Shapeshifted (15 page)

What now indeed. The walls of the storm drain were steep. I was tough, but I wasn’t strong. “Got any bright ideas?”

“Wait here.” Olympio pocketed the flashlight and scurried up the wall.

She was talking—nattering even, I’d say—to herself. I wondered how old she was. Old people could get dehydrated easily, and then they’d become demented from sheer dehydration. Or urinary tract infections—those could take an old person from normal to demented in no time. There was nothing to do for that but get in an IV line and give fluid—but not so much that her questionable lungs or kidneys got flooded. Treating old people was hard, and there was nothing I could really do for her down here.

Olympio returned, rolling a shopping cart down from over the horizon. It careened down, with the rubber on his shoes barely braking it from slamming into the cement floor. Then he rolled it, with one wonky wheel, over to us.

“Put her in here, and then we can take her up.”

She fought me—she fought us, since Olympio started to help. We got her in, and then it took me pushing and him pulling and us going up the hill at an angle to finally reach the flat top. We rolled the woman toward the clinic, where I prayed to God that Dr. Tovar had not gone home for the day.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Luckily for me, he hadn’t.

Olympio told him the story after I’d set the woman inside and run in back. I didn’t have an extra shirt to change into, but I washed myself up as best I could in the clinic’s small bathroom. I soaped myself up to my armpits, and washed my face, and splashed my neck. She had clawed me, dammit, when she’d slipped on the tunnel’s curved bottom, oh, every other step. I couldn’t tell what was friction burns on my neck and shoulders, and what was claw marks. The whole area was bright red. I washed with soap and water, and soaped and rinsed again. I didn’t want to put my old shirt on—I wanted to burn it.

There was a knock outside the bathroom door. “You want an extra shirt?” Hector asked from outside.

I opened the door up fractionally and stuck my arm out. “Yes, please.” He handed it over, and I pulled it on. It smelled lightly of men’s deodorant, like it’d been worn before, or had been packed near something that had. It wasn’t a bad smell.

I came out, feeling slightly cleaner, and found him waiting in the hall. “Thanks.”

He nodded, as if he loaned shirts to employees all the time. “We’re waiting for an ambulance. She’s significantly dehydrated, and she needs antibiotics now. And I’m not taking her in in my car.”

“I don’t blame you.” I put my fingers to my neck where she’d clawed me, and felt the raised edges of the wounds, like speed bumps on my neck.

“Let me look at that—you cleaned it, right?”

I didn’t answer him, I just gave him a look.

“Sorry. Had to ask.”

“Hmmph.” I did feel better showing it to him, though. This way, if I died of something tragic and curable, like cat scratch fever, someone would know how and why.

“What on earth made you go down there?” he said, stroking his fingers along the edge of the wound on my neck. I shivered, surprised by his touch, and then crossed my arms, trying to pretend that I’d somehow taken a sudden chill in July. “It was foolish of you.”

I looked at him. His warm brown eyes were familiar—I recognized the same compassion in them for me that I’d seen him have for his patients.

What could I tell him? That I needed to save someone, because it was looking like I couldn’t save my mom?

I looked away, conscious of how near he was. “I thought I heard someone.”

“In the storm drain? But of course.” His voice was light and teasing.

“It just sounded like someone was down there. And then Olympio heard it too.”

Hector shook his head in dismissal. “I already talked to him. Told him he should have more sense next time. That’s a dangerous part of town. You both could have been killed.”

I rolled my eyes. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Your life may not mean much to you, but Olympio’s whole family relies on him.” I didn’t have anything to say to that. My cheeks flushed in shame. He finally stepped away. “Anyhow. The ambulance is on its way.”

*   *   *

I followed him back into the waiting room, where the old woman sat. She clutched her black blanket around her, despite the heat, and I could only imagine how badly the seat she was on would need to be disinfected on Monday.

“Are we done here?” Olympio said, looking back and forth from Hector to me.

“Yes. Thank you.” Hector pulled out his wallet and handed Olympio a ten-dollar bill. Then Olympio came over and looked at me. I found a ten and gave it to him. He looked me up and down, and hmmphed. I fished in my pocket and gave him the rest of my flashlight change.

