Antiques Roadkill Page 14

  … Gas!

  I struggled to my feet, and the room whirled; but I managed to steady myself, and stumbled out into the hall.

  Mother’s bedroom was closer to the stairwell, her door—I could see, thanks to the night-light from the bathroom—was open; I moved toward it virtually in slow motion, barely able to lift my feet, as if walking in a swamp.

  I saw Mother’s form under her covers, and I lurched forward, falling to my knees by the bed, as if about to pray, but instead grabbing her, shaking her, yelling to her, “Mother! Mother! Wake up!”

  She was limp as a rag doll.

  I turned to the nearby window—closed for airconditioning—threw it open, and knocked out the screen, slamming my fist into the wire like a punch-drunk boxer. Then, summoning strength from somewhere, I dragged Mother out of her bed and carted her bodily over to the window, and propped her head up on the sill.

  A warm breeze blew in, fluttering the white lace curtains, and I gulped deeply.

  I never knew air could be so damn delicious.

  Mother gulped, too, and snorted, taking in air finally, and then moaned, as if having a bad dream.

  “Mother! There’s gas in the house—we have got to get out!”

  Her voice was weak, and for once in her life, all theatrics were drained out of her. “Oh dear, oh dear.… Oh, my head, aching head. …”

  Sushi had found her way next to us, and I picked the pooch up and held her out the window as if about to drop her, but the point was to give her some fresh air, too.

  “Take a deep breath, Mother,” I instructed. “And then we’ll go.”

  Mother grabbed some air, and then I helped her to her feet …

  … but she was so damn wobbly that it took both my arms to keep her from falling!

  I had to put Sushi down.

  “Follow us, girl!” I commanded. “Mother, keep your breath held till we get out!”

  She managed to nod, her mouth sealed.

  As we descended the stairs, I could hear Sushi’s nails clicking on the wooden steps behind us. I didn’t dare breathe—the gas smell was everywhere.

  Just as we got to the front door, Mother ran out of wind and gulped, taking in toxic fumes, then immediately collapsing in my arms.

  But I dragged her out on the porch and unceremoniously down the steps—klump! klump! klump!—no doubt creating a few bruises, which was better than the alternative. Then I hauled her across the lawn and propped her up against one of the pine trees.

  I was about to give her artificial respiration when she came around. “I’m all right, Brandy … I am all right.”

  That was when I noticed Sushi wasn’t beside us.

  I stood and frantically called the dog’s name. Distressed, sick physically and emotionally, I looked toward the house.

  Mother said weakly, “Brandy, no! Don’t go back. It’s probably too late.…”

  “Since when did I ever listen to you?” I said with what was probably a grotesque smile.

  And I dashed across the lawn and up the front steps.

  At first I didn’t see her, because I almost stepped on her: Sushi had made it to the foyer, where she lay, a little brown puddle. I scooped her up and dashed back outside, petting her all the way.

  I was sprinting down the steps, wondering if it was possible to perform artificial respiration on a dog, when the world exploded behind us, the blast propelling me through the air, like I’d been shot out of a cannon.

  I think I saw the red-hot fireball, consuming the house, before I passed out.

  Or perhaps it was just another terrible dream.…

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  Garage-sale owners will often come down on the price of an item if you let them know the trashy treasure will be loved and cherished. Then they don’t feel so guilty about selling Uncle Edgar’s spittoon.

  Chapter Eight

  A Churn for the Worse

  I was not having an out-of-body experience, nor was I floating through a tunnel toward a bright light where dead relatives waited with open arms. Maybe that’s because I was on my way to the “other place.” Or maybe my idea of heaven wasn’t dead relatives.…

  I was, however, dimly aware of pain and discomfort, and a command to “cough,” over and over, which hurt like hell. I couldn’t understand why I was being made to do this, so my brain came up with a scenario. I was apparently caught in a simple computer program loop:

  START,

  COUGH,

  GO BACK TO THE BEGINNING,

  START,

  COUGH,

  GO BACK TO THE BEGINNING,

  START,

  COUGH,

  GO BACK TO THE BEGINNING….

