Fuzzy Navel

“Jacqueline!”

No answer.

A feeling of dread unlike any she’s ever experienced drops over her like a shroud. Without giving it a second thought she grabs a flashlight from the bathroom closet and rushes into the hallway.

“Be careful,” Harry says after her. “Keep low.”

Mary doesn’t bother doing either. She moves as fast as she can, hurrying into the bedroom. Jacqueline is on floor, beside the bed. Her eyes are closed. Her hair is soaked with blood.

Oh no. Oh no no no no.

Mary kneels next to her daughter and directs the light onto the wound, her hands trembling. She can’t see the injury – there’s too much blood. Mary grabs a pillow, pulls off the case, uses that to mop at the spot that’s bleeding.

It’s a deep gash, three inches long, an inch wide. Mary presses the fabric to Jacqueline’s scalp, pulls it away, and can see her daughter’s skull bone, a startling white, before the blood begins to flow again. The bullet must have grazed her head, digging a trench in her skin. Thank God the bullet didn’t strike an inch lower.

Mary’s relief is short-lived, because the blood keeps coming. She estimates Jacqueline has already lost close to a pint, and she’s still pumping it out. Mary wraps the already-soaked pillowcase around her daughter’s head, tying it under her chin like a babushka. In the bathroom, there’s a first-aid kit. She could go and get it, then come back, but she’s unsure if the kit will be enough to stop the bleeding. Better to bring Jacqueline into the bathroom. Then Harry could help.

Keeping low, Mary pulls the comforter off the bed, and then the sheet beneath it. She lays the sheet on the floor, and with a deep grunt she rolls Jacqueline on top of it, placing the flashlight on her daughter’s chest. The effort leaves Mary gasping for air, but she doesn’t pause, instead crawling to the foot of the sheet and grasping it as hard as she can in her arthritic hands. Then she scoots back on her butt and pulls.

Pain, like sparks, shoots from Mary’s knuckles, up her arms, where it meets with other pain from her shoulders and back. Mary grits her teeth, squeezes her eyes shut, and fights against the pain. Arthritis produces a deep ache, like a migraine in the bones. Mary takes drugs to control the worst of it, even though they make her dizzy. She’s missed her last pill. The agony is worse than childbirth. Worse than a toothache.

Jacqueline slides across the carpeting, about a foot.

Mary doesn’t rest. She scoots back again, takes a deep breath, and pulls.

Another foot.

And another.

And another.

She reaches the bedroom doorway, her whole body shaking. The pain in her knuckles has become so bad that she’s moaning. She can’t make a fist anymore, so she wraps the sheet around her hands, around her wrists, which presses her inflamed knuckles together.

Pull.

Pull.

Pull.

“You’re almost there, Mom!” Harry shouts. “Just a little more!”

To take her mind off the agony, Mary thinks about Jacqueline’s birth, of holding her for the first time and saying, “Hello, my angel. I’m your mother. I’m going to be taking care of you, for the rest of my life.”

How those words meant so much to Mary, because she’d given up her previous child. How she swore to keep that promise, even if she lived to a hundred.

Pull.

Hurry.

Pull.

Save your daughter.

Pull.

The most important job anyone can ever have is being a mother. Remember your promise. Now dig deep and move it, old lady!

“Gotcha!”

Harry stretches out, touches Mary’s shoulder, then grabs a fistful of sheets. He tugs Jacqueline up to the bathroom, and they both muscle her through the door.

Mary tries to stand but she’s too weak. Her hands are screaming. She shoves the flashlight into her armpit, crawls to the closet, finds the first-aid kit, fights with the damnable zipper on the nylon case, and opens it up.

Inside are Band-Aids, antibacterial ointment, smelling salts, packets of Tylenol, gauze pads, cotton balls, an Ace bandage, and various other items. Mary selects a roll of white medical tape.

“Harry, get this roll started.”

Harry picks at the end, trying to get his fingernails under it. He manages, and Mary tears off a strip with her teeth, the only part of her body that still works. She crawls back to her daughter.

Jacqueline is still unconscious, but she’s panting. Mary feels her heart, and it’s like she has a hummingbird trapped in her rib cage.

“She’s hyperventilating.”

“Tachycardia,” Harry says. “She’s going into hypovolemic shock.”

Mary stares at him. “What does that mean?”

“She’s lost so much blood that her body isn’t getting oxygen, so her heart is pumping faster to compensate for it.”

“What do we do?”

“Stop the bleeding, and get her a transfusion. Then feed her some liquids.”

Mary stares at him, impressed.

Harry shrugs, says, “I’ve got the first three seasons of ER on DVD. Great show.”

Mary hands Harry the flashlight, then turns her attention back to her daughter. She soaks up some blood with a hand towel and then pinches the wound closed and tries to use the tape to keep the edges together. It doesn’t work; the blood comes too fast, getting on the adhesive so it won’t stick.

“I need another piece,” she says.

Harry follows her example and rips off a strip of tape with his teeth. Mary tangles the tape in Jacqueline’s hair, unable to stop the bleeding.

“Do you have a sewing kit?” Harry asks.

Mary holds up her gnarled hands. “I haven’t sewn in twenty years.”

“How about safety pins?”

Mary checks the first-aid kit, doesn’t find any safety pins. She has to go into her bedroom.

“Hold the towel,” she tells Harry. “Keep the pressure on. I’ll be right back.”

Mary takes the flashlight and hurries into the hallway, heading for her room. She finds the box of safety pins in her desk drawer. She also sees an inkjet refill kit for her computer printer and takes that as well.

When she gets back into the hallway, the shooting resumes.

Mary drops down to all fours, her old bones creaking with pain. Round after round hit the refrigerator, but none penetrate it. Mary guesses they’re using hollow points, or something similar. They must have night-vision scopes as well. And suppressors; the gunshots aren’t nearly as loud as they should be. Mary wishes she still had her father’s Winchester rifle – she’d be happy to show these men how to shoot.

The onslaught ends. Mary hopes that one of their neighbors heard the shots, called 911, but quickly dismisses the notion. Their neighbors all know that Jacqueline is a police officer. They won’t call the cops on a cop making too much noise.

Mary crawls back to the bathroom.

“Help me open these safety pins.”

Harry is almost as useless with his left hand as Mary is with both of her hands combined, and they drop pin after pin without getting one open. It’s an exercise in frustration, made unbearable because neither one of them is keeping pressure on Jacqueline’s wound, and the blood is just pouring out of her.

“Got one,” Harry says.

Mary grasps the open safety pin, holding it up like a rare jewel.

“Hold the light.”

Harry aims the beam while Mary goes to work on Jacqueline’s head. It’s slippery, hard to see, and neither the pin nor her hands want to cooperate. But Mary stays focused, fights the pain, and she gets the pin through both sides of her daughter’s gash.

Closing the safety pin is even harder than opening it. She pinches it, again and again, but it resists her every effort.

Jacqueline’s breath becomes shallow, weak. Mary wants to cry.

“Staples,” Harry says. “TV doctors use those all the time.”

That might work. Mary tries to stand, but she’s too weak. Harry helps her up.

“You can do it, Mom,” he says.