by Debbie Burke
A cat streaked past her down the stairs, scampering out the open door.
She leaned against a support beam, heaved a sigh, and rubbed her sore skull. Enough exploring. Time to go back to Tillman’s suite and wait for him.
As she started to leave, a soft moan drifted down the stairs.
Someone else was in the loft. “Hello?” She climbed the wood steps, wishing she had a flashlight.
Twilight glowed through the second-story dormer window. In one corner, a crumpled blanket covered a lumpy form.
“Who’s there?” Tawny said.
A child’s groan.
The ceiling sloped steeply, forcing Tawny to crawl on hands and knees to the corner. She lifted the blanket. A girl lay on her side, curly black hair falling over her face. A whiff of vomit hit Tawny’s nose.
“Hey? Are you OK?” She brushed the tousled hair back.
Miriam, Mimi for short. Tillman’s eldest. Eyes closed, long dark lashes against her cheek.
Tawny shook her shoulder. “Mimi? What’s wrong?”
The body felt slack and limp. Unconscious. Drool ran from the side of her mouth.
Tawny shook harder. “Mimi! Wake up!”
Her head lolled. A shudder urped more vomit from her mouth.
Crap!
Tawny pulled the girl to the middle of the loft, turned her onto her side, and used a finger to scoop her mouth clear. She listened for breathing. None. She rolled Mimi onto her back and held a palm against the girl’s chest. Faint weak heartbeat. Slower, then undetectable.
Dammit, she’d left her cell in Tillman’s suite. Should she run to the house for help? Or stay with the dying girl?
Then she remembered the wall phone she’d seen. She thumped down the wood steps and yanked the dusty handset from the hook. A dial tone. Thank God! She called 911. The rotary dial clicked with agonizing slowness. Finally, a dispatcher answered.
Tawny shouted, “Tillman Rosenbaum’s property up on the Rimrocks off Highway Three. I don’t know the street address. Teenage girl unconscious, not breathing. I’m starting CPR.”
She depressed the switch hook, hoping she’d given enough detail for the ambulance to find them. She dialed Tillman’s cell, again waiting for the slow, maddening clicking. He answered with a snarling, “Yeah?”
“Tillman, I’m in the playhouse with Mimi. She’s unconscious, not breathing.”
“What the hell?”
She hung up. No time to explain. He’d get it.
She scrambled back up the stairs. Still no heartbeat. She positioned her palms over the sternum and started compressions.
The old Bee Gee’s disco song “Staying Alive” throbbed in her brain, a trick she’d learned in CPR class to maintain the right pace of compressions.
The wall phone rang. Tillman calling back or maybe the 911 operator. No time to answer. More compressions. Uh, uh, uh, uh…
The phone kept ringing. Shut up!
In the CPR class, a hardened firefighter had instructed, “Once you break the ribs, the compressions get easier.” A sickening thought. Tawny hoped she wasn’t breaking the young girl’s bones.
A couple of hundred exhausting compressions later, she heard Tillman’s deep voice shouting, “Tawny! Where are you?”
“In the loft.” She tried to scream but barely had breath left to force the words out.
More voices, a woman’s and two younger ones, arguing.
Tillman’s footfalls pounded, shaking the playhouse. A beam of light swept up the stairs and shone in the loft.
Then he was there, holding a long, black, cop-style flashlight. He dropped to his knees on the other side of his daughter’s limp body, face grim. “I called nine-one-one.”
Tawny blinked in the sudden glare but maintained the rhythm of compressions. Her arms and hands screamed from the strenuous effort. Only adrenaline kept her pumping.
Tillman gauged her exhaustion. “How long?”
“Almost five minutes,” she gasped.
“OK, stop and let me check for a heartbeat.”
She paused compressions and settled back on her heels, struggling for air, arms limp and weak. Her wrist bones felt as if they’d been ground into dust.
Tillman’s palm pressed between his daughter’s small breasts, his gaze locked with Tawny’s, full of fear. Nothing. He clasped huge hands, one atop the other, and pumped her chest.
Rochelle and the other two children, Arielle and Judah, crushed into the playhouse, pushing against each other on the steps, arguing, crying.
