Strings Attached Read Free Page A

“I’ll call. You go up and see to her.”
    He turned, then took the stairs two at a time.
    Halfway through their living room, a waft of pukesmell put its hands around his throat. He moved through the bedroom door in time to see her vomit again, softly, a gurgle really, her body looking as though she were dozing peacefully instead of inching toward eternal rest. He grabbed a corner of the bedsheet and wiped her mouth, then dragged her to the side of the bed so her head dangled over the edge. His hand snatched the wastebasket that sat next to her night table, he threw the contents onto the floor, then stuck the receptacle under her mouth. Her back heaved like an alley cat’s, and her stomach contents roared out, mostly missing their target.
    “Mom! Mom!” He shook her shoulders. She hadn’t been this bad since going into rehab the last time, nearly two years ago.
    Mrs. Jackson’s footsteps shook the floor. “Child, I’ll see to her. You stay outside and show the men where to go.”
    He pulled himself upright and ran out of the apartment, then flailed down the stairs to the curbside. “Don’t let her die too,” he muttered reflexively, to balance out the part of himself that wished she would. But he didn’t expect anyone to hear his plea, and he couldn’t even allow himself to think for a moment that his life might improve even if she pulled through. He knew better. He shifted his weight from his right foot to his left and back again, then stood on his tiptoes, hands in pockets, eyes and ears straining for any sign of an ambulance or fire truck.
    And he imagined what was to come. The last time this happened he’d stayed at Mrs. Jackson’s, where he’d devoured hearty breakfasts, neatly packed school lunches, and hot meat loaf and mashed potato dinners with ice cream for dessert, served on a flimsy TV tray in front of her big old RCA console. But after a week he began feeling like an intruder, even though he cleaned up after himself and minded his manners and listened attentively to her recount the same stories he’d heard many, many times before. The only thing that helped his guilt was his dead father’s rich relatives in Ballena Beach who had sent Mrs. Jackson a thousand dollars to help with the food and utilities, and had paid a couple of months’ rent on his mother’s place besides.
    Both women, in the long run, had been delighted.
    Would the same thing happen this time?
    Something told him “no.”
    Finally, the wail of a siren kissed his ears. He turned and watched with relief as the spinning scarlet of the ambulance’s emergency lights sliced the rising afternoon shadows.

Chapter Two
     
    Jeremy stepped into the street and began hopping up and down, waving his hands back and forth in a panicked jumping jack. He heard the acceleration of the vehicle as it passed the last stopped cars before veering to the curb in front of him. Both driver and passenger doors were thrown open, and two strongly built men stepped out, heavy red cases in hand.
    “She’s upstairs in number ‘F.’”
    The boy followed the paramedics inside, then up the stairs, accidentally clipping one of their boots with his toe.
    “In the bedroom. She’s in there.” He pointed through the doorway at the prone figure on the bed, and saw that Mrs. Jackson knelt in prayer at her side.
    Oh, now that’s gonna help.
    “How long she been like this?” the shorter one asked. He wiped his dripping brow before popping a stethoscope into his ears.
    Should he answer now or wait until he was done listening to her heart? He decided to wait, then changed his mind. “I don’t know. She was OK when I left for school. I just got home and found her like this…it’s not the first time.”
    “You got a father?” the other asked.
    “He’s dead.”
    “You stay outside now, we’ll do everything we can.” He threw open the big red case, then dug out a syringe and a teeny glass bottle.
    Mrs. Jackson sidled around the paramedics and their