The handle turns, and the door swings open.
“Ha!” I cry. “No crap. I did it!”
I pull the door open, and it doesn’t catch on a chain. I take a step inside—it’s small, smells of cigarettes . The blinds are drawn, and it’s icy cold. A small table sits near the galley kitchen on the right, living room to the left, a short hallway leading to the bedroom. There’s a print of the painting with the melting clock above the low, old, threadbare couch, and ashtrays on the glass coffee table, overflowing with butts; the ashtray is the only thing that’s not spotless
I close the door. “Lisa? It’s Myka. Are you here?”
I hear a moan, louder now. Wordless, weak.
I jog to the hallway, peek into the bedroom—nothing. Bed unmade, a cigarette smoldering in an ashtray on the bedside table. I move in, head for the bathroom. The moan echoes.
I round the corner, and scream. “Lisa!”
She’s in the tub, on her back, one hand flopped over the side. There’s blood on the wall, on the edge of the tub. She’s naked, and her head lolls to the side, eyes dull with weakness and pain—she slipped in the tub and cracked her head open.
“Lisa!” I yank a towel off the rack and cover her with it, and then another, which I fold into quarters—I lift her head gently and press the towel to the back of her head. She groans.
My purse is in the Jeep, with my phone.
“Where’s your phone, Lisa?” I ask. “You need an ambulance.”
She drifts her eyes toward her room.
“I’ll get it. I’ll be right back.”
I rest her head on the towel against the rim of the tub and sprint into her room—her phone is on her dresser. I snatch it and rush back to her, cradle her head and put pressure on the slowly seeping wound. She’s lost a lot of blood.
I hold the phone to her face to unlock it and dial 911, explain the situation, relay the address.
The next few hours are a blur—EMS arriving, following them to the hospital, calling Shelly, Lisa’s cousin. Waiting in the cold waiting room for hours with Shelly for news. Shelly is older than Lisa, a heavyset woman with bottle-red hair and a general sense of tiredness about her, as if life has simply worn her out before her time. She’s always in a too-big sundress in a variety of floral prints, no bra despite her huge, sagging chest, the same pair of faded, battered blue Crocs on her feet.
A doctor comes out, finally—young, blond, exhausted, handsome. “Family of Lisa Polanski?”
Shelly shoots to her feet and I follow her to the doctor.
“She lost a lot of blood. Sustained a severe concussion, cracked skull.” He glances at me. “I think if you’d been any later, she wouldn’t have made it. As it is, she’ll need a while to heal. I don’t think there’s any brain damage, but we’ll have to monitor her.”
Shelly slumps, covers her face with her hands. “Lordy.” She sighs, looks at me. “I can’t thank you enough, Myka. You saved her life.”
I shrug, uncomfortable. “She’s never late.”
Shelly tips her head back and scrubs her face. Back to the doctor. “How long will she be here?”
“A few days, probably.”
“A few days,” she repeats on a murmur. To me, then. “You’re gonna need a new job, hon. I’m gonna have to bring her to my place so I can take care of her.”
“I can start paying for the room,” I offer.
She shakes her head. “Nah. Our arrangement stands. But Lisa’s gonna be out of commission for a while, obviously. So if you’re sticking around, you’ll need somethin’ else.”
“Yeah, I’ll manage.” I hesitate. “Is there anything I can do?”
She smiles at me. “No, hon. You done plenty, keepin’ my girl alive.” She swallows hard. “Lisa’s more like a sister to me. Our whole family’s a fucked-up mess, and it’s always been Lisa and me against the world. We’ll manage this, too.”
I pat her arm. “Well, you know where to find me if there’s ever anything I can do to help.”
“Lost your job and you’re offerin’ help?” She snorts, shakes her head. “Somebody raised you right, girlie.”
