Page 6 of The Botanist's Assistant
Margaret starts to protest, but the idea of curling up onthe floor and taking a nap sounds exactly like something she wants to do.
She closes her eyes as capable hands maneuver her head to the ground, slide something under her knees to elevate them above her heart and tug off her gloves. Warm fingers take hold of her wrist and settle on her pulse point.
“What have you had to eat or drink today?” the voice asks.
Margaret considers. “Oatmeal?”
Is that the wrong answer?
“I want you to stay still, take slow deep breaths and I’ll see what I can find,” the voice says. The command is oddly soothing.
Margaret does as she’s told. The floor is hard but cool. Maybe she will stay here all night.
There are footsteps, the clack of cupboard doors opening and closing. The voice is back.
“I couldn’t find anything, but I have some tea and cookies in my cart. Do you think you’re OK to try to sit up?”
Margaret opens her eyes. The man is kneeling next to her. The scar on his face is a network of white ridges against pink skin. Like bare-root roses. A name tag on his shirt announcesJoeand, under it, the wordCustodian.
He must be a fairly recent hire. The former janitor had looked close to a hundred years old, which is why Margaret sometimes took it upon herself to come in on Saturdays and clean the breakroom. So what if people complained about the coffee tasting faintly of vinegar on Monday? Did they not understand how much mold could grow in warm, damp environments like coffeemakers?
She senses the janitor waiting on her answer. Suddenly,she feels ridiculous lying on the floor. She is not some helpless baby.
“I’m fine now,” she says, and starts to get up.
“Slow,” says this Joe fellow. “How about we just sit for a while.”
Margaret thinks:What’s with the “we”?
But there’s the custodian, Joe, pulling a thermos and a small sandwich bag of cookies from his janitorial cart and plunking down next to her.
He smells like floor wax and bleach. Margaret rearranges her skirt around her legs, crosses her ankles and takes a sip of tea. It’s hot, wonderful. She eats a cookie while he watches. She doesn’t like people watching her eat but she supposes it’s the price one must pay when someone finds you splayed on the floor and decides to help.
“Better now?” this Joe asks.
“Yes. The tea was very good.”
“You’re working late.”
Margaret looks at her watch. How did it get to be nine fifteen p.m.?
“I need to leave.”
She thinks of the forty-five-minute drive home. At least there won’t be traffic. Although what does it matter? She probably won’t sleep anyway.
Joe tips his head toward her coat. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Margaret starts to say no. She’s not the kind of person to talk about herself, to broadcast her troubles or let her feelings show. Somehow, however, Margaret finds herself telling thisJoe fellow about Dr. Deaver and how she found him and that she has no idea what comes next.
Joe is quiet for a few minutes. “You know what they say about war?”
Margaret shakes her head.
“That the first casualty is always the plan you make. I think maybe it’s better to wait and let things spool out. Sometimes, an answer comes. Sometimes, it doesn’t. But time always moves on, which means we do too.”
He stands and holds out a hand. “Here, let me help you up. I’ll walk you to your car.”
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