by Becky Robison Annie Spratt The Parisian hospital looked like every other hospital—gray and grayer, boring if it weren’t for the flashes of emergency red. Quiet, frantic voices, only here they were a mess of vowels and phlegmy R’s. Constant anxious beeping. My brain fogged with jetlag. They’d thrown me on a plane, then a helicopter, no time even to pack. Their only explanation: your mother . But Mom had gone on vacation to England, not to France. The woman who finally appro