by Marni MacRae
She nods her head slowly, and my mind begins to race. She’s hurt, maybe she was in an accident and she was thrown from the car or she crawled from the wreck. I feel bad now for calling her a crazy chick.
“Do you need help?” I calculate the distance to the hospital in my head. I could be there in ten minutes, faster than dialing 911 and waiting.
She nods her head again and I hesitate. Should I approach her? Touch her? She’s up and walking around so clearly I don’t need a stretcher. But she still isn’t talking. Maybe she’s in shock…maybe she’s deaf, or mute, or… Oh hell, enough with the damn guessing.
“Do you speak?”
She looks confused for a moment, her brows drawing together as if she’s wondering the same thing. She lifts her chin suddenly and I catch a full view of her face. Lovely. A small pixie girl, she stands about five foot two, maybe three, and looks to be in her early twenties. Twenty-four. I put the number out there to settle the thought and keep my eyes on her. I had reached out my hand to her, wondering if she needed assistance, trying to encourage her trust. Man, we need to get out of this rain, get to the hospital…
“Yes,” her voice is soft and low for such a slight little thing, and I feel myself relax.
OK, she talks, not mute or deaf and possibly not crazy…
But with the word comes a sudden expression of confusion and fear. And then she screams.
Chapter 3
I can’t make sense of everything at once. I have an idea of me that fades as fast as it comes, flashing briefly like a memory of a dream, muddled but intense and intangible. I hear my scream shut off, and the strangest sense of clarity envelops me once again.
I know nothing. But this time, the emptiness comes with comfort, and although I cannot remember who I am, I grab onto that fiercely, for intuitively I sense that I don’t want to remember.
I am an empty shell.
When I awoke in the field I came into this emptiness with fear and frustration and pain. But the emptiness now feels calm and uncluttered. A relief. Simplicity. A clean slate. I wonder briefly how sullied my slate was prior to this cleaning, but only briefly. I can’t remember what only a moment ago made me cry out, but I do remember the emotion married to it. This is much better.
The man has his hands on me. He had leapt forward when I screamed, taking my upper arms in a firm grasp and leaning down to look at me. I think that says something about him. A man that rushes to a screaming woman he doesn’t know. I believe most would have stepped back, called for help, waited for someone else to bear the burden of a wet, wounded, screaming girl in the road. I feel grateful I didn’t scare him away.
He is still holding my arms, examining my face even though I am silent now.
“Will you come with me?”
He asks the question gently. I know he thinks I’m crazy and that’s OK. All signs point to crazy. I don’t blame him.
“Can I take you to a hospital, or call someone for you?”
He releases one of my arms and stands up straight from his stooping position, but he doesn’t take his eyes off mine.
I shake my head. No. No one to call. I’m relieved he is directing the conversation. My internal struggle and confusion would doubtless come out in a jumble of tearful pleadings.
I had stopped shivering for the minute it took for me to melt down and come back. But the cold is stronger than my crazy and I feel slight tremors shake me.
“Yes, please,” I answer his first question. “I would like to go to a hospital.”
The flash of relief I see on his face makes me feel guilty for trapping him in my need. I should have stood alongside the road. Then he could have stopped if he wanted to, or passed me by and let another traveler bear the burden of me. But he has offered and I accepted, and now he is guiding me to the passenger side of his big white truck. I promise myself to find some way to thank him for his kindness. I don’t want him to regret me.
The truck is warm and dry inside, and my body almost sighs at the touch of heated air. My fingers had begun to tingle with the cold, now as the warmth hits my frigid skin they tingle in a different way. A thawing and promise of returned sensation kind of tingle. I wiggle my toes, their frigid state beyond feeling, and clench and unclench my hands to encourage circulation. Blessed heated blood floods to the tips of me. I worry I will damage the interior of this warm cocoon but have no way to help my soaked state. I sit straight and try to make myself small, touch as little area as possible.
