Enslaved

I had to hurry home for lunch last Thursday and make sure Emily was okay. 

Emily, who had just left her marriage, was spending time alone at her father's beach house in the Florida Keys grieving for the baby daughter she'd lost to sudden infant death.  I thought it wasn't prudent of her to live in such an isolated neighborhood wihout a gun or at the very least, a can of pepper spray.  What if some hairy monster came into her house at night?  Or one of the migrant groundskeepers who passed her on her morning runs?  Or some whacko psycho-killer with a penchant for steak knives?

Sure enough it was the psycho killer.

I told her not to step into the neighbor's yard.   Yelled at her not to.  She wouldn't listen.  She had to peek into the trunk of that red mercedes where a dead blonde lay in a pool of blood.  Next thing I knew, it was 7:30 time for work and Emily had been stuck over the head with a two-by-four. 

Bam!

I spent the morning staff meetings worrying about her.  I wished I had been able to text someone who could have read the rest the "Gingerbread Girl" (from Stephen King's short story collection, Just After Sunset) and let me know whether or not Emily would make it.  Cut to the chase.  Put me and her out of our respective miseries.  No such luck.  I had to drive all the way home for an express read and a microwaveable lunch.

But things got worse.  A lot worse.  I-am-going-to-pee-in-my-pants-if-this-doesn't-stop worse.  And once again I had to go back to work knowing that Emily would be running for her life throughout my afternoon business meetings, the evening commute and the yoga session where I couldn't medidate for the life of me.  How could I concentrate on my breathing with a psycho killer at her slender heels? 

I drove from the yoga studio with a racing heart, ignored the mail and picked up the book instead of the usual pots and pans.  Dinner be damned, I had to know. 

I won't spoil the end (but it's juicy). 

A couple of years ago, I read a Stephen King interview in which he said he wrote to enslave his readers.  Enslaved I was.   For a whole day.  Tickled scared like a kid who'd been held down by the ankles and shaken silly by her older sibling.  And I wanted more.  More, more, please!

As soon as I got done with Emily, I turned to the next page and started reading about Harvey.   Oh, don't even get me started with Harvey!  He should have never picked up that phone...

Comments

[Sandi]

Thanks for the chuckle! How fun to get absorbed in someone else's life and escapse one's own for a while.

[Sandi]

Thanks for the chuckle! How fun to get absorbed in someone else's life and escapse one's own for a while.