Eye of the Storm (Hudson 3)

Desperate now. I reached over and grasped my alarm clock. As best I could. I flung it out the door and into the hallway where it hit the far wall and bounced. It made a great deal of noise.

I listened.

Finally. I heard footsteps, but they were so slow and so weak sounding, more like an old person shuffling. I couldn't imagine them to be Aunt Victoria's footsteps. It seemed to take forever for her to reach the door, but she finally did. She was dressed in that ugly, faded pink robe and she was wearing what looked like man's leather slippers. She appeared more distraught and tired than I felt. Her hair looked like a pack of rats had run through it. Her eyelids drooped and her eyes were as dark as two pools of ink. Without her usual perfect, if not stiff posture: her sloping shoulders made her older. thinner. She moved as if her muscles and joints ached more than mine and for a moment I wondered if her efforts to get me off the driveway and back into the house hadn't exhausted her after all.

"What is it? What's going on now? I was asleep," she muttered.

"I want to get out of bed." I said. "I need my wheelchair and I want to get something to eat and drink. I'm parched."

She stood there, staring at me as if she hadn't heard a word. "Aunt Victoria, did you hear me?"

"Guess what came in the mail this afternoon,"" she said instead of answering.

She smiled and dipped her hand into the big robe's side pocket to produce what looked like a picture postcard. She held it up and waited as if she expected I would understand.

"Who's that from?" I asked. Was it from England or from Roy?

"From them. Who else? Who else would have the audacity, the nerve, to send me such a card? I'll read it to you."

"Aunt Victoria..."

"Dear Vikki," she began and then lowered the card and looked at me. "She likes to do that sometimes, call me Vikki like we're loving sisters and she can use a nickname. She knows I hate nicknames and always have. I never let anyone call me Vikki in school. I wouldn't answer, but she got them to do it just for a joke. She began again:

Dear Vikki,

I just couldn't help but send you this card so you could see how beautiful it is here. We are having a very nice time. It as if Grant and I are on our honeymoon. We're getting to know and love each other all over again.

I hope you're well.

Love, Megan

She lowered the card and the put it back into her pocket.

"Love Megan." she said. "They're getting to know and love each other all over again. You see? She always gets what she wants in the end." She laughed.

"Don't work hard. Cry at the first sign of unpleasantness, wilt in front of your man, bat your eyelashes, sulk and you'll get what you want in this life. That's the lesson to follow as long as men hand out the prizes.

"So why am I working so hard. right? Go on, ask me. Ask me," she commanded.

"I'm hungry and thirsty," I said. "Please push the chair up to the bed for me."

She smirked, shook her head and went for the chair. After she brought it to the bed, she shuffled out of my room and down the hallway.

"Got to get strong, got to get out," I chanted. My mantra gave me the strength to get myself into my robe and into the chair. As soon as I had. I wheeled myself out of the room.

I was truly surprised at how dark the rest of the house was. She hadn't bothered to turn on the hallway lights. I glanced at the office. The door was open and from the look of it inside. I imagined a single small lamp was lit and nothing else. I went to the kitchen, turned on the lights and began to prepare myself some supper.

As I worked and finally ate. I kept expecting her to appear, but she didn't until I had finished and put the dishe

s in the dishwasher. Eating and drinking restored some of my strength and energy. The cuts and bruises were at least only dull aches. I had just turned to start back to my room when I heard an unfamiliar click of heels in the hallway. The sound of the footsteps suggested someone full of energy. Who was here? I wished for my mother.

At first I didn't recognize her. My instant response to who is this was maybe she was someone from Aunt Victoria's office, maybe her secretary. It took a moment for me to get past all the changes and realize who it was.

I felt my own blood drain down toward my feet: a stinging sensation began behind my ears as my strength grew small, and I stared at the woman who seemed a stranger now, a distorted exaggeration of some fantasy.

Her hair had been rinsed in some coloring that had turned it into dry straw. Her face was caked in makeup to the extent that some of it flaked on her forehead. A bright red lipstick had been applied to those thin lips, making them look thick and wide, but clownish, too. The eyeshadow wasn't put on badly, but the false eyelashes just didn't fit and looked very artificial.

She wore high-heeled shoes which lifted her into the stratosphere. Drop earrings, gold with diamonds in their center, dangled to match the gold necklace. Her small bosom had been enhanced by one of those Wonder bras-- or something-- because she suddenly had cleavage, clearly visible in the low Vneck collar, tight dark blue cotton dress that was so snug it revealed her boner hips. The skirt of the dress was the shortest I had ever seen on her.