Not seeing him in the kitchen, she moves to the sink and opens the cabinet door beneath it. Bending down, she admires his work, seeing the new white piping. She smiles happily, excited that she might have use of her sink again very soon.
“Open the damn door! Now!” Dylan shouts from the back door causing her to jump almost a foot in the air. Stumbling as fast as she can, she rips it open with shaky hands. Her face twists in horror as her heart leaps into her throat as she stares at an unconscious Jim cradled in Dylan’s arms. His lips are blue.
Dylan charges past Myra and lays Jim in the middle of the kitchen floor. Snatching his knife from his tool belt, he flips it open and cuts straight through Jim’s coat and shirt in one clean swipe revealing his chest. “Call 911! Now!” Dylan bellows as he checks Jim’s airway and immediately starts chest compressions.
But Myra can’t move. She can only stare. At Jim’s lips. Because they should not be blue. Her heart beats so hard she feels like she can’t get any breath into her lungs.
“Are you fucking deaf? Call 911!” Dylan shouts again. Her body jolts, her eyes snapping away from Jim’s ashen face to Dylan’s furious one. With trembling hands, she grabs her phone out of her pocket, almost dropping it in the process. Every movement she makes feels sluggish as if she were in slow motion. Her fingers fumble dialing the simple three digit number. It seems like it takes her an eternity to do the simple task. When she finally hits send, her knees give out and she drops to the floor beside Jim.
“911, what’s your emergency?” the operator asks.
As Myra’s eyes stay fixed on Jim’s face, her voice won’t cooperate. “I… we need an ambulance,” she mumbles, her voice shaky and out of breath.
“What’s the address?”
Her mind goes blank as she continues staring at Jim.
“Ma’am, what’s the address?”
“Uh…” she stammers before finally robotically mumbling an address. Dylan looks up at her with his brow furrowed in confusion. “Wait,” she shouts. “That’s not right,” she says, almost in tears. She gave the operator her address in Philly. She finally remembers the new address and says it quickly.
“Okay, I’ve dispatched an ambulance, and it’s on its way. Please describe the emergency. Is someone ill?”
“Yeah. My neighbor. Blue. His lips are blue,” Myra stutters as sobs catch in her throat.
“Is he breathing?”
“I…” She looks at Jim’s lips again. “I don’t know.”
“I need you to check his airway,” the operator insists.
Myra watches as Dylan holds Jim’s nose closed and breathes two short breaths into his mouth.
“Is he breathing?” she asks Dylan, tears cascading down her face.
“No, he’s not! Tell them to get the fuck here fast!” he screams at her, causing her to flinch.
“Okay, ma’am,” the operator says. “So he’s not breathing?”
“No,” she mumbles between choking gulps as she watches Dylan’s hands frantically pump Jim’s chest.
“Is the person with you administering CPR?”
She hums in response.
“Stay on the phone with me. The ambulance will be there any minute.”
Myra continues to watch as Dylan skillfully performs CPR. His slightly damp mess of tousled hair hangs in his grave face; the physical effort of trying to revive Jim causes his cheeks to flush a slight pink color. His large hands cup together and press into the center of Jim’s chest five quick times. Quickly bending down, he pinches Jim’s nose before he gives him two short breaths. He completes the process over and over while she watches.
She looks away from Dylan for a moment and stares at Jim’s face. His eyes are wide open, but they look different – flat, lifeless, and dull, devoid of their usual color and twinkle.
Myra hears the sound of a siren in the distance.
“Go open the front door! Now!” Dylan yells at her.
Her legs won’t move. She feels frozen to the floor as she stares at Dylan.
“Go!” he roars, his eyes glinting angrily.
Somehow the sharpness of his voice snaps her out of her frozen state. Standing, she stumbles down the hallway to the front door, shaking and gasping for breath between sobs. She opens it just as the paramedics step onto the porch.
“Where is he?”
