It was a Thursday when I met her. I remember because I should have been at work. Instead, I was hiding out at my townhouse while the weather waged war on us petty humans with an unrelenting assault of rain.
The deluge had begun on Monday, and showed no intention of allowing the drenched earth a chance to be anything other than mud. A sudden downpour like this wasn't that odd for Alabama in July. At least it wasn't to me.
My cousin's birthday was in two days. Every year, without fail, a tsunami would converge upon Birmingham and drown any plans his mother might have made for an outdoor party.
This year, along with putting the kibosh on my teenage cousin's birthday celebration, the weird weather had decided to wreak havoc on my sinuses. Well, to be fair, the blame didn't rest entirely with the dreary climate outside.
A couple of my workaholic coworkers had come down with some crud, and decided their deadlines were more important than the possible spread of the germs that were inoculating in their phlegm-filled chests. They also seemed to have a severe aversion to Kleenex, hand sanitizer and personal space.
So yours truly had some hybrid flu, sinus infection, with a side of strep all because my overbearing boss "discouraged" the use of sick time. As if a cold could be wrangled into submission because you told it work was more important than its very basic need to infect a host and multiply.
Whatever this infection was had in no uncertain terms told my immune system to go fuck itself . . . hard. My eyes were watery and itchy. My throat felt like someone had taken a Brillo pad to it. And some wiry little hobbit had obviously snuck his way into my sinuses and wedged a vice grip in there.
When my phone heralded me awake at six a.m., I knew sitting at my soul-sucking job for eight hours would be impossible. After I'd rubbed the crust out of my eyes, and hacked up something that resembled an alien lifeform, I dialed my boss' number.
He gave me some bullshit about quotas and the proximity of my upcoming performance evaluation. I'm sure I sounded like Elmer Fudd after he'd had a few. And I coughed between every syllable I tried to pronounce. But from his tone with me that day, he didn't buy that I was within spitting distance of death's door.
"Bellamy," he'd said, all low and serious like we were discussing the future of the free world, instead of my desire to spend the day in bed. "I wouldn't want you to jeopardize your health. But I hope you realize the opportunity you have with this company."
Right. The opportunity. Another twenty years of cold-calling senior citizens, asking if they were satisfied with their Medicare Part-B health coverage, and I could be manager of the entire department. Two decades more, and I'd be on easy street. As easy as a fifty thousand dollar a year job would allow.
In the year that I'd worked that miserable job, I had never missed a day. And the one time, I called out with a legitimate excuse, he gave me a hard time. Any other day, I would have sucked it up and gone into the office. If he had been understanding, I likely would have done just that. But his suspicion did away with the sense of duty I felt to my job, even though I despised it.
As the ring in my ears gained bravado, I gathered my voice and told Mr. Opportunity that I would also be taking off Friday. When he rebutted that, in the nicest way my pounding mind could fathom, I informed him that he could go do to himself what the infection had done to my white blood cell count, and hung up the phone.
On the bright side, my affliction had reinforced my backbone. The people-pleaser in me was too sick to give a shit that I had just created a dissatisfied customer. I hoped that when Monday rolled around I'd feel better. And I'd still have a job.
But right then, all that mattered was sleep. I had given myself an almost lethal dose of NyQuil laced with several other over-the-counter cold meds, turned off every electronic device in the house, and cranked my space heater up to roast.
Just as I began to drift off, the revival of Stomp commenced on my porch. Whomever it was had interrupted what promised to be some of the best sleep of my life with their incessant banging on my front door, and the simultaneous ringing of my poor doorbell.
It took a few minutes for me to force myself from the warmth of my covers, and touch my feet to the frigid hardwood floor. Another couple minutes passed while I muttered every curse word imaginable, and rooted around the underside of my bed with my foot in search of my other shearling-lined moccasin.
By the time I dragged my feet to the door, and bellowed 'who is it?' with enough bass to shake the Superdome, she was at the window adjacent to the door with something blunt in her hand. Who the hell was this crazy person?
"Open up!" She screamed from the other side. "It's the friendly neighborhood watch, motherfucker!"
I grabbed the nearest weapon I could find, which happened to be my umbrella, and flung open the door like John McClane on speed. "Are you insane? It's seven o'clock in the morning."
"Exactly! I'm supposed to be on my way to work." She bent to point out an obvious bite mark on her right leg. "But your mangy mutt decided to maul me on my front lawn!"
As if on cue, the culprit of the alleged crime, trotted up onto the porch behind the woman. Jaxon, a black and white lab, whom we rescued two years ago from a kill shelter. He paused to evaluate the woman with an indifferent nod, before skirting past me and into the house.
