The Road To Echo Point

She opened her mouth to ask about it, but never got a break in the conversation. The older woman chattered as they strolled, commenting on the weather, the ballet she’d just seen, the latest scandal involving President Nixon.

Other than forgetting the current president, she seemed remarkably in charge of all her faculties. This job might just be easier than Vi had anticipated.

“Here’s my studio,” Daisy commented, as they reached a set of double doors at the end of the hallway. She threw open the doors to reveal a breathtaking view. There were windows from floor to ceiling along one wall, framed by the gray and purple of the Superstition Mountains in the distance. Below, a lush meadow meandered to a stand of cottonwood trees, with a few scrub oak sprinkled in. Mostly green, but with an occasional burnt orange leaf here and there. Gorgeous.

And the supplies. She’d never seen so many wonderful paints in one place, short of an art store. Her fingers itched to hold a brush, to try the pastels she’d experimented with years ago, given to her by a kind teacher. But no, the colors were all wrong. A bolder, more brilliant medium was needed. One that would bring out all the contrasts and textures.

“It’s wonderful,” she breathed.

“I knew you’d like it. You have artistic hands.”

The gnarled hands picked up hers, tracing the length of her fingers, pressing gently on her palm, as if assessing her strength.

“Mine were very much like this once.” The old lady sighed and dropped her hand. She turned away from Vi, but couldn’t hide the regret in her voice.

“Once?”

Daisy wandered toward the window, lost in thought. “Can’t hold a paintbrush.”

Back she came, her movements stiff, disjointed.

“Can’t dance, either. Knees won’t work right.”

To the window and back, faster and faster.

“Everyone knows. Hold a brush properly. First lesson.”

She moved to the workbench and grabbed a coffee can full of paintbrushes. “Can’t do it.” She stalked toward Vi. “Can’t do it, can’t do it, can’t do it, can’t do it,” she chanted, louder with each refrain. Crimson splotched her wrinkled cheeks. The rest of her face was deathly pale, almost gray.

Oh, God, she’s going to have a stroke.

“It’s okay,” Vi soothed. Her stomach knotted with helplessness. How was she supposed to handle this woman?

“Can’t do it, can’t do it. Can’t do it!” She was directly in front of Vi. Droplets of saliva showered her face. The old hands clawed at her.

“Can’t do it!” she shrieked. The woman turned and with surprising strength, hurled the can, brushes and all, at the window.

The glass shattered. Large jagged cracks radiated from the spot where the can had connected.

Vi panicked. What in the heck was she supposed to do?

Surely Ian had heard the commotion. Surely he’d fling open the doors and take care of this…this situation. She strained her ears, willing his heavy footsteps.

Nothing. No sound of the cavalry coming to her rescue.

Daisy, surprisingly nimble now, raced toward the window.

Vi made a split-second decision and sprinted after her. She caught the woman from behind in a big bear hug. Daisy thrashed and screamed, batting at Vi’s arms. Vi held on tightly, gasping for air. She wouldn’t let go. Wouldn’t let this sick woman throw herself through the glass.

The tiny figure twisted and wrenched in her arms. Every movement forced Vi’s arm upward. She could strangle the old woman if she didn’t let go. But Daisy could die if she did. It wasn’t much of a choice.

CHAPTER TWO

VI SPUN HER BODY to the left, taking Daisy with her. Enraged shrieks beat against her ears. Her arm inched higher, over the lady’s chin.

Then everything went red. Vi howled with outrage. The old woman was biting her.

Teeth ground down, never releasing. No dentures here.

The door flung open. Ian’s gaze swept over her and his mother.

“Help me!” Vi screamed. The jaws clenched harder. Pain shot up her arm, radiating along her shoulder. Flashes of light erupted behind her eyes. Heat rushed over her in waves, her knees threatened to buckle.

Ian strolled toward them.

Couldn’t the man see she was dying?

“Hurry,” she yelled.

Teeth. Pain.

“Shh,” he soothed. “You calm down, she’ll calm down.” His tone was conversational, as if they discussed the weather.

The vice on her arm eased a fraction.

“Good.” He continued to saunter toward them, his voice low.

Vi tried for a fair imitation of his Mr. Roger’s cheerful croon. Through clenched teeth, she sang, “She’s killing my freaking arm.”

“It’s not your freaking arm I’m worried about.”

“It worries me,” she barked.

The vise tightened again.

“Mom, dinner’s ready.” He held out his hand to the woman. “We don’t want it to get cold.”

Vi cautiously relaxed her grip on the woman.

The jaws unclenched.

Vi backed away, ever so slowly. She didn’t dare breathe until she was out of biting distance.

“Why isn’t this woman in the hospital?”

“Because hospitals won’t take her. This is a chronic problem, not acute. And this is her home. She belongs here.”

The tiny woman faced her. Sweat dripped down her cheek. Saliva pooled at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes had lost their sparkle, dulled by confusion.