For the first time since she’d started CPR, Tawny had time to take stock. She gulped air and studied Mimi’s tiny, slender figure, clad in a tight tee and shorts that barely covered her privates. The girl had inherited her mother’s cool, elegant beauty, but her skin now looked sallow, almost translucent, achingly vulnerable.
The playhouse wasn’t large enough for the six people crammed inside. Claustrophobia gripped Tawny as she peered down the stairwell at three faces, looking up. Rochelle’s lovely features were contorted into a bitter mask of agony. Arielle and Judah watched, their eyes round in horror.
Tillman also seemed to feel crowded as he pumped Mimi’s chest. He glared at his family. “Quit standing around! Where the hell is that defibrillator I bought?”
In a choked voice, Arielle said, “It’s in the kitchen. I’ll get it, Dad.” She sprinted from the playhouse.
Tillman faced Judah. “Run out to the street and open the gate for the ambulance.”
The boy nodded and scurried away.
Rochelle leaned in closer, sobs making her shudder.
Tillman tried to shift his awkward, kneeling position but bumped into the low ceiling. “Goddammit!” He gathered Mimi in his arms and moved to descend the steps. “Get out of the way!” he growled at Rochelle.
Tawny tried to rise but her feet had fallen asleep from squatting back on her heels. Pins and needles made her stagger.
Tillman carried the girl down to the main level. Crouched over, he kicked the table and chairs aside, knelt, then laid his daughter on the floor, and resumed compressions.
Praying her numb feet would hold steady, Tawny started down the stairs, flashlight in hand. It felt extra heavy because of her exhaustion. She righted the table and set the light on it to illuminate the room then pulled Rochelle back to give Tillman more space.
Rochelle hardly seemed aware of Tawny’s presence as sobs wracked her. Suddenly, she lunged toward the loveseat. A plastic pharmacy bottle nested between cushions. Rochelle snatched it up and stared at it. A new wail rose.
Still fighting numb feet, Tawny steadied her. “What is it?” She tried to pry the bottle free from Rochelle’s long, polished nails but the woman yanked it away. “Rochelle, the paramedics need to know what Mimi took.”
The anguished mother held the container between her breasts. Her dark eyes looked huge in her pale face.
“Please let me see,” Tawny pleaded. “It’s important to help Mimi.”
Tillman’s baritone echoed to the rafters. “Give her the fucking bottle, Chell!”
Rochelle’s mouth twisted into an ugly red knot. She flung the plastic container at Tillman. It bounced off his forehead and clattered to the floor.
Tillman didn’t flinch and kept pumping, hard.
Tawny worried he might inadvertently kill his child because of his overwhelming strength. She dropped to her knees across from him. “Let me check for a heartbeat,” she murmured.
Tillman gave a brief nod and pulled back, allowing Tawny to place her hand on Mimi’s chest.
They stared at each other, waiting, hoping, praying for a beat. After a few seconds, she shook her head. “I’ll take over, OK?”
Another nod.
Tawny lined up her hands once again and started pumping. Staying alive, staying alive.
From the corner of her eye, she caught Tillman’s movement as he reached for the cast-off prescription bottle Rochelle had thrown at him.
“Goddammit!” He glared at his ex-
wife. “It’s your Valium, Chell! Why the hell did you let her get hold of it?”
Rochelle screamed back, “I didn’t. I don’t know how she found it. Stop blaming me for everything!”
Tawny longed to tell them both to shut up but she didn’t have the breath to waste. About ten minutes of CPR hadn’t given results. She remembered a grim statistic: for every minute without a heartbeat, chances for survival dropped ten percent. She feared it was already too late. Mimi might be too far gone. But she kept pumping, desperate to save Tillman’s child.
Arielle ran through the playhouse door, shouting, “I got it!”
Tillman grabbed the plastic AED case from her and ripped it open. To Tawny, he said, “OK, stop now.”
Tawny leaned back to give him room. He yanked Mimi’s tight t-shirt up, exposing her rosebud breasts.
While the device’s robotic voice chanted instructions, he peeled the covering from two sticky patches. He placed one on the upper right under her collarbone, the other below her left nipple. “Stay clear,” he said to Tawny.
