Five Days Left

by Julie Lawson Timmer

  Mara logged off, slipped on the flip-flops she had kicked under the table and reached for her purse. She was organizing its contents when the doorbell rang. The noise made her fling her wallet across the kitchen.

  “Shit.”

  She swore again when she saw it had landed in the narrow space between the fridge and the wall. Her arm would fit in the space easily enough, but she was worried that given her questionable balance, bending so low might be her undoing. With the cab about to arrive, this was not the time to end up splayed out on the floor, unable to get up. Maybe she could slide the wallet out with the broom. But it wasn’t in its usual spot and she had no idea where she had put it. By the time she remembered, or made her way around the house to look for it, the cab would be here.

  “Goddamn it.”

  The doorbell chimed again.

  “For Christ’s sake. Leave your flyer and go.”

  Another chime. Whoever it was, they weren’t going to leave. And she didn’t want them there when the cab arrived, an audience to wonder why the fortysomething woman was being carted around in a taxi instead of driving herself.

  “Coming!”

  Annoyed, she opened the door a crack and was about to bark something to scare her visitor off when she found herself staring at the fleshy red face of the cabbie. He was a slightly destitute version of Santa with his red flannel shirt stretched taut over his belly, greasy gray hair slicked off his forehead. His scent was a mixture of mothballs, mouthwash and aftershave. Cologne, she corrected herself, noticing the few days’ worth of gray growth on his face.

  “Afternoon, ma’am. Thought I’d come a little early. Give ya . . . Give us . . . Leave us time ta . . .” He ran a thick hand through his hair and tried again. “I know ya want ta leave by two sharp.”

  “Oh. Thank you, but you didn’t have to walk up. Don’t you usually wait in the car? I was going to meet you out front, at the curb.”

  “’S no problem. I thought ya might . . .” He looked at Mara anxiously, like he was afraid of saying the wrong thing. “I thought I might . . .” he tried again. “I saw how long the front walk is . . .”

  “Oh.” Her face grew hot.

  After humiliating herself in the cereal aisle Monday morning, and once she had recovered enough to drive, Mara had raced out of the grocery store parking lot and sped down the street, desperate to get out of her smelly wet pants and into a hot shower. But in her agitation, she took a wrong turn. When she finally realized she was headed away from home and not toward it, she yanked hard on the steering wheel to turn her northbound car in the opposite direction. The erratic maneuver set off a cacophony of honking horns and squealing brakes as Mara’s car bumped over the median and into the south-facing lanes. Her right hand reacted to the sudden noise by pulling on the steering wheel, moving her car halfway into the next lane.

  “Shit!”

  A pickup truck blared its horn behind her before the driver gunned the engine and raced past her, middle finger in the air, his angry expression mouthing, “What the fuck?”

  Frazzled, Mara spotted a side street half a block away, on the other side of a small bank that sat on the corner. In her eagerness to get off the main road, she cranked her steering wheel too forcefully to the right. She wasn’t able to correct the oversteering fast enough, and her car crossed two lanes of traffic before bouncing over the curb, across the sidewalk and into the large metal sign on the bank’s front lawn.

  Something made a terrible crunching noise as the airbag slammed into her, pushing the breath out of her lungs in one large gasp. The engine hissed, and when she batted the airbag out of the way, she saw the entire right side of the car was wrapped around the sign pole.

  “Goddamn it!”

  Slowly, methodically, she assessed every limb, wiggled her fingers and toes, and moved her ankles and wrists in circles. Nothing seemed broken, though from the way her ribs felt, she could swear she must have belly flopped from the roof of the bank onto the parking lot below. The growing noise of people startled her. When she saw the size of the crowd gathering, she wished she could sink down in her seat until her bones and skin melted and she dripped through the floor and out of sight.

  A knock sounded in her left ear and a woman wearing too much makeup and a bank name tag appeared in her window. Mara tried to lower it but it didn’t work, so she pushed her door open.

