on that cold tile floor for almost thirty-six hours.
“Another day,” the paramedic told me quietly as they carried her down the stairs on a stretcher, “and I don’t think she’d have made it. Dehydration. Hypothermia. At her age.” He shook his head.
“You found her just in time.”
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I rode with her in the ambulance. Nobody told me I could. Nobody told me I couldn’t. I just climbed in, and the paramedic looked at me, and he didn’t say anything.
At the hospital, they asked me if I was family.
“No,” I said. “
I’m her cleaner.”
The nurse gave me a strange look. “Is there family we should call?”
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I called Susan in Oregon. I had her number because it was on a list taped inside the cabinet by the phone, in Mrs. Whitaker’s perfect cursive. In case of emergency.