“You want to know how I knew we wouldn’t die?” he asked me as he pocketed my money.

“How?”

“La Llorona couldn’t be a grandmother since she killed all her kids.”

“Ha.” I grinned at him. And then our shared moment was broken by the sound of water dripping—from the woman’s chair onto the floor. She was peeing herself.

Olympio blanched. “You don’t pay me enough for that, though.” He sprinted for the door.

*   *   *

The paramedics lifted her onto the gurney. She fought, clawing at them like a wildcat. Without the black blanket, she was naked—they covered her up with a sheet from their ambulance. I knew they were driving her over to County, the only facility that would take someone like her. Even now that health insurance was becoming more common, hospitals weren’t exactly going out of their way to open up their doors. And old habits died hard. Ambulance drivers who’d driven the sickest or meanest people to County for half their careers weren’t going to change overnight.

Once she was gone, Hector threw her blanket away. I felt bad watching him trash what was probably her only possession in the whole wide world, but there was no way we could keep the thing; it was a petri dish. I promised myself I’d buy her another one, if I ever saw her again—but I bet she was going to stay a few weeks someplace with IV antibiotics, sedatives, and possibly restraints.

Then we closed the place, and Hector locked the doors behind him.

He walked me back to the station. “You should put some Neosporin on that. And change the bandage frequently.”

“I am a nurse, remember?” I said. He gave me a look that made it clear that this afternoon, I’d crossed the line. “Okay, okay, I will. And I’ll wash your shirt, and bring it back to you.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just get better. You should call me if anything changes.” He patted himself down and found a business card inside one pocket. He handed it to me.

I’d gotten phone numbers in less romantic ways, barely. I grimaced and took it from him.

*   *   *

It was only five by the time I got home, but I was exhausted. Between two days of painting, and then my hunchbacked trip through the storm drains, I had more problems than just my neck.

I took a long shower, and every drop of water that hit or trailed down my neck wound stung. I fought to stand there, scrubbing away the rest of the grime, going through what felt like half a bar of soap.

After that I slathered Neosporin on my neck, gauzed it up with supplies swiped from my last job, and crawled back into bed to take a short nap. I set my alarm clock and everything.

When I woke up Minnie was purring by my side. I petted her while I woke up, like always—and realized it was dark. I could have kicked myself. All that effort to get on a day schedule, and here I would be up all night.

Worse yet—I’d missed dinner with Mom. Shit. Shit shit shit.

I looked at my phone. It was ten o’clock. Too late to call. Of course, she’d called me, and sent a worried text message. I checked the volume on my phone. It was up. I’d slept right through her calls too. Should I text? Text Peter? Or what? Shit!

I sent an email, hoping one of them would check it in the morning. They’d be up for church; maybe they’d check their emails before that, or after? I could call at nine. I didn’t think my mom was in any shape to leave the house, but I knew if she couldn’t leave she’d watch one of those sermons on TV.

I had limited mother–daughter time left in my life, unless I managed to shake down a vampire—one that didn’t want to kill me, which meant Dren was out.
Fuck.

And my neck still hurt. Goddammit. I got up and stumbled over to the bathroom. I tripped and stubbed my toes.

Fucking fuck fuck!

Maybe if I stopped cursing at God, he’d treat me better. Then again, a fair God wouldn’t be offing my mother with breast cancer, now would he?

I sighed and sank down onto the floor of my bathroom rather than face myself in the mirror again. My neck burned—and so did my pride. What was I doing? I was chasing the hope of healing my mother like it was some kind of frantic butterfly. Anytime I thought I got close enough to try to catch an answer, my hands wound up empty again—or worse yet, my dreams were smashed inside.

Maybe I should just quit the job at the clinic and spend what little time was left with her. No one could blame me if I did. I could move back in for a little bit. She and Peter had turned my old room into a guest bedroom. I knew they still had my old bed.

I hauled myself up by the edge of my sink.

I leaned on my sink and tugged the tape off my neck dressing with my free hand. The gauze slid away, colored with the yellow of purulent drainage, and the claw marks were red and oozing. “Ugh.” And now that I was standing—I did not feel well. Or look well, by the dim bathroom light. I was still sore from earlier today, I’d slept wrong, and now I was fighting off this infection too.