  “You okay, hon?” the woman said. “You about gave us all a heart attack just now. Thank God for airbags, huh? You don’t seem to have a scratch.” She peered over the hood of the car, toward the front, before leaning in to speak again. “Can’t say the same for your car, I’m afraid. It looks pretty messed up.”

  She bent toward Mara, her lips parted as though she were about to say something else. But suddenly she pressed them together, twisting them a little. She ducked her head a little lower, leaned close to Mara’s ear and whispered, “You got something to cover yourself with?”

  Glancing down, Mara saw the blotting she’d done hadn’t helped; her pants were still visibly stained. She put a hand over her face and wished again she could disappear.

  “One sec, hon,” the woman’s voice said in her ear. She jogged to the passenger side, reached in for Mara’s jacket, and seconds later she was back, holding the jacket appraisingly before she handed it over. “Looks maybe a little too fancy for . . . this. But, desperate times, I guess, right?” She patted Mara’s shoulder. Mara managed to wrap the jacket around her waist and the woman said, “There, that’s better. I can’t smell it, to be honest, so as long as no one sees, no one but you and I have to know.”

  Mara stole a quick glance at the tree-shaped air freshener sitting in the cup holder beside her. In the grocery store parking lot, she had torn the tree from its string on the rearview mirror and rubbed it over her pants. Amazingly, it had done the trick. Quietly, she thanked the woman, who clucked sympathetically and moved away to make room for the paramedics and tow truck driver who had arrived on the scene. Mara eased herself out of the car, waving off the assistance of the first responders.

  “I’m fine, really,” she said.

  “You musta been in some hurry,” the tow truck driver called from the front of her car. “No time to park and go in, so you thought you’d make your own drive-through ATM, huh?” He guffawed and she gave him a limp smile before moving out of earshot of his laughter.

  She managed not to cry on the tow truck ride to the repair shop. But when the car mechanic gave a long whistle and told her it was amazing she wasn’t hurt, the thought that she could have seriously injured someone, or even killed them, was a punch in the gut. What if Laks had been in the car?

  Her chin dropped to her chest as sobs worked their way loose. Out of the corner of one eye, she saw the mechanic take a quick step away from her. His body shifted from one foot to the other while he cleared his throat and told her, without conviction, “No need to be upset there, ma’am. You’re fine.”

  The manager told her it would be Friday before they could return her car, and he wasn’t sure he had a loaner available. He was fretting about calling a rental company for her when she finally told him not to worry about it. She wouldn’t be driving anymore, she said flatly. She didn’t need a loaner or a rental. After they were finished with her car on Friday, it would only sit in her garage until her husband had it taken away.

  The manager cocked his head, waiting for her to explain. But the one sentence had taken too much from her, and she stood, mute, tears and snot running over her lip and into her mouth, until the receptionist pushed the manager aside, reached across the counter for Mara’s hand and said, “Here, honey, let me call you a cab.”

  She stood at the front door of the repair shop, leaning against the glass. The taxi pulled up and she held up her hand. The driver waved back from the front seat, waiting for her to walk out. But after she pushed open the door and took a few steps, suddenly the cabbie was leapin
g out of the car and running to her side, a panicked look on his face.

  He thrust an arm toward her and she glared at his unnecessary show of drama. The tow truck driver and car mechanic had recoiled, too, after seeing her take a few steps. What was with these men? She had growled at the tow truck operator and the mechanic and she hissed at the cabbie now, telling him he should get back in his cab and wait, the same way he did for everyone else.

  Because she didn’t need his help. And she didn’t need his pity. And she could walk. Perfectly well. By herself. As he could damn well see.

  He lowered his arm but the look on his face showed he didn’t completely agree, and he stayed by her side all the way to the cab. As he walked, he whistled aimlessly and made a show of glancing around casually. He opened the door for her, telling her quickly he did that for everyone. Then he took a step back and waved her inside with the pretense that he was happy to stand there, holding the door while she got in. But when she lost her balance and began catapulting headfirst into the cab, he uttered a quick apology and reached both arms out to her.