They moved away from Mimi and waited the endless fifteen seconds for the machine to analyze if Tillman’s daughter could be saved.
The AED’s mechanical voice said no shock advised. What did that mean? Wasn’t this machine supposed to start her heart again?
Tillman frowned, tearing apart the container, searching for instructions.
Not knowing what else to do, Tawny started compressions again, arms cramping from the effort. What if she failed? But she couldn’t. This was Tillman’s daughter. Failure wasn’t an option. If only Tawny could take the painful pounding of her own heart and put it to work in Mimi’s chest.
She heard the faint wail of a siren. Hurry!
Two more minutes passed before the rescue rig halted outside the playhouse, bright strobes flashing through the windows. Judah ran in first, panting, round cheeks dark red from exertion, followed by two EMTs. They brought lanterns that lit the inside of the playhouse.
One medic dropped to his knees and made eye contact with Tawny. “Want me to take over?”
Gasping for breath, she nodded.
They made the handoff without missing a compression. Tawny toppled over sideways, heaving for oxygen, the last of her adrenaline exhausted. As she fell, she heard fabric ripping, the lace tearing on her dress. Grit on the hard floor grated the side of her face. She closed her eyes against dust wafting up.
Tillman brought the EMTs up to speed, likely overdose of Valium. Then more arguing between him and Rochelle, who didn’t know how many pills had been in the bottle. Even in crisis, Tillman and his ex were too busy fighting to work together to save their daughter.
Over the thumping pulse in her ears, Tawny dimly made out a discussion between the EMTs. One slid a tube down Mimi’s throat, while the other pressed a stethoscope to her chest. “Got a beat,” he muttered. Thank God! He asked her, “How long were you doing CPR?”
“More than ten minutes, probably close to fifteen.”
The concern in his eyes confirmed her fears. Too long.
Then she felt Tillman’s strong grip pulling her up, leading her outside the playhouse, leaving the medics to their work. Please let Mimi be all right.
Perspiration soaked her beautiful new dress, now torn and dirty. She shrugged out of Tillman’s heavy coat, relieved when chilly night air hit her overheated body. Her stockings were ripped in shreds from crawling on the wood floor. She sagged against him, utterly spent, letting him hold her up.
In the glow of the ambulance lights, she caught a glimpse of Rochelle, shunted outside the playhouse by the medics, hugging herself. She wore a cream-colored, silk sweater and matching slacks, with a gold belt cinching her tiny waist. She looked haggard and spent. And furious. Her dark gaze focused on her ex-husband, still supporting Tawny in her exhaustion.
Tawny pulled away from Tillman and leaned against the outside wall of the playhouse. No need to add jealousy to the mother’s concern.
Judah and Arielle waited side by side, moving one foot to the other, bumping shoulders, helpless and confused. Judah’s mouth worked, as if trying to spit out words that refused to come. He was a short, pudgy kid, desperately hoping for a growth spurt. He wore white horn-rimmed glasses and his head was shaved bald. Tillman often fretted about his son’s weirdness but Tawny found it endearing.
Arielle’s teeth chattered and light glinted off her braces. Her dark hair formed a wild curly halo around her narrow face, same shape as Tillman’s. Homely now in her awkwardness but she might one day grow into a swan.
The medics lifted Mimi onto a gurney and rolled it into the rescue truck. Rochelle tried to climb inside with her daughter but the man blocked the door. “Sorry, ma’am, no room. You can ride in front.”
In three long strides, Tillman caught up to the EMT and exchanged quiet words with him. The man nodded.
Tillman called, “I’ll follow you.”
Rochelle shot back, “If it’s not too much trouble to tear yourself away.” She hoisted herself into the shotgun seat of the ambulance.
Her gaze locked with Tawny’s and her red lips parted. She mouthed words that Tawny thought might be thank you but she wasn’t sure. Might have been fuck you.
Doors slammed, and the siren revved up. Rochelle turned around in her seat to keep Tawny in sight as the rig pulled away.
Dear Lord, what a toxic family.
Tillman came back to where Tawny leaned against the playhouse. He held her close. “If my daughter lives, it’s because of you.” His deep voice rumbled against her chest. She felt reluctant to return his hug with his other two children close by, watching.