I had faith in my nurse’s immune system—I couldn’t count how many times I’d picked up something at the hospital and felt sick going home, only to wake up the next morning well. Plus, the only emergency room I could think to go to in the middle of the night would be County, and damned if I’d end up there. I tied up my hair, hissing as raising my arms above my head made my neck hurt, and got back into the shower.

I couldn’t rinse my neck off directly—it hurt too badly for that—but I held my head so that it’d catch all the water running down, and tried to dab at myself with a soapy washcloth. I dried myself off, regauzed my wound, and stumbled back to bed, where I dry-swallowed an Ambien. My last memory was of it being bitter on my tongue as it made its way down.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Thump thump thump.

What what what?

I blinked in bed. If Jorgen was back here to eat Minnie, I was going to punch him.

All my covers were tossed off the bed. I sat up as the thumping continued. Who did that? Why? Who unmade my bed? Jerks.

Thump.

“Go away!”

Thump-more-thump.

Shit.

“I have neighbors, you know. I’ll call the police.”

I scrabbled for my phone, watched the numbers on the screen flicker and dance. Stupid numbers. Always betraying me.

The thumping kept going on. Was it coming from inside me? I looked down at myself, and oh-my-God my neck burned. Maybe it was my neck knocking. Telling me something. I sat on the edge of my bed.

“What? Go!”

I heard talking, outside, as though someone was answering me.

Not Jorgen then. Unless he’d learned how to talk. Had he learned how to talk? I tried to imagine him talking, and saw a comical dog in my mind, one with a tweed coat and a smoking pipe. I snickered at this, and the thumping began again.

“Whatever!” I stood up, naked, and picked up my robe off the floor. I walked down the hall to my front door and swung it open.

Hector was standing outside.

“Why’re you here?” I asked him.

“The more I thought about it, the more I was worried about you. No telling what diseases that old woman had.”

I squinted at him, choosing the version of him I thought was really him, and not the shadows the porch light made him shoot off to either side. It was hard; there were a lot of him to choose from. “How do you know where I live?”

“You did fill out some forms when I hired you. Can I come inside?”

Nervous laughter spilled out of my mouth like a river. “No. I mean yes. Wait. No.”

Who was this person talking? Not me. I pressed my hand against my hallway wall. The cross there, it was cold, it felt so good. I took it off the wall and held it against my chest.

“Are you okay, Edie?”

“I’m fine. I’ve always been fine, and I’m going to always keep being fine.”

He looked doubtful. “You don’t look so fine. Can I come in?”

I leaned forward and put a finger on his chest. “Are you a vampire?” I had seen him in the daylight, but who knew?

“No. I wish you’d get over your vampire delusions.”

“You would be deluded too if you were me!” My voice rose, and I realized I was shouting. Neighbors,
dammit,
neighbors! I lowered my voice to hiss, “You’d be looking for a lot of excuses to delude yourself, if you were me.”

He took my hand, and pushed me gently back. More like he was holding me upright. “I thought you said you were fine?”

“Dammit.” I took a step back, and the hallway tilted, sending me spilling to the side. I hit the wall with my shoulder. It reverberated up to my neck, and I hurt so bad I wanted to cry. “Here, hold this.” I handed the cross to him, this one made of real silver. If he touched it, I’d be safe.

He took it, and took a step inside. “Edie—you look really bad.” He reached his hand out and touched my forehead. His hand was nice and cool. Maybe it’d taken all the chill from the cross and channeled it into me. I reached up and pressed his hand tighter against my forehead.

“You’re hot. You should sit down.” Fully inside my house now, he took my shoulders and directed me toward my couch.

“I’m totally, utterly okay,” I said, letting him push me down. “Can I have your hand again?” Looking at me strangely, he offered it over, and I pressed it to my face again. “This is a good hand. I like this hand.”

“Okay. Edie. You need to calm down. Wait here, okay?” He freed himself, closed my door, and went down my hall. I was there for an hour or twelve, but then he came back and handed me a wet washcloth.