Myra points in the direction of the kitchen. She follows after them as if in a daze and stands just outside the doorway where she has a perfect view of Jim lying on the floor. Her phone¬ – still in her hand with the 911 operator still talking – slips and crashes to the floor. She drops to her knees and grasps her hands in front of her chest as she watches helplessly. Dylan talks to the paramedics explaining what happened but Myra doesn’t hear a word of their conversation. Time seems to slow as she watches the paramedics desperately try to revive Jim.
“Set up the defib,” someone shouts as another person attaches electrodes to his chest. The same voice shouts, “Clear.” Jim’s body jolts slightly from the shock as they continue their ministrations. Despite their best efforts, his lips remain blue. Everything becomes a jumble to her. She sees a needle, hears a voice shouting “Clear!” again; eventually, somehow, they load him onto a gurney.
She knows she has to get out of their way. With her body shaking uncontrollably, she somehow manages to stand and step to the side. Once outside, the paramedics shut the doors of the ambulance loudly, causing her to jump. With red lights flashing, it disappears into the distance.
As Myra stands there, listening to the sound of the siren grow fainter and fainter, she notices Dylan standing next to her. She looks up into his expressionless, pale face.
“He’s dead. I’m going home,” he says in a tired, strained voice. “Call when you want me to work again.” Without looking at her, he walks slowly to his truck, climbs in and backs out of the driveway. Myra remains in her spot, never moving, still shaking and crying. She watches until his truck disappears when he turns on a street at the end of the road.
Myra stands there for a long time in the freezing cold without her coat. Eventually, she makes her sluggish feet walk back into the house where she falls to the floor by her phone, sobbing. After wiping her eyes on her sweater, with trembling hands, she picks up her phone and hits speed dial.
“Hi, Myra,” Porter answers in a jovial voice.
She clears her knotted-up throat. “It’s Jim,” she says before choking on a sob.
“What’s wrong? Where’s he at?”
“The hospital,” she cries out.
“The hospital?” he repeats in a shocked voice.
She hums in response as she wipes her eyes on her sleeve and continues to sob.
“Okay. I’ll send someone there, but I’m on my way to your house right now, okay? I’ll be right there.”
Myra lies on the floor in the hallway curled into a ball with her face against the cold, hardwood floor. She shivers as she waits and waits.
* * *
“Myra?” She groggily hears Porter’s voice.
“Here,” he says as she feels a blanket being wrapped around her. “Can you stand?” Porter asks as he starts to help her up off the floor, but her legs don’t seem to be able to support her. “I’m just going to pick you up, okay?” Porter says as he carries her to the couch.
She looks up at him. “Jim?” she asks, her voice barely a soft whisper. Porter stares at her for a moment before he ever so slightly shakes his head.
Myra buries her face against Porter’s chest. “He had a heart attack. There was nothing that could be done. You and Dylan did everything you possibly could to save him, but it was his time.”
She clutches Porter’s coat tightly with her fists as she soaks it with her tears. He holds her and gently pats her on the back. “He’s happy now,” he whispers. “He’s with Emma.”
Finally, Myra’s crying slows to soft hiccups. She loosens her grip on his coat, and relaxes a bit in his arms. She stiffens when her phone rings.
Porter looks do
wn at her. “Want me to answer it?”
She nods.
He walks into the hallway and picks it up off the floor. “It’s Susie O’Connor,” he tells her as he comes back and sits beside her. He holds it up with a questioning look on his face. She nods again. He answers it, putting it on speaker. “This is Detective Porter Higdon.”
“Detective? Where’s Myra?”
“She’s sitting here right next to me. She’s fine. She just can’t talk right now.”
“What’s going on? Is she hurt?”
“No. May I ask who this is?”
“This is Susie. Susie O’Connor. I’m her best friend.”
“Myra’s fine but she’s had a traumatic day.” He glances down at Myra with a question in his eyes. She nods in approval. “Her neighbor Jim passed away this afternoon.”
Just hearing those words makes Myra start crying all over again.
“Oh no. Oh my God, oh my God. No. Okay, let me think…” Susie says as she pauses for a moment. “Tell her I’ll figure something out and try to catch a flight out there as soon as I can, okay? Tell her I’ll be there really soon.”
