“Call 9-1-1.”
“Exactly,” I say, trying to give her an overly big smile. “But you’re not going to have to do that. I feel okay, and I promise I’m going to get myself checked out by a doctor soon. We’ll see if we can’t do something to stop this altogether.” I take her sweet face in my hands, but as I bend down, I feel it. The throbbing feeling that started off shallow, like a pulse in my temple, quickly goes deep.
The room darkens, and the halo around my vision clouds out my daughter’s face.
Shit. Not today. Please, please, not today.
I assure myself I’m okay, because if I start to panic, it will hit me ten times as hard and fast as it might otherwise.
My phone starts ringing, and thankfully, I’ve got it with me. I set down the hairbrush and glare at the caller ID.
“Good morning, Jeff,” I say, trying to keep my voice level.
“Bridget, can you come in an hour early this morning? I looked over your projections, and I’m not comfortable with your analysis of the Q1 numbers. I’d like to…”
I tune out my boss as the impossibility of his request hits me. In order to be at the office an hour early, I’d have to have another mother drop Mia off at school and leave for the office now. I’ve told Jeff this a thousand times over the last few months, but I’ve been so focused on keeping this job, I haven’t had the nerve to say no to anything extra he’s asked. Saying I can’t come in early is something I shouldn’t even have to do, but here I am, squeezing my eyes closed as I head down the stairs.
“Jeff,” I say, trying to break in and interrupt him. But he’s talking about my data, and he’s talking so loud and so fast. My stomach lurches, and I reach for the handrail.
“Bridget, I really think…” My boss’s voice echoes in my ears, the sharp edges of his tone breaking through the walls I’ve put up around my headache. His words beat at my eardrums, and I hold the phone away, trying to put some space between the sounds and the pounding that’s leveling up fast in my skull.
I don’t even know how it happens, but before I know it, I’m stumbling. My foot catches on that same old stair with the loose carpeting I’ve been meaning to fix for months now but haven’t had the money.
I stumble forward, grabbing the handrail, but I feel the impact of the banister against my eyebrow and forehead. After the shock of the impact passes, I realize I didn’t just stumble…I’m hurt.
“Oh my God!” Blood drips down my face where I’ve cut my eyebrow. My white dress shirt is spotted with stains, and the red color against the clean white fabric sends my stomach into a tailspin. The towel falls from my shoulders onto the carpeted stair beneath my feet, and my wet hair drips onto my shirt, making the blood spread out.
I drop my phone, vaguely aware of it falling over the side of the banister and hitting the tile of the first floor below.
“Mia,” I call out weakly. I don’t want to scare her, but the fact is, I’m scared.
The room is starting to spin, and even though my stomach is empty, I’m sure I’m going to be sick.
I grip the wall with my left hand and cover my mouth with my right as I stumble back upstairs. Mia is in her room, struggling with her tights.
“Mommy has to use the bathroom, honey. I’ll take you to school as soon as I’m done.”
I shut her bedroom door. If at all possible, I don’t want her to hear this. I close the bathroom door just in time to make it to the toilet before the heaving starts. I see colors behind my eyes, and all I feel is pain.
If Jeff’s still talking on my phone, he might realize by now that I’m not responding. I’m starting to accept that I’m not making it to work today. Mia’s not going to make it to school. I start negotiating with myself.
You can do this. You’re okay. Don’t think about the job. Right now, just think about getting through this.
I have to get better. I just have to.
When the heaving subsides, I wipe my face and rinse my mouth, then knock on Mia’s bedroom door.
“I’m ready,” she says as she rushes past me, thundering down the stairs. “I just have to put on my shoes.”
“Honey.” My voice is weak, but with the pain, the colors, and the nausea, I can’t muster the strength to shout. “Mia…”
But she’s already downstairs, jamming her lunch bag and snacks into her backpack. “Mom,” she calls, “can I wear these?”
She holds up a pair of shoes. They’re not on her feet yet, but they have little lights in the heels that flash with every step. I hold up a hand.
“Honey, not those, maybe don’t…”
At the top of the stairs, something I don’t expect happens. My heart starts racing, and I feel like the room flips over in front of me. Turns out, it’s not my eyes playing tricks on me. It’s not the pounding in my brain or the twists and turns of my stomach.
“Mama, what happened to your face? Why are you bleeding?” Mia is staring up at me, looking terrified.
I try to reassure her, but the words are like cotton in my mouth. I feel the sensation of falling, and I’m watching my daughter’s face as tears wet her cheeks.
“I’m okay, honey.” I try to tell her I’m okay, but I’m definitely not okay. “Can you grab my phone?” The words come out thick and heavy, my tongue like a lazy worm, wiggling back and forth in my mouth, but not doing exactly what I want.
I try to sit down on the top step so I don’t fall completely down the stairs, but I feel movement all around me, more sharp blasts against my face and skull. I lift my hands to protect myself, but it’s as if my body is no longer mine to control. I feel pain and weakness, sickness, and spinning. And then, before I figure out exactly what’s happening, everything goes dark.
3
CROW
I wake up to three texts I really don’t want to see.
One of the texts is from Arrow, this guy who runs a small PI agency in the strip mall the Club owns. Morris hooked me up with Leo and Tim at the auto body shop, but it’s only part time.
Arrow wants me to come work for him. Full-time hours, good pay. Some shitty overpriced health insurance plan, but it’ll be better than prison doctors. The thing is, he wants me to work the street with him. Take pics of cheating husbands and people bilking their workers’ comp for more payouts long after they’re healthy enough to go back to work.
Something about the whole thing feels…too close to criminal activity. Maybe it’s not. Maybe I should give that shit a try and just consider all the options, but something like what Arrow’s doing somehow doesn’t sit right. So I swipe away the notification of the text from him and groan at Leo’s message.
Sorry, man. Slow day today. Will text tomorrow if we need an extra set of hands.
So now, I’m out of work for the day, with nothing but time to fill. Fuck if this doesn’t feel a lot like prison in that way.
The third text, I delete without reading. It’s from my brother, and I’m in no position to connect with my family yet. I may be out, but I’m not ready to talk to my brother or listen to my dad. They let me rot without contact for years. I was glad for it, because other than talking about the latest flavor of instant noodles at the commissary, there was literally nothing to say to my dad. Retired military. Active in local politics back home in New York. We had nothing in common before when I was a grease monkey spending all my free time and money on women and bikes. Now? That I have a record, no job, and not much more than a cell phone to my name?