He laughs. “Now, there’s an offer I can’t refuse.”
The floorboards creak under his feet as he nears, and holy shit, when did he get so tall? Not to mention the fact he obviously hasn’t brushed his hair in at least a month and has a huge tattoo on his neck! Surely this is not the kind of guy I should be inviting to share small spaces with me. My heart races. What will I do if he attacks? I can’t fight off a guy that big. Or any guy, for that matter.
He saunters around the wreck, scanning the mess.
I bite my nails. “Can you just do it, already? My mom’s trapped under there.”
“All right, all right.” He shrugs off his leather jacket, revealing a sleeve of colorful tattoos on his right arm, then spreads his legs and grips the wood. And then he does something really strange, even for him. He closes his eyes and whispers something inaudible. I can’t believe I wasted precious time on this weirdo. I snatch my cell phone out of my bag and dial 911.
“Hello, uh, hi. I need help. A bookcase fell over in my mom’s shop and she’s trapped. … Yes, she’s breathing, but she can’t get out and she’s hurt. … Yes, it’s the Black Cat on Mel—” Before I can finish my sentence, the guy’s lifting the bookcase.
And making it look easy. I mean, he’s got a deep crease in his brow and he’s lifting slowly, as if it’s a strain, but the muscles in his forearms aren’t taut and his knuckles don’t whiten a bit.
But that’s crazy!
“Little help?” He nods toward Mom.
“I have to go. The Black Cat, two-ninety Melrose. Hurry!” I drop the phone and rush to grab Mom’s ankles again. This time, I slide her out of the mess with only moderate effort, dragging her over the faux Turkish rug as far from the bookcase as I can before I have to give my muscles a break. When she’s clear, the guy lowers the bookcase to its resting place on the cauldron. As soon as he does, the crack finally gives way. The bookcase lands on the pile of books with a boom that echoes through the room. A shudder runs through me at the thought of Mom under there just moments before.
“Mom, are you okay?” I kneel beside her and brush the matted hair from her eyes. She focuses her gaze on me, and smiles. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see her smile.
“I’m okay now,” she says through labored breaths. “You’re here.”
I force a reassuring smile. “Your arm? Can you move it?”
She takes a breath and wiggles her fingers.
Okay. Everything’s going to be okay.
“What happened?”
“I—I don’t know.” She swallows. “I was just dusting off the bookshelves, like usual, and then … I guess it must have just tipped over. I don’t remember, really.” Her eyes cloud over. “Must have hit my head pretty hard.”
“Don’t worry, Mom. An ambulance is on its way.” I grip her hand, and she squeezes back.
And then I remember the guy. Sure, he just saved Mom and I should thank him, but first I need to find out how he knew what had happened to her. And then smack him for not helping her sooner.
But when I turn around, he’s not there. He’s not anywhere I can see, and there aren’t a lot of hiding spots in the small shop. “One minute, Mom.”
I drop her hand and race to the open front door, peering down either side of the street to make it official.
He’s gone.
8
Mom sits propped against a wall with a mug of cocoa in her hands. She refused to get into the ambulance, even though the paramedics practically begged her to get her arm checked out. Mom hates hospitals. Plus, she says her arm is fine, just a little sore. Right. Even though it looks like she got in a fight with a meat tenderizer and lost. Her head’s okay too. Just a bit of a headache. And so what if her knees buckle when she tries to stand too long? Who needs to walk anyway?
So the ambulance took off, and we’re left with one police officer, who takes pictures of the damage, and another (I’ve dubbed him Chief Wiggum) who interviews Mom.
“So, let’s go over this again, Mrs. Black—”
“It’s Ms.,” Mom interrupts. “I’m not married.” She gives him a weak smile. I thank God she’s in a bad mood and that he’s not cute; otherwise she might recount the tale of Dad leaving when I was three—or, in her words, being abducted because of his knowledge of the CIA. Seriously.
“Okay, Ms. Blackwood. You say the last thing you remember is dusting the bookshelf?”
“Yes. Like I said before, I don’t know what happened after that. Just that I woke up and was underneath the bookcase. Did you know that thing weighs over three hundred pounds? Lucky it got caught on the cauldron or I’d be dead.”
“Yes, you mentioned that,” the officer says.
Like three times. I think he’s worried about head trauma. I know it’s just normal Mom.