Myra nods at Porter. “She can hear you, Susie, and she could definitely use a friend right now.”
“Myra, I love you, honey. I’m so sorry, and I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Susie says.
Myra buries her face in her hands, sobbing. “She’ll be waiting on you,” Porter tells her.
* * *
Dylan’s foot punches the accelerator of his truck causing it to go too fast and spin out of control. He clamps his hands on the steering wheel so tightly that they turn white. “Damn it,” he yells, smashing his fist hard against the wheel, not even noticing the pain. He slams on the gas pedal harder, losing control of the truck again, and causing the back end to fishtail wildly. Grasping the wheel hard, he gets the truck under control but not before he slides off the road.
Jumping out, he kicks his tire. Looking around, he sees nothing but flat land and a few random trees. He runs up to the nearest one he can find and starts kicking the shit out of it. Grabbing his hammer from his tool belt, he repeatedly hits the tree as hard as he can, creating huge gouges in the bark.
Dylan pounds and pounds on the tree, switching arms when needed, until his arms become tired and heavy, and he can barely lift them. Dropping the hammer to the ground, he leans his head and forearm against the tree, panting heavily. Squeezing his eyes shut tight, his fists clench as he tries to get his emotions in check. But a few tears leak from the corners of his eyes anyway.
He stays leaning against the tree, not moving until his breathing slows. Swiping at his eyes, he leans down and picks up his hammer, shoving it roughly back into his tool belt before he climbs into his truck. After several very pissed off attempts, he finally manages to get the truck back on the road.
Dylan drives slowly this time. Not because he almost wrecked, but because his anger has been knocked down a notch. The pent-up rage he had inside of him got taken out on that tree.
He doesn’t want to go home; he doesn’t want to go anywhere. And he sure as hell doesn’t know how to handle the thoughts he has going on in his damn head right now.
Sighing and with nowhere else to go, he slowly pulls into his driveway. Once inside the house, he dumps his tool belt on the floor and heads straight for the fridge, flinging the door open and staring inside. He just wants to disappear for a while and feel nothing. Just fade away into a warm, fuzzy haze. Longingly, he stares at the six-pack of beer sitting on the top shelf. Instead of grabbing one, he slams the door shut as hard as he can and slaps the front of it. “Fuck,” he yells at the top of his lungs.
Dropping his coat, he opens the door to his garage and fires up his electric heater. Shoving ear buds into his ears, he cranks the music up to the maximum setting. A cigarette hangs precariously from his lips as he starts messing about in his workshop, trying like hell to keep his thoughts disciplined.
* * *
“Myra, here’s some soup. Now I know you don’t want any, but I need you to take a few sips, okay?” Porter says as he gently hands her the cup.
She begrudgingly takes several slurps before shaking her head and handing it back to him.
“I’m going to stay here with you until your friend gets here. I called Erika, and she’s working a double shift at the hospital tonight. Do you want to just sleep on the couch, and I’ll sleep on the recliner?” Myra nods in agreement. “I’ll go get some more blankets and pillows.”
Moments later, Porter comes back down the stairs and hands her several blankets and a pillow. After tucking the blankets around her, he settles himself into the recliner tossing a blanket over his legs.
Within minutes, Porter’s asleep and Myra lays quietly on the couch listening to his loud snores. It doesn’t bother her because she knows she won’t be sleeping tonight anyway. For hours, she stares at different objects in the living room. She tries really hard not to think of Jim, but she slips up often. And when she remembers his sweet, wrinkled face, she can’t help but let out another round of fresh tears.
CHAPTER 7
IVORY, COMFORT
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Myra mumbles. She sighs as she hugs Susie tighter.
“Me too, honey, me too. Now tell me exactly what happened,” Susie says as she releases Myra and leans back against the couch, propping her sock-covered feet on the coffee table.
“It was horrible,” Myra says as her eyes begin to fill with tears. “I was in the kitchen and suddenly Dylan was at the back door with Jim in his arms. And his lips were blue.”
