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He closed the doors, slid behind the wheel and looked into the mirror. “Back to the funeral home?” he asked. “No,” Shania said firmly. “Take us home.” “Yes, ma’am,” the chauffer replied and motored smoothly out of the cemetery and onto the city streets. “You can breathe now,” I whispered to Shania. She looked at me, and, for the first time that day I saw tears well up in her eyes. I pulled her close to me and put her head on my shoulder. “It’s okay, baby. You’re allowed to cry.” Apparently not one to wallow in her own sorrows, Shania collected herself within about three minutes. She sat upright in the seat, pulled a compact out of her clutch, dabbed under her eyes for a few seconds, snapped the compact closed and replaced it in the tiny black purse. She stared straight ahead for the remainder of the ride to our apartment complex. When the driver opened her door, she swung her legs out and was gone. I grabbed my own door latch and launched myself out of the limo. I slipped the driver. The M.D. writes a handful of prescriptions for each of them, gives them each a couple of shots, and she says they need at least 72 hours bed rest. I take Danielle and Kimberly back to their apartment, put them to bed, and get busy. Over the next three days I clean their apartment, vacuum, dust, and do the dishes. I wash some of their laundry, feed their cat, empty out the litterbox, and take out the trash. I do some minor handyman tasks — replace burnt-out light bulbs, tighten loose screws, oil squeaky door hinges, repair the constantly running toilet. I run errands for them — I have their prescriptions filled, I take Danielle’s Mini Cooper in for service, I pickup their dry-cleaning, and I buy groceries. I sleep on their couch and nursemaid them both back to health. I cook some of Danielle’s favorite foods for them — homemade shrimp gumbo, chicken and dumplings, etouffee, red beans and rice with andouille sausage. Danielle and Kimberly both eat a little food and watch a little bit.
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