Oops, I've Fallen

Jaw hard, Ryan steps on the accelerator to speed down the tiny street and skids the Land Rover to a stop on the side of the outermost police car. There are more than five police officers on the front stoop of my mom’s house, all of them talking to one another with varying degrees of concentration, and half a dozen of their vehicles are scattered throughout the street and blocking its passage.

I unbuckle my belt quickly, shoving open the door with a tight lump in my throat and a sick ball of lead in my belly. Ryan follows suit—at least, I think—the sound of his door slamming shut behind mine barely even registering as I rush through the chaos toward the front door of my mom’s house.

My palms tingle and my heart pounds like I’m on the last leg of running my very first marathon. My legs feel as if they’ll go right out from under me if I let them.

The officer with his back to the front door notices my approach first since he’s facing my direction, and he puts one hand out and the other to his gun on reflex. I hate to say I understand, but I suppose I am barreling toward them while looking rather hysterical. I can’t see my own face, but I know without a shadow of a doubt, I look anything but rational or calm.

He shoves through the other officers as they notice him take a stance of alertness, and he holds up his hand toward me, palm out. “Whoa, easy, young lady. Calm down. What’s your name?”

I clamp my hands across my braless chest, the tatters of my ripped shirt tied together in the front making me feel exposed, and I beg them to give me some information. I don’t want to get sucked into the vortex of endless questions about me. I want to know if my mom is okay. If she’s hurt. If she’s scared.

“My-my mom. She lives here. I need to see her. Is she okay? Is she hurt? What happened? Why are there so many of you?” I ramble along frantically. I feel Ryan’s hand touch my shoulder, the familiarity shockingly powerful in identifying it’s him even without being able to see him.

“Stella Page is your mother?” one of the other officers asks, a trim mustache sitting perfectly above his top lip. I nod frantically and almost don’t notice when one of the other officers steps off the concrete pad of the stoop and into the lawn. Ryan’s hand leaves my shoulder as the officer orders, “Sir, step back.”

That, I’m afraid, I can’t miss. I glance back to him, momentarily worried that they’re misunderstanding the situation, but Ryan meets my eyes and mouths, “It’s okay.”

I turn back to the mustached officer and nod again. “Yes, yes. She lives here. Is she okay? Did she take another fall?”

“Is your name Carly Page?” the officer directly in front of me questions instead of answering, his eyebrows drawing together.

“Yes!” I answer impatiently. I just want to know if my mom is okay. I don’t know why they have to beat around the bush so much while I’m feeling like this. I need to know what’s happened to her.

Radio in hand, the mustache-sporting officer, Sgt. James, according to the tag on his shirt, puts his lips to his shoulder and reports obscurely, “We’ve got the girl. We’ve found the girl. I repeat, we’ve found the girl.”

“What?” I ask, looking between the men who seem to be completely unconcerned with telling me where my mother is or what’s happened to her. “What girl? I’m looking for my mom. Stella Page. She’s about this tall,” I say, holding up a hand to illustrate, “and she has blond, fluffed hair and bright-blue eyes and—”

I look up just as the glass storm door slams open, and Stella herself comes barreling through everyone to wrap me in her arms. I hug her back, the notion of seeing her alive and well and uninjured stunning me too much to do anything else.

“Mom,” I mumble into the thick of her shoulder.

“Carly, thank God!” my mom yells in my year so loud I cringe. “I thought you were taken! I thought I was going to have to use the rest of your father’s retirement money to hire Liam Neeson instead of getting my boobs re-lifted!”

I can’t say I’m proud of how confused I am, or the fact that my sexy Barney Fife really does have some sort of prowess in detective work, but I also can’t deny that Ryan catches on a whole lot quicker than I do to what’s really going on here.

“You thought Carly was missing?” he asks, his rich voice and the way it sounds when he uses it to say my name making my body spasm with some Pavlovian response to all of our sexual endeavors—especially last night and early this morning.