Free Sliding Past Vertical by Laurie Boris

to take her
shower until the three of them killed the spaghetti, the garlic bread, and a
six-pack of Kingfisher beer Rashid had brought; until she was made to sit with
a cup of tea while both men did the dishes; and until she’d explained what had
happened to her apartment and why.
    She turned off the water and was
reaching for a towel when the phone rang. She clutched the terry cloth to her
breasts as if someone had just burst in. As if a cheap bit of fabric from
Woolworth’s would protect her.
    From
them.
      They’re coming back.
    It rang again, a third time, and
stopped.
    Rashid asked most politely
who was on the line.
    Sarah froze. Waited. Listened.
The towel still covered her nakedness like full-frontal armor. Snarled wet hair
dribbled cold rivers down her back.
    “No, I’m sorry, I don’t
believe she wishes to speak with you.” Pause. “No, I don’t feel that’s
necessary, I—”
    “That’s Jay?” Emerson said.
“Let me talk to him.”
    Sarah threw on her robe. “Em,
don’t!”
    She was too late. “She
doesn’t want to talk to you, and I don’t blame her. If you have any respect for
Sarah, you’ll leave her alone.”
    Sarah reached him as he hung
up. She was too furious to make words. Water dripped from her hair onto the
floor. She stabbed a finger at him, gasping. “If you...if you ever do that again—”
    He glared. “I was just trying
to—”
    “Look. You were wonderful to
come here.” Rashid appeared from around the corner with another cup of tea and
spilled a little at the sight of her dripping and fuming. “Both of
you—but you can’t just—you can’t just fix it for me, I’m not a child, I can fight my own battles, you
can’t—”
    Alcohol, a big dinner, and a
long hot shower were probably a mistake on top of the day she’d had. She
suddenly couldn’t take a breath. Her stomach lurched upward. As the room began
to swim, clammy sweat sprouted along her back. She felt her legs begin to
dissolve.
    Emerson was there, no longer
angry, wrapping a supportive arm around her. He led her to what was left of the
couch and encouraged her to sit with her upper body bent toward her knees.
    Eventually the lightheadedness
ebbed. Then she was being carried, like a small child. Working with his
patients had made Emerson stronger than she remembered.
    “Sleep,” he commanded.
    He was shadowy above her, a
flash of glasses, slanted mouth, and a curtain of hair, as he saved her from
herself and put her to bed.

 

 
 
 
    Chapter
13

 
 
    The first thing Sarah saw the
next morning was an empty birdcage. The tiny door dangled by one hinge; green
and blue pinfeathers fluttered in the broken wires.
    She’d had a nightmare. The
parakeet had come back for revenge, a million times its normal size, and beat
her with her own useless T-square. She blinked a couple of times, thinking she
was still dreaming, but the cage remained.
    The
cage. The Guns N’ Roses and Bon Jovi posters. The uniforms in the closet. Emerson
put me in Dee Dee’s room! Gotta get that cage out of here before she comes
home.
    Sarah swung her legs over the
side of the mattress but misjudged the distance because she was unaccustomed to
sleeping on a real bed with a frame. Her feet thudded onto the floor and almost
took her entire body with them like a Slinky dropped down the stairs. In the process
of catching herself, she whacked her palm against the bed frame.
    As she rubbed the pain out,
cursing bed frames and the situation that had left her rooming with a
parakeet’s ghost, she heard the squeak of shower knobs and then a ringing phone
no one seemed interested in answering.
    “What now?” she groaned,
stumbling into the hall.
    It had to be Emerson in the
shower.
    Rashid was still asleep on
what remained of the sofa.
    His glasses were off. If not
for the little mustache, he’d look about twelve years old.
    She picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
    “No slave boys to screen your
calls?”
    This nightmare was real.