Mallory opens the door, revealing Mr. Meyers. He leans on the doorframe, trying to catch his breath as sweat beads on his forehead. I rarely see him out of the house. He’s usually sitting on his couch reading a newspaper or watching Colombo. “Hello, Mallory.” He pauses to take in another sharp breath. “Ruth slipped and fell in the shower. I need your help.”
Sometimes I forget how old the Meyers are since Mrs. Meyers is always outside in her yard. She’s so full of life, but moments like this remind me they are in their early seventies.
“Is she okay?” Mallory asks.
“The door is locked, and she said to come get you.”
“Oh no.” She brushes past him and runs out of the house.
I race after Mallory as she sprints next door. If Mrs. Meyers can’t get up, she’s probably hurt badly enough she needs to go to the hospital and I doubt she’ll go willingly.
Mallory barges through the door and runs up the stairs with me following close behind. She stops in front of the bathroom door, knocking loudly. “Mrs. Meyers?”
“Yes. Hello, dear!”
Mallory turns the handle, but it doesn’t budge. “Go get a butter knife,” she orders me.
As I leave she pats the door. “We’re coming!”
I fly down the stairs, practically tripping over Mr. Meyers, who happened to find his way back inside and stands at the bottom of the stairs. I beeline through their living room and into the kitchen. All of Mrs. Meyer’s cooking lessons come in handy because I know exactly which drawer has her silverware.
I grab a knife and rush back up the stairs. I extend the knife, completely out of breath. “Here.”
Mallory takes it and pushes it into the simple lock, turning it in a quick motion. The door swings open and Mrs. Meyers is on the ground in a towel. Her back is propped up slightly on the wall, but I can tell by the tightness of her face that she’s in pain.
Mallory kneels down beside her. “What happened?”
Mrs. Meyers pats Mallory’s hand. “Nothing to fuss over. I slipped and twisted my ankle.”
Her ankle is already swelling up. I’m no expert, but I think this is definitely something to fuss over.
“You should see a doctor,” Mallory says.
“I’ll be fine,” she replies, acting the way I expected. She’s a stubborn lady, which was good at times like when she barged into my home to make sure I was being fed, but at other times, like this, it’s extremely frustrating.
“We need to get ice on it to help the swelling,” Mallory says.
“I’ll go get it!” I say, begging to be useful. Once again I’m sprinting down the stairs.
I open the freezer and wrap a handful of ice in a kitchen towel. When I get back upstairs, Mallory has already helped Mrs. Meyers to her room. She sits on her bed with her ankle propped up on a pillow as Mallory pulls an outfit out of her closet.
“I’m going to take her to urgent care,” Mallory says. “I just need to go get my wallet.”
“I told her not to make a fuss over me, but she won’t listen,” Mrs. Meyers tells me.
Thankfully, Mallory is equally as stubborn.
I hand Mallory the ice and she sets it gently on top of Mrs. Meyers’s ankle.
Mrs. Meyers winces.
“I’m definitely taking you in,” Mallory says, then she freezes. Her eyes dart up to me, and her face flushes. “Did you turn off the stove?”
My heart stops, and all I do is stare back. She told me to do one thing and I managed to mess it up.
“Emma?”
My throat grows tight. “Water doesn’t burn, does it?”
