“Did anybody recognize her?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Is she okay?”
While I was formulating my answer, Mimi asked, “Who are you talking to?” I was in the living room, alone I thought, watching a smeary-looking evening settle over the city through the plastic I’d taped over the hole where the door used to be. By some miracle Frank was sleeping, and had been since just before Mimi got home from the hospital in the late afternoon.
As for the patient, I’d convinced Mimi to change out of the blood-encrusted cardigan and jeans she’d worn to the hospital and into a set of my sweats. From my dealings with the laundry I gathered Mimi didn’t own gym clothes. She slept in lacy white cotton nightgowns that I worried would be ruined if her bandages oozed. Mimi was surprisingly okay with wearing my sweats but refused to let me help her change into them. She did let me tuck her into bed, though, where she’d conked out right away. But like Lazarus, she had risen again and materialized behind me, her hands swallowed by my sweatshirt’s overlong sleeves, her hollow-eyed, bandaged head shrouded in its gray hood, a crimson NEBRASKA emblazoned across her chest. I almost fainted when I saw her.
“It’s Mr. Vargas,” I said. “I didn’t want him to worry, in case word got out you’d been hurt. The nurse told me I should fix an ice pack for you to hold to your stitches to keep the swelling down. Now that you’re up I’ll do that.”
“Give me the phone.”
I helped Mimi settle on the sofa and handed her the phone. My hands were shaking as I put a soft pillow behind her back and covered her legs against the draft leaking in the taped-up door. I hustled off to the kitchen to scoop cubes from the ice machine into the ice pack Frank had found for me the night before. It was a pink plaid bag—tartan!—with a metal screw top that looked like something used to cure hangovers in a Doris Day movie. “Why do you even have this?” I’d asked him.
“I requested it for my sixth birthday.”
“Why?”
“It was so hot that year. I wore it to school tied to my head with a burgundy Hermès scarf that belonged to my grandmother. Shall I get the scarf?”
“I think we can make do without it,” I said. “Thanks, anyway.”
As I stood at the sink adding a little tap water to the bag so it would shape to Mimi’s face more easily, I stared out the window at Los Angeles in the first stages of its nocturnal twinkle. To the east I saw fireworks splayed across the sky, over by the Hollywood Bowl or maybe Dodger Stadium. I thought it might be a concert or a ball game, but then I noticed explosions down at the beach near Santa Monica, and then to the west, above the hills of Malibu. I realized then that it was the Fourth of July.
By the time I was back in the living room Mimi was off the phone and tears were dribbling down her face. I put the ice pack down fast and rustled up a box of tissues.
“Where’s Frank?” she said.
“Sleeping,” I said. “Are you okay?”
“Sleeping? Still? How is that possible?”
“I wrapped him up tight in a comforter, put him on the floor in the family room, piled couch cushions on top of him, and turned the TV to the Korean language channel. Is anything wrong? Does anything hurt?”
“Everything hurts.”
“Here’s your ice pack. I’ll check and see if it’s time for another pain pill.”
“It’s not that kind of pain.” Mimi pushed back the sweatshirt hood and tilted her less-swollen eye at the ice pack in her hands. “This is Frank’s,” she said. “He wanted it for his birthday. First I bought him one of those blue gel packs you keep in the freezer, and he was so disappointed. It took forever to find this one. I almost didn’t buy it. ‘What’s wrong with pink?’ Frank asked me when I told him how I’d hesitated. ‘Pink is the navy blue of India.’” She took a tissue from the box and mopped her face. “I can’t stop wondering what will happen to Frank if something happens to me.”
“But you’re fine,” I said. “The doctors said so. And I’m here.”
“Now. I’m fine now. You’re here now.” She collapsed against the back of the couch. “When I had money, I didn’t worry so much about Frank. Someone will take in a rich kid, even if he’s weird.”
“I’m not leaving. You’ll have money again. Frank’s not weird. He’s different.”
She snorted, then winced and pressed the ice pack to her eyebrow. “At least you didn’t say ‘special.’ Isaac was so right about you. You’re quite the Pollyanna.” The way she said it didn’t sound flattering. Sometimes it was hard for me to fathom why Mr. Vargas was so fond of her.
“How did it go last night, anyway?” she asked. “I was too wrung out to ask you when I got home from the hospital.”
“No complaints.”
For some reason that made her cry again. No leaking tears this time, though. Gut-wrenching sobs.