Seven Days of Friday (Women of Greece Book 1)

by Alex A King

  “What's her name?”

  “Melissa Tyler,” the woman says.

  “Stay with me, Melissa,” he tells the girl. “We're going to put you back together.” He looks at the woman. “Your daughter?”

  She nods. Both mother and daughter are bloodless and grey beneath their Hers and Hers sunburns.

  “Start an IV,” he barks at the nurse, but she’s already doing her job.

  He takes it easy, in case it’s a gusher. But what’s underneath the towel has already begun to clot. The girl is lucky her mother is smart.

  “The bleeding has stopped. That’s promising, Mrs. . . .?”

  “Tyler,” she says. “Vivi – Paraskevi Tyler.”

  He looks at the naked wrist. Not a knife or razorblade, but definitely something that enjoys cutting.

  The nurse directs him to the girl’s head. There’s a cut, shallow and short. Retsina, she mouths, flicks her eyes at the mother. That will go in the chart. Hospital regulation.

  “Mrs. Tyler, did your daughter hit her head, or did something hit her?”

  “I . . . don't know. I found her like this on the bathroom floor. We were having a family party.”

  She never stops stroking her daughter’s hand.

  “I’m sending her down for a CT scan. Just in case.”

  “Oh God.” Her knees buckle. For a moment he thinks he might have two patients on his hands, but the moment passes and Mrs. Tyler comes back, stronger than ever. “Do whatever you have to do.”

  “Are you visiting from America?” he asks.

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Visiting, staying, I don’t know. My family is Greek. We just got here this week.” She honks into a tissue. “Sorry.”

  He turns away to give her privacy and to prepare sutures.

  “So you’re Greek. Do you speak Greek?”

  Nod. “It’s decent, but in this situation . . .”

  “You need the familiarity of your own language? I understand.” He turns now to the problem that is Melissa Tyler. “Usually a wound like this wouldn’t be so bad. Veins don't like to bleed, and they tend to contract to minimize blood loss. But it's a hot spring, and you're both sunburned and new to this country, so Melissa's blood vessels were already dilated. In winter, she would have lost very little blood. Still, the head injury is the more immediate problem. We’ll be taking her down for that scan as soon as someone can locate the technician.” His fingers weave a crooked bridge of tiny knots. “Do you need us to contact someone – your husband?”

  “No,” she says. “It’s just us. God, what the hell is going on?”

  Max is good at stitches, bad at non-medical answers.

  “Mrs. Tyler, do you think your daughter meant to do this?”

  She hunches forward, sliding her hands through dark, tangled hair. “I don't know. So much has happened lately, and Melissa and I have been fighting every step of the way.” A red-rimmed gaze meets his. Under the sunburn she’s attractive, beautiful even. “What do you think?”

  What does he think? That Melissa Tyler has problems. Her wrists are a spider web of thin white scars and new scabs. He’s seen it before, on other girls around her age. Sometimes on boys, but mostly it’s the girls. Cutting. Self-harm. A physical release to anesthetize mental pain.

  In a fucked up way, this is a blessing. Now she can get help.

  “Accident or not, your daughter needs help. We’ll make sure she gets it.”

  Relief blossoms in her eyes. They’re the warm, deep amber of cognac.

  “I think you could use some, too,” he says.

  “What I could use is a miracle.”

  The nurse comes back. “They’re waiting for her.”

  “When you're ready,” he tells Mrs. Tyler, “I know a place where you can talk to God.”

  30

  VIVI

  HEAVEN AND HELL OCCUPY the same disinfected space inside a hospital. Doesn’t matter which hospital – they are all heaven, they are all hell.

  Vivi has seen both, tonight. Even now she can’t help feeling like she has a foot in each.

  Melissa is spread out in a hospital bed in a quiet room in the children's ward. It’s real, Vivi knows it, but still this can’t be happening – not to her baby.

  A limp hand rests in hers. Vivi won’t let go.

