Everybody Here Has a Sick Foot
Jamie rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stretched his arms and legs in the lazy fashion of a cat upon waking. Shafts of warm August sun lit the corner of his room. It looked to be another lazy summer day. Yet something troubled him. The house was eerily still. He didn't hear the usual sounds of his mother downstairs, nor the radio. Neither did he smell her freshly brewed coffee wafting through the house. He glanced at his alarm clock. It was nearly eight-thirty, much too late for her to be asleep. She was always the first one up, especially on Saturdays. Now, fully awake, he hopped out of bed, pulled on his jeans, and stepped into the hallway. There on the landing, he found his mother lying on her side like a ragdoll, her head twisted at an odd angle. Her eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
"Mom! Mom!" he shouted, running to her. "Get up!" he urged, tugging her arm. "What's wrong? Please get up!"
But she didn't answer, nor did she move, no matter how much he shook her, or how loud he shouted. They were alone in the house. His father and younger brother had gone camping the night before, leaving Jamie behind to compete in the season's final swim meet.
Her pale, almost gray, complexion and clammy skin frightened him, and he began crying. When he couldn't rouse her, he ran to the phone and quickly dialed 911. "Hurry! My mother's on the floor and she isn't moving," he said between sobs.