Page 122 of The Matchmaker
I fit the key into the lock, feeling strangely calm as I let myself in. The barking gets louder as soon I do, but he doesn’t come running to see who it is.
There have always been moments when I know something’s wrong. A beat of time when I’m aware that my life might be about to change and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I remember as a child seeing the shadow of my grandmother’s footsteps in the crack between my bedroom door and the floor. Knowing she was about to come in. Knowing it wasn’t good.
“Granny?”
I almost expect her to call out sarcastically like she usually does, but there’s no answer, only barking, and so I follow the noise down the hallway to the kitchen where I’ve found her so many times and where, for one brief hopeful second, I imagine her sitting in her usual spot with a crossword in front of her.
But she’s not at the table. She’s not at the sink or the stove or rummaging through the cabinets.
She’s lying on the floor.
She’s still dressed for bed, her nightdress bunched around her legs, her slippers still on her feet. There’s an empty waterglass nearby, the spilled liquid wetting her sleeve where she dropped it. She must have gotten up this morning to get it. She must have been lying there for hours. She must have—
“Plankton,” I snap, as my dog continues barking, frantic now I’m here. He’s hiding under the table, his panic only making me panic as I try and keep my wits about me. I kneel beside her, trying to look for any obvious injuries and seeing none. Did she have a stroke? I hold on to her hand as I reach for my phone, calling everyone I can think of, but no one picks up.
Either their electricity hasn’t come back, or they just haven’t charged their phones, but no one answers, and I know there’s no point in calling for an ambulance. We’re too far away and they won’t be quick enough.
“Katie…”
My eyes snap back to Granny as she takes a ragged breath.
“You’re okay,” I say. “It’s going to be okay. Do you know what happened?”
“Fell…”
“What?”
“Wasn’t…looking…fell.”
Fell. No stroke then.
“Did you hit anything?”
She doesn’t answer, but she’s breathing louder and seems to be aware of her surroundings. I pat gently around her head in case she hit it, but I feel no blood or abrasions, not that that means anything.
“Alright,” I say, more to myself than to her. “We’re going to get you to the hospital.”
“Katie…”
“I’m going to get the car. I’ll be right back.”
I grab the keys from the bowl in the kitchen, praying the thing has enough petrol in it. Neither of us use the car that much. Granny used to all the time, but she lost confidence a few years ago and stopped leaving the house so much. We considered selling it altogether before eventually deciding to keep it for emergencies.
An emergency like this.
It seems to be working okay and I rush back inside to get her, pleading with Plankton to stay where he is because it’s not like I can bring him with us. For once, he does as he’s told, still cowering under the table.
It takes a very long time to get her to the car. I make her as comfortable as possible in the back seat and then slide behind the steering wheel.
I wasn’t scared of being in cars after my parents died. It wasn’t until I learned how to drive that I started getting nervous about it, the unease creeping up on me with each lesson. I don’t know what triggered it. Maybe it was learning about all the things that could go wrong. Maybe it was because I knew that no matter how safely I went or how much care I took, it didn’t matter if the other driver didn’t do so as well. All I know is it didn’t get better. And while I could just about manage being in the passenger seat, being the one driving is a whole different experience, one that makes my fingers tremble now as I turn the key in the ignition, and pull off down the lane.
I try not to think about it, even though my anxiety demands that I do. I try instead to keep my mind focused on my goal. On Granny. On getting her to people who can help her and make sure she’s alright. And I do okay. For more than five minutes, I do okay, and then it all goes to shit.
I hear the engine before I see it, the exaggerated revving of it like my worst nightmare come through. And then the car speeds around the bend so fast I nearly don’t see it in time. In a split second, my heart rate soars and the panic I’d been trying so hard to keep at bay crashes through me. I freak out, hitting the brakes as I swerve to avoid it. The boy racer or whoever it is behind the other wheel zooms straight past, dodging me easily as he vanishes down the road, while I screech to a halt in a small ditch at the side, my seatbelt cutting into my chest as I strain against it.
“Katie?”
“It’s okay,” I call, as Granny stirs behind me. “I’m sorry. It’s okay.”