  The machines say Melissa is fine, no lasting damage, but what do machines know about minds? What do they know about families and their secrets?

  What do they know about love?

  31

  MAX

  IT’S NEARLY TEN WHEN he gets a chance to check on Melissa Tyler. Thanks to a rush in the ER, he’s running nearly two hours late for a family dinner at Mama’s. Family includes Anastasia, her mother, and her aunt. But not Kostas.

  Not exactly a family dinner then, is it?

  One of his women will kill him for being so late. Maybe both.

  No problem. They can wait five more minutes for dinner, and he can wait five more minutes to die – easy.

  Shoulder against the door jamb, he watches the Tylers sleep.

  The mother has pulled her chair close to the bed to hold her daughter’s hand. It can’t be comfortable, the way she’s using her free arm as a pillow, but she’s doing it anyway. Her slim shoulders rise and fall.

  This is love, he thinks. Honest, real love.

  He hopes she’s dreaming of a place where her daughter isn’t lying in a hospital bed.

  His boots take him to the nurse’s office. He flashes his most charming smile, asks for a blanket.

  “Taking this one personally, Max?” one of the nurses jokes.

  “They're all personal,” he says.

  She leads him to the supply closet where the blanket and pillows wait to be useful. “Take care you do not become too attached, eh?”

  He drapes the blanket over Mrs. Tyler’s shoulders, then walks away.

  * * *

  He’s a human sacrifice and Anastasia is the volcano.

  Mama wants grandchildren, so in he must go.

  But he wants this, too – doesn’t he? Once he marries Anastasia and their children are born, he’ll be a happy man.

  * * *

  Anastasia and her family are waiting at Mama’s place. They’re waving from the third-floor balcony.

  Up, up, up the stairs that will take him to his volcano. No point rushing, no point taking the elevator.

  The door flies open before he can press the bell.

  "Ay-yi-yi! Here you are. You are late,” Mama says.

  He drops a kiss on her forehead. “I had an emergency.”

  “Always an emergency. Come, we have guests. Perhaps you and Anastasia have an announcement to make?”

  “Not tonight, Mama.”

  “Why you take so long? We are waiting for you. I might die before – ”

  “Yes, that's what you always say.”

  “You are not too old for me to smack you!” She wags a finger in his face. “Where is my stick?”

  Anastasia is pacing inside, a golden goddess in her gilt mini dress. She grabs his arm as soon as she sees him, drags him out into the empty stairwell.

  “We need to talk.”

  “I’m tired, Anastasia. What’s wrong?”

  She holds him tight, won’t let go. “Nothing is wrong. I missed you because you are late.”

  His dick – his fucking dick – gets hard. And what happens? He wants to run. He shakes her loose, steps away so he can swallow some air.

  “I'm a doctor, Anastasia. Sometimes people get sick and need my help. Maybe I should give them my schedule first. Or, even better, yours.”

  Her scarlet lips quiver. “Was it an emergency?”

  “Yes, and that's why I'm late.”

  This conversation is in its hundredth rerun. Yeah, his dick is hard, but the only thing she makes him feel is . . . exhausted.

  “What happened?”

  “Lots of things to lots of people.”

  Poison Ivy curls herself around him. “I hate them.”


  His mind blanks. “Who?

  “Those people. Because of them you weren’t here sooner.”

  He steps back, because . . . wow. How can this woman be the mother of his children? She’s a shark.

  “Jesus Christ, Anastasia. They’re human beings. How can you be jealous of sick people?”

  It’s a child’s shrug. “I just am. I don't have to explain it.”

  He moves backwards. She follows. “What do you want from me?” Her hands are all over him. His fucking dick gets harder.

  “I want you,” she says, playing her seductive best. “I want to see you more.”

  “We spent almost every night together this week.”

  “I know. But you always work so late.”

  “You knew I was a doctor before we met.”