The man rounds the front of the truck and climbs into the driver’s seat. The engine is still running, and he turns to me as he pulls a strap over his shoulder.
“Buckle up.”
He nods to the strap on my right, and mimicking his movements, I turn to pull the silver buckle down over my shoulder, a strap joining it across my waist, and clasp the tongue to the buckle at my left hip. It feels strange to me to tie myself to the seat in such a way, to willingly restrain my body from movement as if I will misbehave. I say nothing though and watch as he pushes a lever that sticks up from the floor and works a pedal with his left foot.
Everything feels so foreign I stop myself from wondering at it all and resist asking questions. I know I am empty, but with each passing moment, that emptiness feels larger and larger. I don’t know me. I don’t know Ford or buckles. I think I should have something to offer, an experience to draw on that would help me make sense of all this. But the cavern in my mind echoes and the only thing that takes up space there are questions. So many questions.
The warmth inside the truck has begun to thaw my exposed skin. My clothing is so wet I don’t hold out any hope that I will thaw completely until I am dry. With the loss of the benefit of the cold numbing my wounds, my feet scream out in protest, each cut and scrape voicing its displeasure at the loss of its freezing medicine. I press my lips tightly together and hold back the whimper pushing to escape. This man was kind enough to stop for me, to offer aid, even after my screaming episode. I am determined to make the journey as quietly as possible. No whimpers. No outbursts. Perhaps if I remain quiet he won’t feel compelled to ask questions that may or may not strip away the security of my emptiness.
When I awoke amongst the corn my main emotion had been fear entangled with confusion. I had attacked the wall inside me with stubborn childlike fists. Begging why? And who am I? And why? a few more times. I wanted to know me, to have answers, or to wake up and this just be a dream, a trick of the talented mind. Now, though I haven’t exactly embraced the emptiness, I am beginning to settle into it. Something inside me, a deeper instinct than natural female intuitiveness, tells me to let it be. Perhaps not knowing is a gift.
Sitting in the warmth of the truck, allowing myself to relax minutely as my fingers regain some feeling, I decide to accept the offering my mind has forced upon me. One moment at a time. First, I need to be tended to, ask questions of someone who can give answers and that means a doctor, dry clothes, and water. I realize I am not only desperately thirsty, but my stomach clenches with a stray thought of food. Yes, I will let my mind rule, for now. Once I am on my feet, once I have my balance, I will attack the wall again.
The truck slows and turns off the highway, following a side street at the edge of what looks to be a small town farther along the tree-lined street. I can spot lights in homes and businesses winking on as the gloom of the late afternoon turns toward evening. The truck makes another turn, and it isn’t long before a blue sign with a large white H on it comes into view, pointing the way to our destination. The man has said nothing during the drive, keeping his eyes focused ahead of him, the brim of his hat shadowing his expression. I’m grateful he hasn’t asked me any questions. My answers would have been the same for each and would only frustrate me and confuse him.
We slow down outside of a large, two-story building and turn smoothly into a space between two vehicles as the man brings the truck to a stop and shuts off the engine. My anticipation at arriving and beginning my journey of questions is momentarily forgotten as my eyes are
drawn to all the vehicles parked around us.
There are so many. My wonderment at the large array spread around us has me gawking out the windshield into the field of car-flowers, brilliantly sprouting from the square lot as if planted in tidy rows.
The variety of colors amaze me. Hues that seem to defy nature’s palette sparkle and gleam in the slick, rain-coated, surfaces. Shades I couldn’t put a name to. I know I have so little inside me to draw upon, but I instinctively know the colors red, yellow, green, gray, even silver or pine-green feel natural. But some of the vehicles have a color tone that don’t appear to be of this world. An orange that is pale and iridescent, nothing like a pumpkin or autumn leaf. A soft green that is paler than new grass or creek moss and seems to have been mixed with silver to achieve that same iridescent shine. A small round-looking car outside my door is a bold yellow that not even the sun or a new daffodil could compete with.
