Carrie Weaver - The Road To Echo Point

And the supplies. She’d never seen so many wonderful paints in one place, short of an art store. Her fingers itched to hold a brush, to try the pastels she’d experimented with years ago, given to her by a kind teacher. But no, the colors were all wrong. A bolder, more brilliant medium was needed. One that would bring out all the contrasts and textures.

“It’s wonderful,” she breathed.

“I knew you’d like it. You have artistic hands.”

The gnarled hands picked up hers, tracing the length of her fingers, pressing gently on her palm, as if assessing her strength.

“Mine were very much like this once.” The old lady sighed and dropped her hand. She turned away from Vi, but couldn’t hide the regret in her voice.

“Once?”

Daisy wandered toward the window, lost in thought. “Can’t hold a paintbrush.”

Back she came, her movements stiff, disjointed.

“Can’t dance, either. Knees won’t work right.”

To the window and back, faster and faster.

“Everyone knows. Hold a brush properly. First lesson.”

She moved to the workbench and grabbed a coffee can full of paintbrushes. “Can’t do it.” She stalked toward Vi. “Can’t do it, can’t do it, can’t do it, can’t do it,” she chanted, louder with each refrain. Crimson splotched her wrinkled cheeks. The rest of her face was deathly pale, almost gray.

Oh, God, she’s going to have a stroke.

“It’s okay,” Vi soothed. Her stomach knotted with helplessness. How was she supposed to handle this woman?

“Can’t do it, can’t do it. Can’t do it!” She was directly in front of Vi. Droplets of saliva showered her face. The old hands clawed at her.

“Can’t do it!” she shrieked. The woman turned and with surprising strength, hurled the can, brushes and all, at the window.

The glass shattered. Large jagged cracks radiated from the spot where the can had connected.

Vi panicked. What in the heck was she supposed to do?

Surely Ian had heard the commotion. Surely he’d fling open the doors and take care of this…this situation. She strained her ears, willing his heavy footsteps.

Nothing. No sound of the cavalry coming to her rescue.

Daisy, surprisingly nimble now, raced toward the window.

Vi made a split-second decision and sprinted after her. She caught the woman from behind in a big bear hug. Daisy thrashed and screamed, batting at Vi’s arms. Vi held on tightly, gasping for air. She wouldn’t let go. Wouldn’t let this sick woman throw herself through the glass.

The tiny figure twisted and wrenched in her arms. Every movement forced Vi’s arm upward. She could strangle the old woman if she didn’t let go. But Daisy could die if she did. It wasn’t much of a choice.

VI SPUN HER BODY to the left, taking Daisy with her. Enraged shrieks beat against her ears. Her arm inched higher, over the lady’s chin.

Then everything went red. Vi howled with outrage. The old woman was biting her.

Teeth ground down, never releasing. No dentures here.

The door flung open. Ian’s gaze swept over her and his mother.

“Help me!” Vi screamed. The jaws clenched harder. Pain shot up her arm, radiating along her shoulder. Flashes of light erupted behind her eyes. Heat rushed over her in waves, her knees threatened to buckle.

Ian strolled toward them.

Couldn’t the man see she was dying?

“Hurry,” she yelled.

Teeth. Pain.

“Shh,” he soothed. “You calm down, she’ll calm down.” His tone was conversational, as if they discussed the weather.

The vice on her arm eased a fraction.

“Good.” He continued to saunter toward them, his voice low.

Vi tried for a fair imitation of his Mr. Roger’s cheerful croon. Through clenched teeth, she sang, “She’s killing my freaking arm.”

“It’s not your freaking arm I’m worried about.”

“It worries me,” she barked.

The vise tightened again.

“Mom, dinner’s ready.” He held out his hand to the woman. “We don’t want it to get cold.”

Vi cautiously relaxed her grip on the woman.

The jaws unclenched.

Vi backed away, ever so slowly. She didn’t dare breathe until she was out of biting distance.

“Why isn’t this woman in the hospital?”

“Because hospitals won’t take her. This is a chronic problem, not acute. And this is her home. She belongs here.”

The tiny woman faced her. Sweat dripped down her cheek. Saliva pooled at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes had lost their sparkle, dulled by confusion.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m Vi. Remember?”

“I don’t know a Vi,” she stated. Turning to Ian, her voice shaky, she asked, “Do I?”

He stepped over to his mother’s side. “This is Vi, Mom. She’s our guest for dinner.”

A radiant smile broke over the woman’s face. She must have been quite beautiful at one time. “Of course, dear. Our guest.”

“I WON’T STAY,” Vi hissed. “I’m not qualified for this.”

“Sure you’re qualified. You think on your feet. And you know a mean half nelson.” Ian gave her a lopsided grin.

His poor attempt to distract her with humor almost worked. The fact that he had a sense of humor came as a complete surprise to Vi.

“That woman is a danger. To herself. To me. She needs professional help. Wh-what would have happened if she’d thrown herself through that window?”

His grin faded.

“She didn’t. And you were there. You handled it. Once you understand her a little better, you’ll do great.”

“Look, I can’t take care of a houseplant. Or pets. You’ve obviously overestimated my capabilities.”

Ian scratched his head. “It’s usually not this intense. It’ll take a little time for Daisy to adjust to having you around,” he said. “I’m sure you can handle it, or I wouldn’t ask.”

“There’s got to be somebody else. How about a private nurse? Someone who specializes in this kind of thing. I’ll help pay.”

He brushed his hand over his face. “Don’t you think I’ve thought of that? Nurses don’t come cheap.” Then he named an astronomical figure. “I can’t risk using up Daisy’s nest egg. She might need it…later. And I doubt you’re willing to foot the bill.”

Vi’s heart sank as she mentally inspected her savings account. There was no way she could swing it—not if she wanted to send money to L.A. every month. And there was no question about that. It kept her conscience clean.

“I’ll stay a week. That ought to be long enough for the dog to get back up to par….” It was a stab in the dark, but she had to try.

“The vet said a month at the minimum. I’m not risking permanent damage to Annabelle, just to make life easier for you. You don’t have a choice. No Daisy, no driver’s license. No driver’s license, no job.”

There was a hard edge to his voice as he scraped mangled Tater Tots and smeared ketchup into the garbage. The remnants of microwaved hot dogs, stale buns and carrot sticks soon followed. The meal made campus food look gourmet.

“Look, I’ll buy you another dog. AKC, pick of the litter, whatever it takes.”

“Annabelle cost over fifteen thousand dollars. Even if you could cough up that kind of money, a dog like her takes a year and half to train.”

“Fifteen thousand dollars?” She nodded her head in the direction of the dog basket in the corner of the kitchen, where the subject of their discussion lay, head on paws, big brown eyes following every movement, every nuance. “That cost fifteen thousand dollars? Boy, did you get screwed.”

“That happens to be a member of our family. She’s worth every penny and then some. Believe me, by the time your four weeks are up, you’ll agree.”