Slip

To Mum

Slip

The door to the nursing home swung open faster than Emily had estimated, slamming into the already paint-chipped wall. She rushed through the door, passing an old lady mopping the floor.

"Slowly, dear, you'll slip," a frail voice said.

Emily heard the warning too late and felt her feet slip from under her.

The old woman approached, holding out a hand, and helped Emily to her feet again. "I did tell you to slow down," she said.

"Yes, yes, you did. Thanks," Emily said. She let go of the lady's hand and smoothed down her suit jacket.

"Are you hurt?" the old lady asked.

"Um . . . no—no." For a split second, Emily forgot what she was doing there. Was it for work? She blinked rapidly. Or to visit someone? Yes—to visit, although she struggled to remember who. "Er, I'm here to see . . ." Why can't I remember? And then, as if someone had answered the question in her mind, she knew. "Abigail," she said triumphantly. "Abigail Neville. Can you tell me what room she's in?" She rubbed the back of her head.

Emily watched as the tiny lines that traced the old lady's face deepened. She wasn't sure if the woman's expression was of concern or perhaps trapped wind. After all, she looked very old.

"Is your head OK, my dear?" the woman asked. "Did you hit it when you slipped? I'm a first-aider; I can take a look. Here, sit." She pointed to a bench next to the reception desk.

Why do I want to see Abigail? Emily found herself thinking, ignoring the old lady's first aid offer. She squeezed her eyes tight, then opened them with new clarity. She wanted to know why Abigail had kept it all a secret.

"No. Thanks—I'm fine, really," Emily insisted. "So, Abigail Neville—what room, please?"

A delightful smile replaced the woman's concern. "Are you her daughter?"

"Um, no, I'm her—" She stopped. She could have sworn the old lady had just twitched, like a glitch in her vision. Emily squeezed her eyes shut again and reopened them. Maybe she had hit her head.

Emily noticed the old lady angling her ear toward her as if to hear better. "She's just moved here from Sun Life," Emily continued, "and I—"

"Who, dear? Abigail?"

Emily's phone vibrated, indicating yet another work email. It was Mark, her boss. He wanted to know if she had won the contract or not. She swiped her finger across the screen before answering the woman. "Yes!" Emily said, typing a short reply back to Mark.

I'M HERE NOW, TEXT YOU SOON.

She slid her phone back into her pocket and suddenly felt confused. Was she there for the contract or Abigail? The thought of work faded, and Abigail came back to the forefront of her mind.

"My dear, Abigail's been here six months now." The old woman shook her head. "She hasn't had any visitors, so she'll be pleased to see you—where's your mum?" She looked at Emily's phone, then at Emily. Her stare felt intrusive.

A sharp pain cut across Emily's eye, and she winced. "With respect, I'm not sure if that is any of your business," she said, stepping back. The woman flickered like a hologram, and Emily looked away before adjusting her sight again.

"Are you sure you're OK, dear?"

"Fine—I'm fine." She pressed her fingers hard against the side of her head. "So what room?"