And they were. Staring at her in their father’s arms as his wide shoulders shook with sobs.
She eased away. “You’ve got to get to the hospital. Go, it’s all right.”
Dark eyes bleary with tears, he said, “Would you…can you…?”
Never before had she heard him stammer. “Want me to stay with Arielle and Judah?” She looked past him to the kids, still staring curiously, but without their mother’s hostility.
Tillman nodded, a glimmer of gratitude in his eyes. He loped toward his garage. “I’ll call you,” he yelled over his shoulder.
The cold night air now chilled her. When she looked at Arielle and Judah again, she saw two frightened kids who’d watched their parents screaming at each other while their sister lay dying on the floor. Sympathy welled in her heart. She took a few steps toward them, unsure how they’d react.
“Hey, guys,” she murmured. “Guess it’s just us for now.” She held out her weak arms.
They kept staring, frozen. What were they thinking? Did they hate her? What could she do to help them through this crisis?
Arielle broke first, rushing at Tawny. The girl burrowed her face into Tawny’s shoulder, sobbing. Tawny put a tentative arm around her, bent to kiss her fragrant curls. For a few seconds, they hugged.
When Tawny looked up again, she saw Judah’s wide, scared eyes behind his oversized white horn rims. His lower lip trembled.
She extended her other arm toward him and he crushed into her, his chubby body pressed against her. He might be thirteen and, as of tomorrow’s bar mitzvah, officially a man. But at this minute, he was still a little boy, craving reassurance.
Chapter 3 – Trick Questions
A half hour later, after calming the kids, Tawny scrubbed away dirt and rank, nervous sweat in Tillman’s gigantic shower. With all her clothes back at the hotel, she had to improvise, putting on one of his short-sleeved t-shirts. Its shoulders hung almost to her elbows and the length fell below her knees. As she toweled her wet hair, a tentative knock sounded. “Come in.”
Arielle’s narrow face appeared in the crack of the door. “Wow, you’ve got awesome hair.”
“Thanks,” Tawny said. She remembered the bonding she and her daughter had shared over braiding each other’s hair. “Want to help me with a french braid?”
Arielle nodded and slipped into the
still-steamy room.
Tawny sat on a stool before the mirror and felt the girl carefully comb through the tangles. “It’s OK, you can pull harder than that.”
“I don’t want to hurt you. When I was little, Mom used to practically yank my hair out. She calls it my damn African wool. I’d like to let it grow long, like yours.”
“Mine’s so straight, but you have beautiful curls.” Like her dad’s, Tawny thought.
“Yeah, my great-grandmother was from Ethiopia. Dad has her old wedding pictures. He said she was over six feet tall. Really dark. Like this giant black queen. And next to her is this shrimpy little white dude with a big bushy beard and payot, wearing a black homburg hat.” Arielle glanced at Tawny in the mirror. “You know what payot is?”
Tawny shook her head.
“Those sideburn curls Orthodox Jewish men have.”
“Oh.”
She divided Tawny’s hair into sections. “She died a long time ago before I was born. The wedding pictures are way cool, old-fashioned, black-and-white photos. Dad was going to get them framed to hang in the library but Mom didn’t like them. I come down here sometimes and look at the album.”
“Too bad your great-grandmother didn’t get to tell you about her life. Sounds really interesting. Must have been hard to be an interracial couple back in those days.”
Arielle lifted one shoulder. “You can’t see her hair in the wedding picture because she’s wearing a head scarf called a netela. I always wondered if her hair was long or short.”
“Do you have a style you like?”
“I want cornrows but Mom won’t let me. Says it makes me look like a slave character in Roots.” Small, gentle hands wove Tawny’s hair into a thick braid.
She asked, “Where’s your brother?”
“Watching TV.”
“Did you guys finish eating?”
“Sort of. When you called Dad, we just jumped up and ran.” Arielle paused in braiding. “Is Mimi going to be OK?”
Tawny’s chest squeezed tight. “I don’t know, honey. It’s good you got the AED so fast.” She studied the girl’s reflection in the mirror. The pucker of her mouth appeared close to a sob. “You and Judah did great. You really helped your sister.”
