Page 59 of At His Beck & Call

He gives his little whisper bark that I love so much, and I chuckle as I get out of the car, going around to the other side and grabbing his leash.

He leaps out with a clatter of claws, his long legs bouncing effortlessly against the sidewalk. He has left scratch marks on the leather and a quantity of short gray hair across the seat.

The guy who cleans my cars is appalled that I let the dog inside them, and every time he comes by to clean one, he tuts under his breath and says something in Russian that I can’t understand.

I walk across the street, pulling the key from my pocket and opening the door. As soon as I do, however, Truman barks, a low, menacing sound that I’ve never heard before, and panic skips through my chest as he hurtles through the house at breakneck speed.

“Mom?” I shout loudly, stepping inside and shutting the door behind me as the cats swarm around my feet.

“Oliver?”

Her voice sounds strained, and before I know it, I’m running to find her, following Truman’s barking.

When I reach the living room, my heart in my throat, I find my mother lying on the floor, her walker several feet away from her, and blood on her head.

“Jesus, Mom!” I shout, memories storming my mind as I lurch toward her.

I found her like this so many times when I was young. My father never held back when he beat her, and every time I would walk into a room and wonder if I would find my mother’s dead body.

I fall to my knees beside her. “Can you get up? Are you alright?”

“Oh, Oliver, I’m such an idiot,” she says. She’s cold to the touch, and I drag a thick blanket from the back of one of the chairs and throw it over her.

“Don’t move,” I say urgently. “What happened?”

“Oh, I was walking to the stairs, I just needed a glass of water, and I tripped. The walker went flying, and I couldn’t get up. It’s my back.”

I swallow, throat tight with alarm as I glance around the room.

“Where’s Natalia?”

“She has the day off,” she says, and then her hand takes mine, squeezing gently. “It’s alright, Ollie, I’m okay.” It’s the same tone of voice she used when I was little. I knew back then she wasn’t okay just as surely as I know now.

“I’m calling an ambulance.”

“No, no, I don’t want a fuss.”

“Don’t argue, I’m calling them. You need medical attention. What happened to your head?”

“My head?”

“It’s bleeding.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I might have hit the chair on my way down.”

“Did you pass out?” I ask, my palms sweating as I dial 911.

“I don’t know.”

“It’s okay, Mom. We’ll get you looked at, it’s okay.” I say, but my voice is shaking, and I feel as if I’m fourteen again, the thud of my father’s footsteps stomping away from the damage he created as I creep into their bedroom and try to shake my mother awake.

Truman is sniffing around her gently, and as the phone starts to ring, he lies beside my mother, nuzzling at her neck, her wrinkled hand coming up to smooth over his glossy coat.

I sit beside her, holding her hand, and wait for the ambulance to arrive as anxiety spirals through me, consuming every cell in my body.

“Well, your mother had a bit of a tumble,” the doctor says as we sit in the hospital room.

The doctor standing in front of me can’t be much older than twenty and looks bored to tears. He keeps talking over my mother as if she isn’t there, and I’m biting my tongue, seconds away from demanding to see someone else.