl, and takes the bowl with pasta-vomit mash in it, making little effort to disguise the disgust on her face, her eyes looking anywhere but the bowl she’s carrying. She rushes out of the room, and closes the glass door behind her, separating the waiter, Nana, and me from the other rooms of the restaurant.
A woman comes in wearing an orange jumpsuit, carrying a medic kit. I let out a small sigh of relief. I notice she’s around the same age as me, with thick eyeliner, cracking her gum at the top of her mouth. She kneels on the other side of Nana, looking at me.
“What happened here, madame?” She asks me in a thick Italian accent.
“She has heart problems,” I tell her, “She’s had a stroke and a heart attack, and is taking a lot of medication. She did a lot of walking today around Rome, so her body could have reacted badly. I don’t know,” I blabber. She shakes her head at me impatiently.
“No, no,” she says, “What happened, here,” gesturing to the once clean bowl in front of Nana, now with brown mush in it. Nana retches and leans back in her chair, closing her eyes, sighing helplessly. I reach to her and squeeze her shoulder.
“We were just eating,” I say quickly, feeling my face flush pink, “We were just eating and it happened so quickly. I have no idea what happened,” I tell her. She nods. An older man with white fuzz for hair comes in wearing an identical orange outfit and speaks in fast Italian to eyeliner woman, and looks at me. “English?” I say.
“How long has this been going on?” the woman asks me.
“Not even an hour,” I respond. “I think we need an ambulance.”
To be Continued...
