“Now, now, dear. Don’t go freaking out. I’m fine. Tell him, Hal, tell him I’m fine.”
The man seated beside her smiled. “Your grandma has quite the stubborn streak.”
“Tell me about it,” I murmured.
“I already told them I don’t need to be checked over. It was nothing more than a little light-headedness.”
“It’s center policy, Miriam. Just in case.”
Grams scoffed. “Fine.”
I crouched in front of her. “How are you feeling, really?”
“Zane Thackeray,” she sighed, but I saw the weariness in her eyes. Grams struggled with her speech sometimes, and her motor skills were growing increasingly uncooperative, but she’d never passed out in public before.
“You’d tell me, right? If something felt different.”
“I got a little light-headed is all.”
“The EMTs are here,” the woman said.
“Miriam?” The EMT came inside.
“That’ll be me.”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened while I take a look at you?”
I moved aside to let him work.
“I was meeting with Mr. Clarkson.” She hesitated, drawing in a small breath. “When I stood up, I got a little light-headed.”
“Any dizziness?”
She glanced at me.
“Grams,” I warned.
“Fine.” She gave a little huff. “A little dizziness.”
“Any spots in your vision? Double vision? That kind of thing?”
“I…” I shot her another scathing look and she added, “A little.”
“What are you thinking?” I asked him.
“It’s not uncommon for people with MS to develop orthostatic intolerance. Has this happened before?” He glanced at me, and I shook my head.
“Not that I’m aware. Grams?”
Guilt etched into her expression. “I get dizzy sometimes.”
“But you didn’t think to tell me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it. You have to tell me these things. I can’t help you if you—”
“Zane, was it?” Mr. Clarkson stood. “Why don’t you and I go and get some fresh air? Your grandmother is in good hands.”