“I was gone for 20 minutes.”
“That was enough.”
“Greta,” Dorothy warned.
Alex knelt beside her. His hands trembled as he checked her ankle.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I should have told you not to come down here.”
“You did tell me,” Dorothy admitted. “Several times.”
He closed his eyes briefly, as though blaming himself anyway.
I called for help. While we waited, Alex placed a folded blanket beneath Dorothy’s leg and spoke to her in a quiet, steady voice.
“Stay with me, Dot. The paramedics are coming.”
“I am not dying,” she muttered.
“I know.”
“Then stop looking at me as if I am.”
His mouth tightened, and I realized he was fighting tears.
The paramedics determined that Dorothy had badly sprained her ankle but had not broken it. They carried her upstairs and settled her on the couch after she refused to go to the hospital.
Once they left, I turned on Alex.
“What is going on here?”
He looked at Dorothy before answering.
“She should tell you.”
Dorothy sighed. “Sit down, Greta.”
I remained standing.
“No. I have spent weeks wondering whether you were safe. You stopped answering my calls. He has a key to your house. You haven’t been outside, and your messages don’t even sound like you.”
“They weren’t mine,” she said.
My stomach dropped.
Alex raised both hands. “She asked me to send them.”
“Why?”
“Because I was ashamed,” Dorothy replied.
Her eyes lowered to her swollen ankle.
A month earlier, the delivery Alex brought to her had contained adult incontinence supplies. Dorothy had ordered them after several accidents, but she had been too embarrassed to tell me that her health was changing.
“When Alex arrived, the box had split open,” she explained. “Everything fell onto the porch.”
She had expected him to laugh or stare.
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