Now.
The thought comes as a much needed reminder. I am not back there. I am here. Here in Drew’s space. I inhale and feel the slight scratch of the coarse cotton bedspread beneath my bare legs. I exhale and hear the whine of a siren in the distance. The sounds of Monday morning. Inhaling again, I scan my attention over my body, starting at the soles of my feet and moving up.
I note again the sweet soreness of my inner thighs where I cradled Drew’s weight more than once. My hip joints, too, feel newly stretched and pleasantly aware. The burn in my belly, my body’s reflex to last night’s dinner, has cooled some, but I can still feel its nagging.
I think I know what it means. The belly chakra is the seat of power. But am I struggling for power I don’t need? Trying to control an outcome when l should just accept?
Or do I need to claim the power that is truly mine?
The distant siren has grown closer as though affirming for me that this is the answer I must hear. Opening my eyes, I give up on the sit. My mind is working too hard to allow simple awareness and observation any space.
But the burning knot in my gut is still there, and it feels so familiar. As if —
The siren wails, shrill and insistent. It can’t be all the way on Congress Street. It’s too loud. I push myself off the futon in time to look out the streetside window and see an ambulance on St. Joseph Street. But instead of racing past, it slows…
And pulls into Mrs. Vivian’s driveway.
“Oh my God!”
I lunge for the door before skidding to a halt. I’m still in my pajamas — shorts that cover only a little more than panties and a tank top with no bra. I grab last night’s yoga pants and kick my way into them, pulling them over my bottoms before doing the same with my cast-off tunic. I still don’t have a bra, but oh well.
Gemini, smelling urgency and distress, whimpers and claws at the door.
“Stay, buddy,” I say, wedging him aside and slipping out the door. I hear him bark as I shut it behind me, and I send up a silent apology as I take the stairs barefoot. Mrs. Vivian’s back door is unlocked, and I don’t even knock.
“Drew?” I enter calling his name because the kitchen is empty. I scan the dining room and the living room, but there’s no sign of him or his grandmother. And it’s then that a knock sounds against the front door.
“Drew!” By some miracle the deadbolt flips easily under my shaking fingers, and I pull the door open for the EMTs. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
Wearing a look of shock, the guy pulling the stretcher opens his mouth to answer, but I hear Drew.
“Evie, back here!”
I’ve never passed Mrs. Vivian’s living room before, but I take off toward the direction of his voice, one of the medics at my heels. Family pictures, stitch samplers, and a crucifix blur in the periphery as I tear down the hall. I hear coughing and rush to the bedroom at the far end.
Drew is there, leaning over Mrs. Vivian who slouches against the headboard. Her lips are blue and her face misted in sweat.
She looks ancient.
I quickly step aside to let the medics push through, bringing with them the stretcher and an explosion of questions.
“When did the shortness of breath start?... Are you on any medication?... Are you having any chest pains?”
Mrs. Vivian struggles to answer them, panting her voice barely audible. She coughs again, but it sounds dry and feeble.
“She’s recovering from shingles,” Drew says when one of the medics asks if Mrs. Vivian has been ill recently. It’s when he speaks that I see he’s shaken, his own color washed out. The urge to go to him is primal, but the room is crowded with five people and a stretcher, and Mrs. Vivian’s bed separates us.
So instead of going to comfort him, I concentrate on exuding calm from where I stand pressed against the far wall. Help is here. In fact, the two paramedics, a young African American woman, and a short, stocky redheaded guy, minister to Mrs. Vivian with swift and sure motions, the woman fitting an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose, draping the tank on the bed beside her, while the man checks her blood pressure.
“BP is 182/118,” he says. “Mrs. Quincy, have you taken your blood pressure medicine today?”
Drew’s grandmother shakes her head, her eyelids looking heavy. The medic glances over his shoulder at Drew.
“Do you know where it is? Last thing we want now is a stroke.”
Drew turns to the door. “I’ll get it.”
But I leap ahead of him. “I’ll get it. Just tell me where to find it.”
