REALITY

I found Flo lying on the carpeted closet floor, stark naked, in a twisted odd position. The way she was lying was better than what I had expected. My banging on her front door, as hard as I could, bruised my hand. There was no response except by a neighbor to tell me to stop the noise. Trying the door knob I found it turned. This was not like Flo. My heart was palpitating erratically as I walked into the apartment, tip-toed thru the foyer. No Flo. She wasn’t in the den, dining room, kitchen. The more places she wasn’t, the more frightened I was. I dreaded finding her bloody, twisted body in one of the bedrooms.

 

The guest room door was shut, which warned me, ‘Don’t open that door.’ But I had to open it and stood there shaking like a newly hatched bird.  My hand almost froze, didn’t want to turn that knob, but I did it slowly, then gently pushed it a bit wider with my foot, saw the bedspread still neatly on one of the twin beds. No Flo.

 

Most of the apartment had been checked. All I had left was the master bedroom, dressing area, closet and master bath. Dr. Phil  was spouting his own form of wisdom on the t.v.  The night table lamp was on. Flo had to be here someplace. The dressing room was empty  although make-up had not been put in the drawer. No Flo.

 

My eyes saw blood everywhere, running down the walls, over Flo’s chopped up body. ‘Don’t look in the closet, don’t, don’t!’  an inner voice said to me. I looked, had to look and that is when I found her with her eyes open but not seeing me. My knees buckled as I dropped to the floor, took her hand and called loudly, ‘Flo, Flo, talk to me. What happened?’ Her head turned. Her eyes blinked. In an unfamiliar voice, she asked, ‘What are you doing here, Irene?’

 

The strikingly beautiful friend I’ve had for twenty-five years was a stranger. I thought at once of the old movie about Shangri La. The beautiful young female left the Eden of her home and instantly was caught by the devil and became old, so very old that she was a dying hag. Flo’s always coiffed, short hair needed color to cover the gray I’d never seen. Her svelte body evaporated and had lumps and hanging folds. Manicured fingernails were broken.

 

I grabbed a clean heavy towel off a rack to cover her. She pushed it away and mumbled, ‘Big robe-big robe.’ There was only a silk negligee on a hanger. ‘Leave me alone. I’m resting. Go away.’  My hand reached hers so that I could get her to her feet but there was no cooperation and she just laid there like a dead fish.

 

Help came unexpectedly. A neighbor in the next apartment found Flo’s door open, heard the t.v. blaring and saw us in the closet. It took us many tries to get Flo on her wobbly legs and into her bedroom to lie down. ‘What are you doing here? Why am I in bed?

 

Isn’t it still morning? Make Dr. Phil louder.’ Bess and I realized we were pretty stupid. We should not have gotten Flo up. Maybe she fell and broke something. Why didn’t we call 911 immediately? Flo overheard us and asked why we should have called 911. ‘Whose been hurt?’ she asked. ‘Flo you were lying on the floor naked. That’s why.’

 

That got Flo angry. ‘I  told you I was only resting. You are both a pain in my neck. I’m O.K. go home.’ Bess and I did a twin reluctant shrug and left.

 

I crossed the parking lot, went upstairs to my own apartment, had a glass of sherry as I tried to believe what I has just been thru was a dream. Exhaustion over-took me and so did sleep. It took time for me to realize the noise in my ears was the jangling of my phone. A quivering voice wailed, ‘Come back, Irene. Come back now. I’ve called an ambulance myself. Something is happening to me and I’m scared. My arm is shaking and I can’t hold it still. Hurry.’

 

Hurry? I almost flew. The ambulance had just pulled in front of Flo’s building. The medics told me to stay downstairs, out of their way. I got on a separate elevator and was able to tell them exactly where I had left Flo. She wasn’t there. They and a gurney found her naked on the closet floor. She looked at them and told them in no uncertain terms to get the hell away from her and let her rest.

 

I stayed out of the way while they checked her pressure, pulse, spoke to her softly to ease her fear, and 1,2, 3 lifted her onto the gurney, onto the elevator and into the ambulance. The door closed but I could still hear her shouting, ‘Leave me alone. I’m only resting!’ Flo was hospitalized for two weeks. She had had a stroke. Her mind wandered and her speech was slurred.

 

The last thing I ever heard her say was, ‘Go home. I’m fine.’