  And the realization that I would go on coughing and hurting for all eternity was like being buried alive. I’d have panicked if I weren’t busy starting, coughing, and going back to the beginning.

  If this wasn’t bad enough, someone kept sticking the back of my hand with something sharp, which really irritated me. I managed to grab on to a hank of hair, before receiving a particularly sharp jab, then drifted off somewhere.

  The first I was fully aware of Mother, sitting next to my hospital bed, she was smoothing my brow with her fingers, talking soothingly in Danish … a nursery rhyme she used to say to a sick little Brandy:

  “Klappe, klappe, kage, I morgen skal vi bage, en til mor, en til far, og en til lille Brandy.“

  (“Clap, Clap, cake, tomorrow we shall bake, one for Mommy, one for Daddy, and one for little Brandy.”)

  Slipping in and out of my drug-induced haze, I finally clung to wakefulness long enough to have a semblance of a conversation with Mother. I’d already taken stock of myself—little Brandy seemed to have all of her fingers and toes—and all I could think of past that was Sushi. Was she all right? Had my rescue effort been successful? But as I asked these questions, I knew in my heart my beloved pet was dead; still, I needed to hear it and start the grieving process.

  Mother said, “Sushi’s fine, dear. You somehow held on to the little dog, protecting her from that terrible explosion. And once out in the fresh air, she came around, scampering like a puppy.”

  I refused to believe that, and began to cry, which really made my chest hurt. “You’re luh-lying,” I said, sniffling. “You just don’t want to tell me the truth.”

  Mother’s expression was loving and, for once, nothing at all theatrical was in her manner. Her voice was gentle, soothing, as she said, “No, dear, I’m not lying, she’s fine, just fine.…”

  “Yes, you are! You think I can’t—” She squeezed my hand and said, “I promise you, Sushi’s fit as a fiddle. I’ll sneak her in here, next time I come.”

  I continued to sob. “It won’t really be her … it’ll be a stuffed animal and you think I won’t notice ‘cause I’m so messed up.…”

  “Dear—”

  “Or a look-alike Sushi, wearing white contact lenses.… That’d be like you! Just like you!”

  A hatchet-faced nurse, in white slacks and a hideous teddy-bear-arrayed smock, appeared and, all business, told Mother that visiting hours were over and said that I needed rest.

  Mother kissed me good-bye as the nurse fooled with my drip, checked her watch, pushed a button to release more pain medication, and I went to sleep again.

  Klappe, klappe, kage.…

  At least the tape loop had broken.

  When I became conscious next, Peggy Sue was hovering over me, as if addressing a corpse in a coffin at visitation.

  “I’m sorry, Brandy. I … I only did what I thought was right. What was best. Please forgive me.”

  My eyes popped open. “For what?”

  My dry croaking voice seemed to startle her—it was like that moment in a slasher movie where the fiend who’s taken enough punishment to be dead six times suddenly opens his peepers.

  Touching her bosom, Peggy Sue said, “Nothing … I … I’m just so glad you’re alive.”

  “For once we agree.”

  Sis swa
llowed and said, “When I think what could have happened to you and Mother.…” She hugged herself and shuddered, as if from a cold breeze.

  And breezes don’t come any colder than death, do they?

  After a moment she said softly, “Brandy, I know we don’t get along, sometimes … so many years between us, but I hope you know … that you do know … that I love you very much.”

  Actually, I hadn’t known that. I was moved to see my cold fish sis actually respond with such feeling to my dire circumstances, but also a little pissed. Did it take me nearly getting blown to smithereens to finally pry those words from my sister?

  Well … maybe it was worth it.…

  Then I heard myself saying, “I love you, too, Sis.”

  I meant it, I guess. Or maybe it was just the drugs talking. Maybe I was the narcoticized equivalent of a sloppy drunk getting sentimental.

  My sister squeezed my hand, smiled a lovely smile—she really was pretty. “Can I get you anything, Bran'?”

  She hadn’t used that nickname in years.

