The Janitor's Wife by Davis L. G

Author:Davis, L. G. [Davis, L. G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: thriller, Mystery
Amazon: B091NF7XZG
Goodreads: 57661272
Publisher: L.G. Davis
Published: 2021-04-11T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

I lower Jenna back into her crib and run out of the nursery. On my way back to the bathroom, I call 911.

I’m moving so fast that I slip on the wet tiles. I’m not sure how water got to the floor. Lavinia must have gotten out of the bathtub while I was washing dishes.

Jenna is screaming, but I can’t comfort her right now. Not yet. I need to help her mother.

Even though Lavinia is not moving under the water, I force myself not to think of the worst.

Holding back a scream, I slide my hands under her upper body and pull her up. All the oils and soap I poured into the water make it hard for me to keep hold of her.

“Lavinia,” I call repeatedly.

When she still doesn’t respond, panic riots within me.

“Sweetie, please, say something. Talk to me.”

My lungs are screaming with exhaustion when I get her out of the bathtub and onto the tiles.

With my mind in total disarray, it’s hard for me to remember the first aid course I took years back. It was such a long time ago that the memories come to me only in fragments.

I bring my lips to Lavinia’s and attempt to breathe air into her lungs. My tears drip from my eyes onto her face, mixing with the water on her skin.

After a few seconds, I place my palms on her chest and press several times before returning my lips to hers. Is she even getting enough air from me? I’m also gasping for oxygen.

When I catch my breath, I hear the voice of the 911 dispatcher on the line. She’s trying to speak to me, asking me questions. I tell her that Lavinia is not breathing and beg her to send someone quickly.

“They’ll be there soon,” she promises, but every second counts.

She encourages me to continue performing CPR on Lavinia. I hate the sound of her voice. She sounds too calm while my friend is dying.

Unable to answer any more of her questions, I quit responding and focus on Lavinia.

Five minutes later, the doorbell rings, the sound merging with Jenna’s cries.

When the paramedics enter the house, I step aside so they can save Lavinia.

I clutch my hands together as I stand outside the door, watching them trying to bring her back.

I can’t take it anymore, so I move away and wander around the hallway. Jenna is still crying, but I can’t face her right now. I don’t know how to look her in the eyes knowing her mother is on the brink of death—or worse, dead already—and it’s my fault.

One paramedic, a woman with an Afro bun, approaches me. She asks if she can help me with anything and I ask her to get Jenna. I’m too scared to hold her when I’m shaking so much.

I follow them downstairs to the kitchen and get the bottle I prepared earlier. Only then do I trust myself to take the baby from the woman’s arms and sit with her on the couch to feed her.

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