My eyes take in the sight like candy, making me smile and lean toward the window to see the array of foreign colors better. I’m so taken with the bombardment of new sights that I don’t notice when the man slips out of the truck until I see him walking into view around the front. As he approaches my door I realize suddenly that I may not know the names of the color shades these automobiles are painted with, but I do know the references my mind used to try to make sense of them—daffodils, sunlight, autumn leaves, pumpkins.
I am not completely empty. I remind myself. The thought brings a wave of comfort, and I am smiling when the man opens the door, letting in chilly air and rain.
“Let me help you.” His voice has a comforting tone to it, a surety and strength that I find myself gravitating toward, and I set aside the distraction of colors and strange vehicles as I release my restraining strap and turn toward the cold.
Strong, sure hands reach toward me to lift me down to the pavement, and without thinking, I lean forward and place my hands on the man’s shoulders to steady myself. As he steps back, my body slides down the front of his, our wet clothing sticking to each other, and just before my injured feet touch the ground a warm thrill slides through my stomach making me gasp.
“Your feet! Dammit.”
The man’s curse startles me and I cling tighter to his shoulders hoping I haven’t made him mad, wondering why I feel so warm now even though we are once again becoming drenched in the still steadily falling rain.
He hesitates for a moment, his large hands at my waist, my feet barely touching the hard pavement and my nose pressed against his wet shirt. “I should get you a wheelchair.” He looks toward the building through the rain and then back down at me.
I tilt my head up into the wet air to peer at his face and release my hold on his shoulders.
“I can walk.” I press gently against his chest, the strange rush flooding through me again at the feel of his warm skin heating the wet material. I’m trapped between his large, strong, body in front of me and his truck behind me. My push doesn’t move him an inch, and I glance into his eyes to see if he heard me.
They’re shadowed beneath the brim of his cap, but I sense a tenseness in him that begins to make me nervous. I don’t know this man. Yes, he is helping me, but standing next to him, I suddenly feel small and fragile, He could overpower me in an instant. The warmth that had been tingling in my veins suddenly makes my heart jolt. I turn my body toward the double hospital doors not fifty feet from us and press my hands against him again. He suddenly steps back, leaving me feeling empty and cold without his tall frame to block the rain and the heat that not only rolls off him in waves but the touch of him that had awakened a warmth in me.
Just as quickly as he stepped away, he steps back and I hear him curse under his breath as he leans down and wraps one long arm behind my knees and his other behind my back. In the blink of an eye I am lifted off the ground and he is shoving the truck door shut with his shoulder. With long strides, this stranger carries me toward the hospital, and I fight the urge to turn into his chest. The sudden vacillation from cautious trepidation to instant comfort only serves to disorient me further.
I can’t seem to find a steady or dependable emotion. From the moment of my awareness I have been jumping around through fear and confusion, entertaining hope, and defiance, and consistently battling pain and cold. Adding to the mix this new sensation of comfort and warmth around this man doesn’t help at all in finding solid ground emotionally.
I resist the urge to curl around him and sleep. Sleep for a year, heal my tired body, awaken to answers and some semblance of normal. But I don’t curl into him. I lay stiffly in his arms, my own arms clasped around my waist, my face turned away from his.
I focus on the doors that slide open to the side before we even reach them—amazing—my floundering mind fascinated with the whooshing whisper of the glass doors, the impossible prediction to open for us.
I must stop gawking at everything I see. I have been awake as this empty me for a brief time but find my emotions and wonder are quickly cluttering that vacant space in my skull with too much to process. I need to find a method of focus. One thing at a time.
First, doctor. Next, answers. Then perhaps the strange and wonderful. But I let my eyes wander about the lobby as we enter the warm, dry air of the hospital. Anything to distract me from the feel of this man’s arms on me, the sight of his skin so close, if I turned my head toward him, my eyes would be level with his jaw. A strong jaw that has stubble of a day’s beard growth on it, and above that jaw a mouth that looks soft, but is set in a firm line.
