I run over to Mrs Kostas – she’s near the steps and the whole garden is a mess. She still smells of cinnamon, walnuts and cloves with lemon zest. The hose is on and water dribbles down the footpath. How long has it been running?
Think, Ani, think! There are things you’re supposed to do to check if someone is alive. Can I remember what they are? If it was with anyone else that was hurt, yes.
But now, I’m not so sure.
‘Oh gosh!’ Riri exclaims behind me. ‘I’m germophobic and something of a chicken so I can’t be here! I don’t know what the situation is over there but, Ani, I swear, I can’t.’
I ignore Riri and her crisis. ‘God, please make Mrs Kostas not be dead,’ I pray. Then inhale. Slowly, slowly, I turn her over. She looks fine. She has to be fine. She has to be. My heart is a hurricane. I have to be focused to:
Gently shake her
Hold a compact mirror near her nose – does it fog up?
Check for a pulse – neck and wrist
Check if her pupils have dilated using a compact torch
I get some of my TUSC supersleuth items out of my pocket to do the checks. I’ve always wanted to use the items in emergencies but not like this. Not with Mrs Kostas.
Still warm but she’s unresponsive. No fog forms on the mirror. No pulse. Pupils not dilating. No visible signs of injury but that isn’t hopeful.
‘Somebody help! Please! Oh God,’ I wheeze out. Light-headed. I’m going to fall and vomit. ‘Riri –’
‘Oh my gosh.’ She lets out a sob. ‘Mrs Dimas?! I can’t believe it!’
‘Riri,’ I slowly say. She’s still my evil twin but saying ‘Riri’ is quicker. ‘Her name is Mrs Kostas. Mrs Polina Kostas.’
Riri shakes her head. ‘No, no, no. I remember her. I remember her, Ani. She is – was – she was Mrs Dimas, our school librarian. Sometimes, she babysat me.’ She lets out another sob.
I’m confused. Mrs Kostas is Mrs Kostas.
Riri continues, ‘She lived near us in California then moved to England, apparently to find a long-lost relative. She didn’t go into details. Me and Mom never heard from her again.’
‘What?’ I squeak out. I’m . . . in shock. ‘It can’t be. How sure are you?’
Riri swallows. ‘Her features are the same, except for one. The heart-shaped mole on her right cheekbone. I could never forget it. It must be covered up.’
‘What?! I never saw a heart-shaped mole on her.’ I peer at her right cheekbone. ‘But anyway, now is not the time to be talking about moles. Help! HELP!’ But no one’s around and I can’t stop looking at Mrs Kostas’s cheekbone again. My hands are quivering. Even still, I reach for her to see where the mole should be.
‘No, Ani. Don’t touch it.’ I glare at Riri. ‘Fine, but wear gloves then.’
‘My pockets can only fit so many things! There are no gardening gloves either.’
‘OK, sorry. Just hang on.’ My slit eyes watch as she tears a small piece of her hijab and hands it to me. Well . . . I wasn’t expecting that.
Gently I wipe her cheek. Mrs Kostas feels like a living person, not a dead one.
Oh, but she’s not moving.
She’s not moving. Nonresponsive. And Riri is right – there’s a mole there.
So she’s not who I thought she was.