  Once seated, Mara started to glare at him again, but stopped herself. He might have overstepped, but he had also prevented her from cracking her forehead on the cab door. She smiled at him apologetically and instructed herself not to sneer when she saw the mixture of pity and self-satisfaction she knew would be on his face. The self-congratulating expression that said, “Well, aren’t I the man, helping the poor rag doll of a woman who couldn’t even get herself into a car. If it weren’t for me, she’d have knocked herself unconscious.”

  But that’s not what she saw when she raised her eyes to his. There was no pity in his expression, no self-satisfaction. Instead, the gaze that met hers spoke the best thing she could have hoped to hear: I’ve got my own problems, lady. I’m not about to spend any time wondering about yours.

  She asked for his card.

  And now, here he was standing in her doorway, the same look of impassiveness on his large, weathered face. And here she was, eyeing him as though he had pointed at her and laughed. She instructed the color to recede from her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It was nice of you to think of me. I was getting ready to walk out. But I dropped my wallet in the kitchen and I can’t reach it. Would you mind?”

  Surprise at the help she had asked this stranger for, no matter how unassuming he was, caused her cheeks to catch fire again, and she was thinking of how to retract her request when he answered.

  “Happy ta.”

  She regretted having asked him but what could she do now, tell him she hadn’t really dropped anything? Didn’t really need his help? She couldn’t pay him if she didn’t have her wallet. And she needed to get to the pharmacy.

  “Thank you.”

  She led him to the kitchen and pointed to her wallet, which he retrieved in a second and held out to her. She grasped it and promptly dropped it. She shook her head, disgusted. The kitchen floor was like a magnet, sucking things out of her hand.

  But the cabbie’s expression gave nothing away as he bent to pick it up. “Here,” he said. “Why don’t I just . . .” Slowly, one eye trained on her face as though he thought she might snap forward and bite him, he opened the purse that hung over her arm and dropped the wallet inside.

  “Thank you.”

  “Pleasure,” he said. “Should I go outside again, wait for ya by the car?”

  “I think we’re past that now, um . . . ?”

  “Harry.”

  “I think we’re past that, Harry.”

  As they made their way to the front door, he edged an arm toward her and viewed her with a wary squint. She heard him exhale as she placed her hand on the soft flannel of his sleeve. She smiled. He was clearly a southern gentleman, preferring a woman walk on his arm. And he had been so gallant about the wallet, it seemed only right to reward him with a hand on his elbow.

  “Thank you. I’m Mara Nichols, by the way.”

  “Pleased ta meet ya, Mrs. Nichols.”

  She laughed. “I can’t imagine. So far I’ve done little more than glare and hiss at you.”

  He led her out of the house and down the walk. “I’ve got a feelin’ there’s more to ya than glare an’ hiss,” he said. He was silent for a bit. When he spoke again, he tilted his head away from her slightly, as though preparing for her to smack him. “I get the feelin’ maybe you’re used ta bein’ in control. Not all that keen on . . .” He hesitated, looking nervous again. “Help,” he said finally.

  Mara threw her head back in a loud laugh. The sudden movement caused her to tip backward, and Harry took a quick step to the right, behind her, catching her against him. He gently pushed her upright and took his place at her side again, casting his attention intently in every direction but hers. She looked gratefully at his profile but he wouldn’t look at her, so she nudged him in the side until he finally turned his head toward her. She flashed him a conspiratorial smile and laughed again, and this time he laughed with her, a low, rumbling chuckle that she sensed he cut short on purpose.

  As he called in his status to the dispatcher, Mara looked around the interior of the cab. She had been too upset on Monday to notice that, unlike the overworn appearance of its operator, the car itself was pristine. The seats and floor were spotless, and the various piles of maps, receipt books and business cards on the console were each bundled together neatly, fastened by black binder clips. A small cooler sat on the passenger side floor in front—his lunch, she guessed—and a neatly folded jacket lay on the seat.

