Her bedroom door was open. Her bed was made. And the door to her bathroom, the one with
the claw-foot tub, was half closed.
I pushed it open.
She was lying on the tile floor between the tub and the sink. She was wearing her flannel nightgown.
One arm was under her at a bad angle. Her face was gray. Her eyes were closed.
I don’t remember deciding to do anything. I just remember my knees hitting the tile.
“Mrs. Whitaker! Mrs. Whitaker, can you hear me?”
Her eyes opened. Just a little. They were cloudy and confused. Her lips moved.
“Carly,” she whispered. “It’s Thursday.”
“Yes. Yes, it’s Thursday. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
“I’ve been waiting,” she said. “I knew you’d come on Thursday.”
I called 911 with my hands shaking so badly I dropped the phone twice. I got a towel from the rack, one of the plain gray ones, the ones for her, and I folded it under her head. I got the
blanket from her bed and covered her with it. Her hands were ice cold. I held them between mine and rubbed them and talked to her the whole time, about anything, about the weather, about Willa, about the bird’s nest in the attic window, just so she would keep her eyes open.
