Chapter 20: The Stick

Dani's hand came out of the purse with the white stick in it.

She dragged it under one eye, fast, and the tears came harder.

"Tony," I said. "Get him."

My brother wrenched the front door open and ran down the walk.

My father shouted after him, "Where are you going? Call an ambulance!"

"He's going to," I said. "The right kind."

Dani's other hand was already up for the second eye.

My great-uncle was faster than anyone in that room had given him credit for.

He rose from his chair, took two steps on his bad hip, and closed his hand around her wrist.

"Let me see that, young lady."

"Let go! I'm sick!"

"I know. Let me see."

He twisted the stick out of her fingers.

He held it up to the light, and he got his glasses out of his pocket and put them on his nose.

"What does this say?" he asked the room. "The small print on the bottom."

Nobody answered.

He read it himself.

"Theatrical tear stick. Menthol. For stage use only."

He smelled it.

"Mint," he said.

My mother had not moved from the carpet.

Her arm was still around Dani's back.

"Migraine balm," my mother said, in a thin voice. "She said it was for migraines."

The front door banged.

Eli came in with a black bag over his shoulder and his coat open.

My brother was behind him, out of breath.

Eli looked at the room once.

Then he knelt on the carpet beside Dani and took her wrist.

"I'm a nurse," he said. "Dani, can you tell me where it hurts?"