  His sun visor was down and in the bottom right corner was a small, faded and slightly creased picture. Mara leaned forward to get a closer look. It was a school photo of a young girl not much older than Laks. She sat primly as kids in school photos do, shoulders straight, hands clasped together in her lap, a small, slightly forced smile on her face.

  “Granddaughter?” she asked.

  But even as she asked it, she knew the answer was no. The photo was too old, the girl’s hairstyle and clothes too dated. The photo must be ten years old at least, making the girl a teenager now, or older. Mara studied Harry’s profile and tried to estimate his age. Mid-fifties at the most. He had the look of someone who had lived a tough life, but he didn’t appear old enough to have a granddaughter who was now a teenager.

  Harry looked up from the notes he was making in his driver’s log. “What’s that?”

  “I was asking about the photo on your visor. Is that your granddaughter or . . . ?”

  “Oh. Uh. No.” He shot a hand to the visor and snapped it shut, concealing the girl. Mara was about to apologize for upsetting him when he turned and smiled. “So. Errands, ya said on the phone. Where to first?”

  He pressed the button to start the meter. He wasn’t upset, then. But there would be no more discussion about the photo.

  “Pharmacy,” Mara said. “Then there’s a clothing store a few blocks from there. I’ve already called ahead and they’re holding some things for me. I have to try them on but it shouldn’t take long.”

  He nodded and pulled away from the curb.

  17.

  Mara

  Mara told herself this was no big deal, people bought these things all the time. The cashier wouldn’t think twice, other shoppers wouldn’t even notice. It was no more embarrassing than buying tampons, which she used to bury under a dozen bottles of lotion, shampoo and sunscreen when she was a teenager but now had no problem carrying in plain sight through a crowded store. The same way she’d seen middle-aged men standing unapologetically in line, a tube of hemorrhoid cream in hand. Nothing to it.

  Harry had offered to go into the pharmacy with her. Carry the basket while she shopped, tote the bags out to the car, but she told him she didn’t want to trouble him. It wouldn’t have been any trouble, she knew, but he backed off. He must have sensed she wanted to be alone.

  Inside, s
he grabbed a handbasket from the stack near the door and took a confident step toward the aisle marked “Walkers/Adult Undergarments/Misc. Aids.” It was a generous phrase, she thought: “Adult undergarments.” She would never be able to think of them as anything but diapers.

  And that did it: diapers.

  She was forty-two, and she was buying diapers.

  Not the cute kind with little yellow ducks on the cloth that signaled a perfectly normal phase of life, but large, ugly pieces of cloth that screamed, “I can no longer control my bladder any better than an infant.” And though the write-ups on the Internet swore the new designs were discreet, some even stitched in pretty patterns to look less like the exact thing they were, there was no getting past the big, bulky, plastic packaging that alerted everyone in the store that the purchaser was “having difficulties,” like the Internet ads said. Incontinent, like everyone would think.

  Her second step wasn’t confident. It wasn’t a quick walk from door to aisle to cashier anymore, but a treacherous journey to the end of a plank and into the perilous waters of the diseased, the decrepit. She was a failure. Her body had failed her, and the fact that this was happening in her forties instead of her eighties made her failure that much more pathetic. She felt like a thirteen-year-old boy buying condoms, a fourteen-year-old girl buying a pregnancy test. There was an age range in which certain drugstore purchases were innocent, unremarkable. Outside that range, the same purchases were despicable, suspicious.

  Humiliating.

  Mara felt her skin warm from her collarbone to her chin as she made her walk of shame to the aisle. When she reached it, she did a slow circle, looking in 360 degrees to make sure no one was following. Watching. Noticing. No one was, and she took a breath and told herself to act now, while she had a narrow window of privacy. Move quickly down the aisle, she heard her voice sound in her head. Grab two packages, race to the cashier, make the purchase, run for the cover of the cab. Do it fast and maybe it won’t be so bad. Three . . . two . . . one: rip off the Band-Aid.