My mind is racing. I could go up to the gate and pretend I went for a walk and ended up on the wrong side of the fence, but this place is in the middle of nowhere and the walking trails are within the perimeters of the property. I look down at my scrubs. How do I explain those? And I’m not supposed to leave without a driver, not that that’s a rule but an understanding we have. Stay within the property for your safety. I remember those words but not the circumstances of the conversation. Marleen will carry on about this for days on end and I think damage control, my first go-to response when something happens. Mitigate damages.
I walk up to the gate. Within the lush emerald landscaping there’s the oval sign with gold letters on a black background set within a square of bricks. I stare at the keypad. Blank. My mind is blank. There’s a number combination drivers use but I wouldn’t know what it is. My fingertips make contact with the keypad but don’t push any keys.
Above me, a camera hums, adjusting its angle to get a better look at me. I push the red HELP button. A crackling speaker announces the presence of the security gate attendant in the small square building.
“Welcome to Shadow Garden,” the voice crackles.
Inside the fence, two elderly women with visors walk past, staring at me. “Can you open the gate?” I ask and lean closer to the speaker above the keypad.
After a short delay the voice asks for my name.
“Donna Pryor.”
“Just a moment, please.”
If he prompts me for anything else, I’ll be reduced to tears. I can feel myself slipping.
“Can you hurry, please?” Goddammitcutmesomelackmyhipispounding. Two nights without sleep and I feel like something is amiss in my head. To ground myself, I picture my bedroom, lying in my bed with the ceiling overhead, the humming of the fridge from the kitchen, drifting off to sleep.
“Please look directly into the camera.”
Another hum. I watch the shutters of the round black circle open then close, and open again.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Pryor. Please go straight to the office,” the voice says and I breathe a sigh of relief.
The gate opens and allows a straight view of the leasing building. I walk past the front doors and though the guard told me to go to the office, I proceed toward my building. That’s when I hear someone call my name. I can’t be sure, maybe I’m imagining this. My gait is stiff and my legs are heavy. I’m dragging my foot, I can’t even lift it off the ground. Footsteps sound behind me and when I turn, a woman working in the office extends a hand toward me. I’m not sure if she wants to shake mine, but she touches my shoulder. Virginia is her name, I think.
“Mrs. Pryor,” she says, out of breath as if she’s been running, “let me walk you home.”
“I’m fine,” I say and point in the direction of my front door. “It’s right there around the corner, the first door on the right. I don’t need any help.”
Virginia lets go of my shoulder but stays put. Staring me up and down. She’s confused by the scrubs I’m wearing, I can tell.
“Really, I’m fine,” I insist. “I’m not a child. Please leave me alone.”
She turns and walks away and I turn the corner and keep my eyes on my door and will my legs to move. There’s a small concrete step in front of my door and as I fumble with the key, I turn around. Virginia stands by the corner of the leasing building but when I stare at her, she finally disappears.
Someone should have a look at that hip again, it’s become progressively worse over the past few hours. I don’t know if I don’t lift my foot high enough or if the step is uneven, but with a thud I land on a bed of mulch. A sharp pain shoots through my right ankle. I end up on my left side and I manage to roll to avoid impact but still my head grazes the ground, just enough to send a sharp reminder that I have bumped my head. My brow, my cheek, they throb.
I rest for a second or two, then I straighten my back. Feeling exposed, I look around but there’s no one there. I push myself up. My hip snaps and I can’t straighten my leg. My left foot has to bear considerably more than its fair share required for walking and though I manage to take a couple of steps, I am hobbling now.
Inside, as I pass the mirror, right after I slip off one of my shoes, I want to get a good look at my cheek but the mirrors are still draped and I feel the blood more than I see it. I also taste it in my mouth.
I bend over to slip off the other shoe and that’s when blood drips on the marble floor in tiny round splatters. Putting pressure on my brow with the back of my hand, I stumble past the kitchen and into my bedroom. I shuffle into the bathroom, peel off the scrubs, and stuff them in the bottom of the hamper. There’ll be time to hide them later, laundry day isn’t until Saturday. If Marleen finds them, she’ll question me. If they were reported missing, there’ll be an inquiry. An investigation. Theft is one of the worst things that can happen within the gates of Shadow Garden. Even small infractions related to missing items are frowned upon; even so much as a missing shoe from a front stoop, a potted plant by a door, or a misplaced purse triggers an inquiry as if Fort Knox’s security protocol has been breached.
Pulling a small towel off the shelf among a dozen tightly wrapped into tubes, a good number of them topple to the floor. I wet the towel and head toward the foyer when I hear voices outside my door, cheerful, a casual greeting exchanged, then there’s a key prying into the lock. It’s too late and I have to just keep my fingers crossed that Marleen won’t see the blood in the foyer. After all, it was just two drops, small at that. I use the wet towel to wipe my face. All I can do is take a guess where the blood is but now I can’t recall if it was my left or right brow, so I just wipe the wet towel across both and around and around my face, the white fibers turning pink.
I climb under the covers, pull them up over my face. The towel, cold and sticky, I stuff under the pillow. I force my breathing to slow.
Usually, there’s silence in the foyer, just the sound of the front door closing, a key pulling out of the lock, all those familiar sounds I have become accustomed to, Marleen’s announcement, her proclamation of arrival—none of that is happening. Instead a shriek and the door slams shut.
Mrs. Pryor, Mrs. Pryor, are you all right, are you all right. Are you okay?
I continue to breathe, slow and deep. I exaggerate so Marleen doesn’t think I’m dead but with all her carrying on and gasping, one would think she assumes I was. I give it a moment and then I stir.
“What is it?” I ask, my voice low.
Before I can protest, Marleen pulls the covers off me. She stares at me, a woman in her underwear with a swollen ankle. It’s pounding and feels hot and I can imagine the look of it. I can feel her hand on my leg.
“Your ankle is swollen. What happened?”