  “Well … there’re some ice chips in that cup … that’s all I can have.”

  Peggy Sue handed me the plastic cup. I put some chips to my parched, cracked lips. Ice never tasted so good.

  I asked, “What about the house?”

  Peggy Sue shook her head. “Sorry.”

  “Sorry? That bad?”

  “Worse. Gone.”

  “Everything?”

  “Everything but the foundation.”

  I was almost afraid to ask the next question. No—scratch the “almost.”

  “Peg—the house was insured, wasn’t it?”

  Peggy Sue nodded, and relief flooded through me like another soothing drug.

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank God the premiums had been paid!” Her face brightened. “As a matter of fact, Mom’s meeting with an insurance adjuster this morning. They’re making plans to build a new house.”

  I must not have looked too happy because Sis said, “What’s the matter? Don’t you want a new house?”

  “No,” I said, pouting like an eight-year-old. “I want the old one. I like the old one.”

  She waved a scoffing hand. “Oh, the old drafty one with a leaky roof, you mean? With the peeling plaster, and rattling pipes?”

  I countered with, “And beautiful woodwork, and unique parquet floors, and original light fixtures, and marble fireplace …”

  Peggy Sue winced. “I wouldn’t go singing the praises of that fireplace, very loud, if I were you.”

  Surprised, I sat up straighter in the only partly cranked-up hospital bed. “Was that the cause of the gas leak?”

  My guess would’ve been the old sediment-filled water heater, or perhaps a ruptured underground gas line caused by Mother planting bushes without locating the main line first.

  Peggy Sue chided, “Why in the world were you using that gas fireplace in the middle of a heat wave, and with the air-conditioning on?”

  “What? Don’t be silly, Sis. We weren’t.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Well, it didn’t turn itself on. Mother’s fired that up in summer before. She doesn’t exactly stand on ceremony when she gets a notion.”

  “It wasn’t even cool enough to shut off the air conditioners and open the window, let alone use the fireplace.”

  Peggy Sue half smirked. “Maybe that blind mutt of yours did it … accidentally, of course.”

  Whether she meant that to be funny or not, I can’t say—I know she didn’t care for my having brought a dog into that house. Either way, I laughed, even though it hurt.

  “That’s right,” I said, “blame a blind, ten-pound dog for our misfortune.”

  “She does have the run of the place … did have. Could she have bumped into that old-fashioned dial—maybe gnawed on it like a bone and—”

  “Are you serious?”

  She stiffened. “I’m just exploring the possibilities.”

  “Way things are going for the Borne girls, I wouldn’t be surprised if Sushi did turn on the gas—to put us all out of our misery.”

  Peggy Sue, who was humor-impaired, seemed miffed and said, “Well, you don’t have to be sarcastic about it. Don’t you think it’s important to know how it happened?”

  “Sure—but let’s start some place more logical than my blind dog mistaking a metal dial for a bone.”

  That was Sis and me—destined to mix like oil and water, even a loving conversation degenerating into the dumbest argument possible.

  Peggy Sue gave her well-shellacked brown locks a toss, not that they were going anywhere. “At any rate, you and Mother will get a brand-new house, out of this misadventure—not to mention two hundred thousand for the contents.”

  I nearly choked on my ice chips. “What contents?” I asked. “The valuable stuff was sold to Clint Carson for peanuts!”

  Peggy Sue shrugged, and her thin smile had something almost wicked in it. “I wouldn’t mention that to the insurance company, if I were you. I’ve already advised Mother not to.… Anyway, who can put a price on memories?”

  Sometimes my sanctimonious sister could be rather unethical, to say the least. But this was Mother’s call; my impulse at the moment, at least in my current half-drugged state, was to stay out of it.

  Before our conversation had a chance to deteriorate even further, Mother swept in, cheeks flushed, carrying the large red tote bag with purple boa feathers that she usually lugged along to her Red Hat meetings.

  My first instinct was that Mother was smuggling in some of her wonderful Danish cuisine—rhubarb pie sprang to mind—when she reached into the bag and produced …

  … Sushi!