  Yes, he puts in almost as many hours as he did during his internship, but that’s the job. And he loves his work more than any woman.

  More than this woman.

  The door opens again and Mama’s silhouette is there. “What are you two doing?” She sounds bright, hopeful.

  “Nothing,” Max says. “We're just talking.”

  “Mr. Information. Which is it: nothing or talking?”

  “Talking,” he says, irritation metastasizing.

  “About what? Do you have something to say that you can't discuss in front of family?”

  “As a matter of fact, no.” He leaves Anastasia there, slack against the wall. “It's just work talk.”

  “Max has been too busy to see me,” Anastasia says in her infantile voice.

  He goes numb. Deadened to the two of them.

  Mama slaps his arm; she barely registers. “Surely you can make a sacrifice at the hospital for such a lovely girl.”

  The platinum ring, with its transparent stones, is a lead weight in his pocket, a boat anchor keeping him from moving forward.

  “Of course, Mama,” he tells his jailer.

  * * *

  He drives Anastasia home.

  Tonight’s the night. He’s going to do it.

  Over dinner with their families he planned how he’s going to shake her off. Nothing elaborate, plain truth: It’s not working out. He’s done it before, many times. He can do it again. Anastasia, Anastasia’s family, Mama, they will all have to get over it.

  He parks around the corner from her place. Plans to do it quick. Merciful.

  But Anastasia being Anastasia, she has her own plans. Before he kills the Jeep, she’s inside his zipper, inside his boxer briefs. “I want you,” she says, doing that thing to his ear with her tongue.

  The woman works fast but s-l-o-w.

  She stops just as he’s about to –

  “Jesus, Anastasia!”

  “Shut up.”

  Then she’s all over him on him around him dress up around her waist and she tastes like honey and cinnamon and all the good things women are made of.

  She says, “Just think . . .”

  He can’t think.

  “. . . we could do this, be this, every single night.”

  He can feel the “No” bobbing in his throat. He’s trying not to lose it – the “No” or the orgasm. He wants both.

  Tonight something’s different. Anastasia is different. Hotter, wetter.

  A siren goes off in his head, but he’s seeing stars as he comes, not blue and red lights.

  No condom. His fault, her fault – does it matter?

  You know better, Max. Amateur.

  The cell door slams. The bolt slides home. The future stretches way, way out. Nowhere to go, nothing to do but live out his life sentence.

  It’s now or never.

  “Anastasia,” he says when his breath comes back. “Let’s get married.”

  32

  VIVI

  HER BRAIN DOESN’T WAIT – it begins its assault in her first moment of consciousness.

  Melissa bleeding. Melissa unconscious. The long-short ride to the hospital. The broken doll, spread on the bathroom’s marble slab.

  That’s never going away.

  Vivi lifts her head and checks her girl. Still sleeping, face pale with pencil-colored smudges under her eyes. Vivi’s hand snakes around her wrist and finds an enthusiastic pulse. Eyes closed, she mouths: Thank you.

  Her gratitude goes out to all who eavesdropped on her silent prayers.

  Now she can step away from her vigil.

  The chair squeaks as she unglues her backside from its fake leather. A blue blanket slides off her shoulders, drifts to the floor. One of the nurses must have taken pity on her during the night.

  Last night she was too scared to notice much of anything except Melissa, Melissa, Melissa. The room has six beds and three – not including Melissa’s – are full. Those children also have their mothers close by, although she’s the only one who slept in the chair. The other mothers are curled around their much younger children, punctuating their declarations of love.

  Her body complains when she stretches. Empty protest – feels good to move. Then she peers out the door, looking for life signs. It’s early and the sun is taking its sweet time showing up. The ward is silent. There’s no hustle and brightly lit bustle. No nurses padding in and out of rooms, dispensing medicine and taking temperatures, according to the hospital’s biological clock.

  She goes back to Melissa and waits for anything to happen.

  * * *

  Melissa wakes. No trumpets and angels, but there should be.