"You see how he just eyeballed me?" She thrusted an accusatory finger in his direction. "That thing needs to be put down."
Maybe our canine innocence project had granted the wrong dog a stay of execution.
"I'm so sorry. He's usually such a nice dog." I clasped my hands together and grimaced like I was expecting a rap across my knuckles. Memories from my days of pleading with stoic nuns sprang to mind.
At that moment, I would have deserved a reprimand from Sister Tyrell. That second line was a lie and I knew it. Jaxon had elected me his chew toy on several occasions. And the mutt seemed to take a sick pleasure in doing so. But I didn't want to add fuel to her rage by citing prior evidence of his misconduct.
"Of course, he is," she muttered, examining her leg. "That's what every dog owner claims, when in reality they're harboring Cujo."
Her examination of her injury called my attention to it as well. It wasn't a small nick. Jaxon left an almost complete casting of his canines on her skin. Bright crimson ribbons trickled down her ankle and pooled beneath her bare foot.
I wondered where her other shoe was, and then I spotted the four-inch heel in her hand. That must have been the projectile I glimpsed before I opened the door. She was set to hurl her shoe at my window. And from the fire she was breathing at present, I'm sure the throw would have packed some heat.
I groaned to myself. My head was still beating like a drum, having only been dulled by my sedative and cough suppressant cocktail. And now that damn dog, that I didn't even want, had dropped a possible lawsuit on my doorstep.
Retiring my weapon to its usual spot in the vase by the side table, I decided that I should make some attempt to smooth things over with her. I was sure there were at least a couple band-aids and some expired ointment in the house. The least I could do was clean her leg.
"Please, come inside." I stood back and opened the door wide enough for her to enter. "Let me take a look at it."
She studied me through narrowed eyes. One side of her sleek bob fell into her face. She whipped her head to the side in a defiant motion, effectively putting the disobedient hair back in its place. Still brandishing her heel, she looked past me into the house.
"I'm not stepping foot in there, until that killer is locked up."
I nodded and went in search of Jaxon. After calling his name as loud as my scorched throat would allow, and getting no response, I found him lying in the middle of my bed. Soaked through and through from the downpour outside, he decided my cotton sheets were the perfect place to get dry, as usual. He never seemed to find Walker's bed after one of his romps through nature.
Once I herded the canine offender out of my bedroom, and into the laundry room at the rear of the house, I shuffled back to the front door. She was still standing there, fuming and bleeding. And yet, she somehow managed to look sophisticated. I suddenly felt wildly inferior in my gray sleep shirt and pajama pants.
"He's been kenneled," I said, attempting a smile.
She didn't return the sentiment. Instead she floated through the door, and glowered at me through her thick lashes.
"Just um . . . have a seat anywhere. I'll be right back." I deposited her in the kitchen, and headed toward the master bedroom.
Pushing open the door to my en suite bathroom, I kicked a couple discarded towels out of the way and dodged sticky spots of mystery substances. It might have made a bit more sense to bring Jaxon's victim in there with me. But Walker had been using my bathroom that week since the shower in his was broken.
Naturally, instead of paying a visit to Home Depot, he opted to invade my personal space. Now that I think about it, the shower may not have been broken. I never bothered to check. He likely made up that excuse just for the opportunity to annoy me.
Either way, the place wasn't presentable. Plus, my bedroom was brimming with whatever illness had me in its grip. I didn't want a stranger traipsing through my intimate space, certainly not one who looked like her.
I fumbled my way back to the kitchen, with the meager first aid kit in hand, and an even heavier fog weighing down my head. When I reached the threshold, she was bent over her leg, dabbing at it with a napkin.
"Here, let me get that." I produced a piece of gauze and soaked it with some peroxide.
She kept her eyes on me while I tended to her ankle. I looked up from my work and caught her gaze. Deep amber, like pure maple syrup, her eyes were. They curved slightly upward at the outer corners, seeming to be competing with her high cheekbones.
My friend, Honora, would have labeled her blasian. A term she loved to use when describing someone who looked to be of black and asian descent. She could have been of mixed descent. At that moment, however, all I could think about was how mesmerized I was by her eyes.
A rather intense coughing spell struck me then. I excused myself and tried to find a glass of water.
"Are you all right?" she asked, coming toward me.
I turned and gestured for her to stay back. Jaxon had already tried to infect her with whatever strain of doggie assholery he suffered from. I couldn't have her contracting my cooties as well.
Fighting my blurred vision, I found a glass and filled it from the tap. I was able to take one sip of the tepid water, before the glass fell from my hand and shattered on the floor. And then all at once, I followed the way of my drink.
On the bright side, I would never have to wonder what hitting my face on travertine tile felt like.