  And I don’t mean raw fish.

  I cried out with joy, which hurt, but who cared?

  Sushi, for her part, was so happy to “see” me that she squirmed out of Mother’s hands, barking, and scampering up the thin bedcovers to my face—which she licked ferociously—and, in her excitement, peeing on my pillow. Just a little.

  Mother, vindicated, said, “See! I was telling the truth! Dead dogs don’t pee!”

  Sis smirked. “Is that the name of the mystery your Red-Hatted League’s reading this week?”

  Well, maybe not entirely humor-impaired.…

  Perhaps now would be an apropos time to mention that I was in a semiprivate room, which of course means not private at all—I shared this space with another female patient. Except for almost getting blown up, I had lucked out, landing the bed next to the picturesque windows overlooking Serenity General’s beautifully landscaped grounds; my roommate was stuck with the bed close to the noisy hallway.

  My roommate—whom I hadn’t actually seen because of the privacy curtain between us—called for the nurse, and when the nurse came, ratted on us, tattling that we had a dog in the room.

  Within moments, Mother and Peggy Sue and Sushi were told in no uncertain terms by the nurse—the teddy-bears-picnic-smock-sporting harridan—to leave … immediately.

  “Having an animal in this sterile environment is a serious breach,” the nurse informed us.

  As my visitors were escorted out of the room, I heard Mother say, “Don’t you know there have been studies about the positive effects animals can have on the infirm? Perhaps this environment is too ‘sterile'!”

  I only caught part of the nurse’s response … something about one more word and calling security.

  After a glare at the curtain separating me from my invisible (but pain-in-the-butt) roomie, I turned my slightly yellow-stained pillow over, pushed the pain medication button myself this time, and happily sailed off to sleep, with nary a tape loop nor a Danish lullaby.

  Next morning, Officer Lawson dropped by.

  I was in no mood to talk to anybody, much less a cop, much less a handsome young cop, having had a terribly restless night—seemed every time I’d fallen off to sleep a nurse came in to check my temperature, or blood pressure.

  Nor did I care to be seen by anyone other than family, who would
be required to excuse my disheveled appearance and bad breath.

  But a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, and Officer Lawson was a police officer doing his duty, so I did my best to be civil.

  As Lawson jotted notes on a little pad, I recounted the evening of the explosion as I remembered it—Mother and I went off to bed about the same time; no, I didn’t smell any gas at the time.

  “First I noticed it was when Sushi—my dog?”

  “Yes, your dog.”

  “When my dog woke me up.”

  “What time?”

  “I have no idea—early morning hours. I was tired, and would’ve been groggy even without the gas.”

  He nodded, the puppy-dog brown eyes sympathetic (and by “puppy-dog” eyes, I don’t mean he had cataracts). “Ms. Borne, did you hear anything out of the ordinary during the night?”

  “What happened to ‘Brandy'?”

  He smiled a little. “That’s what I’m here to try to find out.”

  I smiled back; he was pretty cute—probably as cute as I wasn’t right now.

  I asked, “What did you mean by, did I hear anything ‘out of the ordinary'?”

  “Like someone in the house. An intruder.”

  “A burglar, you mean? Fat lot they’d find at our place!”

  He shook his head. “It’s a nice house, and a burglar wouldn’t necessarily know about the lack of furnishings, till he or she got inside.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe—but I didn’t hear anything. Like I said, I was way tired, sleeping pretty deeply.”

  He nodded. “Do you usually lock your doors at night?”

  “Well … sometimes Mother can be lax about that,” I admitted.

  “Some older people are,” he said, with a smile and a head shake. “They grew up in a different world than we did.”

  “Mother’s still in a different world.… If someone had broken in, wouldn’t it be hard to prove? I mean, what with the house blown to smithereens?”

  “It would.” Lawson scribbled on his pad.

  “What is a smithereen, anyway?”

  He smiled again. “I’ve never actually seen one. But I’m glad you weren’t blown into ‘em.”

  “You and me both.… By the way, who called 911? I’d like to thank whoever it was. Talk about a good neighbor.”