  Thankyouthankyouthankyou. Vivi can’t stop thinking it. She brushes back Melissa’s hair, tries not to cry. She’s successful, more or less.

  “You’re here,” Melissa whispers.

  “Where else would I be? Nothing matters to me more than you.”

  The tears are flowing and Vivi’s eyesight is drowning in them. She wipes them away with the back of her hand, but more replace those that were lost.

  “I don't know.” Melissa’s eyes close. “I dreamed that you were mad and you went away.”

  “Oh, Baby. I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at me for not knowing how hard you were hurting.”

  “You were busy.”

  “Mel, I'm never too busy for you.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Vivi fishes for a tissue to wipe away her tears. “What happened, Honey?”

  Eyes open again. Focusing on some riveting spot on the ceiling. “Nothing.”

  “Something happened or you wouldn't be here.”

  “It was the sand. It wouldn't come out.”

  “You should have told me you'd cut yourself, I could have put some antiseptic cream on it.” Vivi lowers her voice, tries squeezing the darkness out of the conversation. “I bet Thea Dora has some weird Greek potion for cuts. Probably something like goat saliva. Or freshly-squeezed donkey’s feet.”

  “That's silly.” She’s not laughing.

  “Mel . . .” Vivi starts. She has too many questions. Sorting through the pile isn’t easy. Push some aside and others fall into their place. She reaches, grabs any old question. “Mel, is that the only cut?”

  Still looking at the ceiling. “Mind your own business.”

  “You are my business. I love you.”

  “I don't care.”

  Vivi’s heart cracks. A new fault line is born.

  “That’s okay. I care enough for both of us.”

  The morning passes in stifling silence.

  * * *

  Dr Andreou shows up after breakfast. He looks important in the daylight, with a string of doctors behind him. Some of them are new, devotees of his every word. The others are every bit as seasoned as the guy up front, but slightly more dismissive. Like most doctors with a few years under their belt, they’ve seen it all; they have lost and they have found. Melissa is more of the same.

  Which isn’t bad. It means they know how to fix her broken parts.

  They go through the doctor routine, do their song, their dance, then they take their show to the next child in the room.

  When they’re gone, M
elissa’s bitter mouth says, “I guess they’re not letting me going home today.”

  What did she expect? They don’t let suicidal teens walk out the front door with their incompetent mothers – at least not until they’re sure said teenager isn’t going to bungee jump cordless off the nearest bridge. But she doesn’t say it, because right now Melissa is a delicate crystal bowl, and Vivi feels like small silver hammer.

  And anyway, Dr Andreou is striding back into the room, something clearly on his mind.

  “Go home,” he tells Vivi.

  He’s nuts. First she thinks it, then she says it. Because this isn’t a day where her mouth has a direct line to her brain. The back and forth signals are taking some dark back roads, striking a lot of dead ends.

  “Sorry,” she says. “It’s been that kind of year.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  She thinks he’s joking, but . . . maybe not? Man looks like he wouldn’t say no to poking through her baggage.

  None of this is following any script she knows, so she shuts up.

  “Backing up,” his perfect white teeth and their accompanying smile say. “Melissa is stable and you need a shower. Go home, put on some clean clothes, eat something. You want to take care of Melissa? Take care of yourself first.”

  “Wow,” she says. “Are you always this bossy?”

  Nods from the three other mothers in the room.

  The doctor laughs, but it’s a good laugh. “Guilty,” he says. “But seriously, go home.”

  Vivi looks at Melissa. “Will you be okay?”

  Translation: You’re not going to jump out that window while I’m gone, are you?

  Melissa shrugs. “Sure.”

  “Okay,” Vivi says, “I’m going.”

  “Can you bring me some books?”

  “You bet.” Vivi kisses her forehead. Melissa feels warm, alive. Thank every deity ever. “Anything else?”

  “I don’t care. Whatever.”

  33

  VIVI