Mom’s condition took a sharp turn for the worse. She started coughing up blood, and the doctor said the surgery had to happen immediately. I called my boyfriend, Tobias, who was in another state. He was a renowned neurosurgeon—the only person I could think of who could save her. Tobias answered, promising he was on his way to the airport. But before he could even get there, he sent another message. An emergency had come up. He couldn’t come back. I slid to the floor in the hospital corridor and called him again and again. All I could do was watch the numbers on the monitor drop. On the ninety-ninth call, he finally picked up. “Tobias,” I choked out, “my mom is dying. You’re the best chance she has. I’m begging you. Please, come back.” Silence stretched on the other end of the line. I waited, my breath held, until the line went dead. He had simply hung up. A moment later, I saw the Instagram post Celine had just uploaded. In the photo, the same hands that held a scalpel with surgical precision were now carefully frying her a sunny-side-up egg. The caption felt like a slap in the face. [Minor crisis in the OR today, almost messed everything up. So lucky my mentor didn’t even get mad. He just made me breakfast instead. #BestMentorEver] So that was his emergency. He had gone to clean up a mess Celine had made. When I needed him most, he was with another woman. ... When Mom’s ECG flatlined, my entire body went rigid. The doctor pulled off his mask, his forehead slick with sweat. “I’m sorry, Blythe. We did everything we could.” The people around me offered looks of sympathy, but there was something else in their eyes, too—pity. Most of the staff knew that Tobias Blake, the one surgeon who could have almost guaranteed a successful outcome, was in Boston, comforting his frightened intern. Mom lay on the bed, her eyes closed, her face drained of all color. I couldn’t bear to look at her for long. I wiped aw......