Susie gasps. “Oh my God,” she whispers as she grabs Myra’s hand.
Myra nods and wipes her eyes. “You should have seen Dylan. He tried and tried to bring him back. I couldn’t do anything other than just watch. I felt so helpless.”
Susie nods, squeezing her hand.
“Jim’s eyes were so different. Like the light was gone. You know that saying about how ‘the eyes are the windows to the soul’?” Myra asks as Susie nods. “It’s true. His eyes were lifeless because his soul wasn’t there. They were even a different color.” Tears drip down Myra’s cheeks.
“That had to be terrifying,” Susie says before pulling her in for another tight hug. Tears streak down her face as well.
Myra grabs some tissues off of the coffee table and hands one to Susie. “Then the paramedics showed up and took him away. Then Dylan said something about Jim being dead and left and I…”
“Wait a minute. Dylan left? He left you here by yourself?” Susie asks, her teary eyes large with rage.
Myra nods as she wipes her nose.
“What a fucking asshole. How could he leave you here by yourself after something like that? What’s wrong with that idiot?”
“I don’t know,” Myra mumbles. “I told you he was mean.”
“I didn’t realize he was that bad. What a douche. How could he do that to you?”
Myra shrugs. Susie would have to meet the contractor to understand. She continues with her story. “I still can’t believe it. One minute I was having this great evening with Jim and then the next he’s gone.” She drops her head into her hands. “There has to be something wrong with me because everyone around me dies…”
“Don’t start talking like that and I mean it; look at me.” Myra slowly lifts her head. “Every single person on this planet is going to die at some point. Everyone. We have no control over how or when that happens. The people that were close to you that died? It was their time to go. It’s as simple as that. It has nothing to do with you. You understand that, right?”
“Yeah. It’s just hard to not think I’m cursed or something.”
“That’s ridiculous and I don’t want to hear you talking like that ever again, do you hear me?”
Myra nods as she stares down at her hands.
“All right. Screw my diet,” Susie says as she stands up. “I’ll start that sucker next week. I’m starving. What do you have to eat in this aw
esome old house of yours? Let me see if I can whip us up something delicious.”
Myra blows her nose as she follows Susie into the kitchen.
* * *
“At least your sink’s working, and we got those tools moved out of the way, but that’s about the only good thing I can say about that damn kitchen of yours.” Susie shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “I can’t believe all you have to eat is bunny food, woman. No wonder you’re a twig. We’ve got to fix this problem pronto,” she says as she and Myra slip their coats on and grab their purses.
“I’ll drive,” Susie says as Myra locks the front door.
“Can you believe they gave me free unlimited mileage on this lime-green rental piece of shit they have the nerve to call a car?” Susie says as they both climb into the tiny vehicle. “Like where would I want to drive this pile of manure? I feel like I’m driving a go-cart. No, wait. I feel like I’m driving a golf cart.” Susie rolls the window down halfway and yells, “Fore!” at the top of her lungs.
Myra giggles.
“Sure, laugh it up. Where’s the damn grocery store?”
Myra continues to laugh, unable to get her chuckling under control. “Turn left at the light. It’ll be on the right-hand side.”
“What’s the name of it again?”
“Marshall’s.”
Myra stares at her friend with a smile on her face. “I’m so glad you’re here. Sorry I keep saying that, but I really have missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too, hon.”
“So how in the world did you manage to talk Mr. You Know Who into letting you off work?” Myra asks.
“Oh, he owed me. Remember when I worked a bunch of overtime for him on that one project – the one that was such a priority?” she asks as she glances over at Myra who nods in response.
“Well, since those cheap asses refuse to pay overtime, I had a bunch of comp time saved up from that and my vacation time just started over. Plus he owed me for not letting me off to come out here with you for Grampie. I had him by the balls,” Susie says as she grins evilly and squeezes her fist together like she has some imaginary balls in a death grip.
“Were Jeff and the boys okay with you leaving?”
Color of Loneliness Page 8