Chapter 17
MAJOR FREAK-OUT
Mrs. Morris?” I call as I step into the living room. I hear Tebow’s car pull away as the door clicks closed behind me.
The talking heads on the evening news are blabbing, sending blue-and-white light flickering across the walls. Mrs. Morris is usually sitting right there—right in front of the television—from 10:00 to 11:00 PM. Cold snakes writhe through my stomach.
“Mrs. Morris?” I call. “Mrs. Morris?” I try to keep the rising panic out of my voice. Where is she? My skin feels cold and shuddery, like I’ve stepped into a giant spiderweb.
The clatter of toenails, then Morris the Dog bursts into the living room, barking hysterically. God, if only this were an episode of Lassie!
“What? What is it?” I ask, and I am so temporarily insane that (a) my first idea is that Mrs. Morris has been kidnapped and (b) I don’t even notice that the back door is open until Morris practically drags me toward it.
That’s when I hear “Yoo-hoo!” coming from the garage, and when I burst in, I find Mrs. Morris sprawled across the floor.
“Oh my god!” I’m crying and halfway hysterical—it’s like that Bridesmaids moment all over again—but Mrs. Morris is all cheerful and acting like it’s perfectly normal that she has fallen out of her wheelchair and is lying splayed across a slab of concrete.
“I didn’t mean to worry you, dear,” she says gently. “I just wanted some paper towels, and they were a little out of my reach, so I took a spill.”
She reaches for my hand, and we sit there for a moment, our fingers interlaced. Her gray hair is pooled around her head on the concrete. I keep trying to say, “You didn’t worry me,” but my throat is clogged, and I can’t speak at all. All I can do is make a wheezy-squeaky noise, which sets the wrinkles in Mrs. Morris’s face to worry mode.
“Oh dear,” she says. “Oh dear. Oh, oh, I’m so sorry.”
I take a deep, shaky breath and wipe the snot that’s pouring from my nose all over my sleeve.
“It’s all right. I’m all right, dear.” Mrs. Morris’s voice is a gentle whisper, and I realize that she’s trying to calm me down. I take another breath, forcing myself to pull it together. I sit there with my eyes closed until my tears dry up. When I open them, Mrs. Morris’s dark eyes are watching me.
“I’m okay,” I tell her. “I’m okay, too. I didn’t mean to worry you, either. I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“No, really, I’m sorry,” I insist, and then I realize how ridiculous that sounds, and I let out a shallow little snort-chuckle. Then Mrs. Morris giggles. And after a minute, the whole thing starts to seem really funny, and soon neither of us can stop laughing.
After a while, our laughter quiets down. Then I lock my arms around her and haul her into her wheelchair. Luckily, Mrs. Morris only weighs about ninety pounds.
Nothing broken. No harm done.
Except for the major flashbacks I’m having to when my mom skipped out.
I’m still shaking like I may never stop.