He must regret having stopped for me. I could have walked from the truck. Why wouldn’t he just move for me? I clench my waist tighter and nod toward a row of chairs.
“You can put me down now.”
The man turns toward the dark blue cushioned chairs and very gently, places me in the one on the end, closest to the doors.
“I’ll be right back,” His voice is soothing, and he catches my eye and gives me a slight nod before he turns and walks toward a lady sitting behind a long, curved desk.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing myself to relax, to focus and figure out what my next step should be. Now that I am at a hospital I hope a doctor can tell me what is wrong with me. My feet are not my biggest concern. I know the cuts and scrapes will heal. It is my mind, my memory, this aching emptiness that seems to know simple things like what a car is, yet all the vehicles outside with the extraordinary colors all seemed so different from what I know a car or truck should look like. Or my knowledge of a hospital, but as I look around me, nothing feels right.
The lobby is small and empty except for the man, the receptionist and me.
I need to ask him his name. I know though, once he tells me, although it would be nice to not refer to him in my head as “Man,” he will expect me to share my name with him.
At the moment, I am nameless.
I know I have a long night ahead of me of explaining what I do not know to doctors and nurses and possibly even the police, but for some reason, I don’t want this man to think any worse of me than he already does.
At least he can leave now. He brought me here, his duty is done, he can wash his hands of me and go on with his night. The thought makes me feel sad, and I turn in the chair to glance over at him.
He’s leaning on his elbows, speaking in hushed tones to the woman behind the desk. They exchange a few more words and then both turn their heads to look at me. I startle at the eye contact and feel like ducking behind the back of my chair and hiding. I’m not a child, I remind myself, and force my eyes to hold their gaze. The woman looks away first and begins shuffling some papers behind the desk. The man continues to stare at me, but his mouth holds a soft smile and I get the feeling he thinks of me like a small animal he found on the side of the road. His expression borders on pity.
I turn away and sit forward in my seat. I am pitiful. I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I just recognize the truth of it. I don’t know my age, my name, where I am from, if I am married
or have a family, I don’t even know the name of pale orange. Pitiful.
The man approaches and pulls a chair over to face me. Sitting down, his knees lightly brush mine and I look up at his face.
“We need to fill out some paperwork and then you’ll be taken back to see the doctor.”
We? I look at the stack of papers he holds in his hands and then back up to his face. I know I won’t be able to fill them out. Not because I can’t write, I feel certain I know how (the ABC song starts running through my head and I can’t keep from smiling a little. I know one song at least), but because I don’t have answers to any questions. That’s why I’m here. To ask questions, not give answers. I hold my hand out for the papers.
“Thank you for helping me. You are a very kind man.”
“Nick.”
I look up from the papers he is still holding, into his eyes. Gray. He has gray eyes. I didn’t know gray was an eye color. “Nick?” I repeat, not grasping what he meant.
“My name is Nick. And it’s no trouble, I’m glad I found you. Highway 83 is a pretty lonely stretch of road. I hate to think you would be walking it still, especially in the rain.”
“Oh,” I say, not wanting to confirm his name, or even continue the conversation. He is a very nice man, and I am grateful, but now I want him to leave and I don’t know how to ask that politely. For some reason, I dread him discovering the degree of crazy messed up I am. “Well, thank you. Again. I am sure you are eager to get home. Your clothes are still wet. Please don’t let me keep you any longer.”
I glance down to my hand, still outstretched toward the papers, and then back up to his gray eyes. The only person in the world that I know, and I wish he would go before my emptiness is unveiled.
“I don’t mind. Really, just a beer and a ball game waiting at home. I don’t want to leave you here all by yourself. If I can’t call someone for you, why don’t I stay, help with all these forms.”
Why is he still holding them? Just give me the papers, go home to your beer and games. But I know it is futile the minute he opens his mouth to speak again. I know the words before he says them and I hunch in on myself, steeling my spine for the only answer I have.
