Page 82 of Falling Slowly
In my family, we fixed everything with food, as if low blood sugar was the primary source of emotional upheaval.
Charlie jumped to his feet. “Finish your meal, Bess. I’ll get your mom a plate. Celia?”
“Cheese sandwich and apple juice, please,” my daughter announced, looking up at Charlie like he was a genie who granted wishes.
“There’s only curry.” I pointed at my plate. “Take it or leave it.”
She dropped her chin, a picture of sadness. “Okay.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Charlie disappeared into the kitchen.
Mom didn’t waste any time leaning in with prying eyes. “So, what is the situation? Are you two…?”
I shook my head. “It’s not a good idea. I have to work with him. I can’t risk my job.”
“Some things might be worth a bit of risk-taking.” She raised her eyebrow, sneaking a piece of cauliflower off my plate.
“You know I can’t. Not right now. And speaking of risk…” I glanced at my daughter, spinning on her chair, taking in the huge, light-filled space, walls adorned with paintings. I could only hope she wasn’t listening that carefully. “I need to find a morning-after pill, but the pharmacy in Cozy Creek is closed. If we drive back right away, I could find a 24-hour one back home,” I whispered, half-terrified, half-relieved to get the truth out.
Mom stared at me for a moment, mouth ajar, eyes huge. Her fingers clasped the cross around her neck. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear. Well, we better get going then.”
I gave her a grateful nod. I knew she’d understand.
We were about to get up when Charlie barged through the kitchen door and placed the grilled cheese sandwich and a tall glass of apple juice in front of Celia. “Here you go, madam.”
“I’m not madam,” she giggled. “I’m Celia.”
“I’m sorry, of course you are.”
Charlie rushed back to the buffet and filled a plate for my mom.
“You don’t have to…” Mom protested half-heartedly, but accepted the food.
As she tucked in, I finished my meal and made a move to stand up. Charlie blocked my way. “What do you need? I’ll takeyour dishes away.” He took the plate off me. “Sit down. Rest that leg and keep it elevated. I’ll get you an extra chair.”
“Will you also go to the bathroom for me? I left my crutches in the car.”
Charlie didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll take you there.”
He helped me up and wrapped his hand around my waist, supporting me better than the crutches ever could. “We’ll be back soon,” he called to Celia and Mom.
As we exited the cafeteria, we ran into Miranda.
“You’re back! What happened? Everyone was so worried!”
Charlie gave her a quick rundown of our mountain adventures and she made appropriate noises of sympathy, frequently glancing out the window, staring at the mountain range in horror. “I can’t even imagine.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Charlie said. “But Bess needs to use the bathroom and I’m on duty, so…”
“Oh, of course.” Miranda flashed us an exaggerated smile and leapt ahead of us to open the disabled bathroom door.
As Charlie helped me through the doorway, I heard Miranda’s heels click on the hardwood floor. She was heading towards the art studio, presumably to update the others on our survival.
Locked inside the large bathroom with safety rails, I turned to Charlie. “So, I’m peeing in front of you?”
Charlie pressed his ear against the door. “I can hear them coming.” He winced. “Don’t make me go back out there.”
“I thought you liked talking to people.”
