Somewhere In-Between

by Donna Milner

  Fresh snow crunches beneath the Jeep’s tires, as it crawls steadily up the hill, navigating the sharp-cornered switch-backs with ease. Spending so much time in a vehicle when she was selling real estate, Julie has always insisted on the best ‘rubber’ money could buy, and now she is grateful for the sure-footed traction of the studded tires. By the time they reach the top road, she is confident that she is once again getting the feel of Cariboo winter driving.

  When they turn onto the main highway, she relaxes. Except for drifting skiffs of snow, the road to town stretches before them, a ribbon of black asphalt. She allows the Jeep to pick up speed, stealing a quick glance at Ian, who is already lying back against the headrest, his eyes closed in sleep. Or, she thinks, more likely in pretence of sleep—his way of avoiding the temptation to criticize her driving.

  With the hum of the tires the only sound in the car she concentrates on the road. It’s not his silence that she minds, it’s what lies behind it. She finds herself considering Virgil’s muteness. Unlike the silence between her and Ian, filled with blame and grief, anger and resentment, which threatens to explode if broken at the wrong moment, the silences she had shared with Virgil were tranquil, calm, in harmony somehow with the moment. With a start she realizes that she misses those moments. Like the music. She misses the music. Even in the coldest of weather, she still leaves her bedroom window open a crack, but no matter how hard she listens, the voice of a distant violin no longer seeps into her bedroom in the middle of the night.

  She forces herself back to the moment, searching for the right words to start up a conversation with Ian. There was a time when that was never a problem. It seems so long ago, another life, when they used to cherish moments like these, alone in the car. She had always looked forward to long road trips, where without interference from telephones, clients, Ian’s or hers, they would talk non-stop. And then when Darla was growing up, for Julie, the only truly enjoyable part of visiting her mother in Vancouver was the chance to spend seven hours in the car with her family. Seven hours filled with conversation, and laughter. And they would sing. How they would sing! Ian, with his beautiful deep tenor voice, loved to croon old Irish ballads. He would break into song the moment conversation lagged in the car. By the time Darla was eight she knew all of the lyrics to the most improbable songs—songs like “Galway Bay” or “Danny Boy,” which she would sing along with her father at the top of her lungs, even affecting his feigned Irish accent. Julie had had her own travelling repertoire of old Joni Mitchell, Judy Collins and Joan Baez songs, songs she had grown up with—one legacy from her mother that she hadn’t shunned. Darla’s favourite was a Joni Mitchell ballad, “The Circle Game.” Right up to the time she was a teenager she would ask Julie to sing it every time they drove any distance at all. They always thought of it as Darla’s song.

  Unwittingly Julie finds herself humming it now, mentally singing the lyrics. But when she reaches the verse about sixteen springs and sixteen summers gone now, her throat closes up. Beside her Ian stirs. Has he heard? Does he remember, or even think of those times? She glances quickly at him, but he turns away to face the passenger window.

  Julie switches on the radio, pressing the search button until she lands on some country and western station whose music holds no memories for her, or Ian. For the next hour she forces herself to listen to the almost comical wailing laments of lost loves, lost homes, spilled whiskey and beer, but nothing about lost children.

  On either side of the highway, grey clouds hang heavy over the fields, hillsides and tree tops. Less than a half hour from town snow begins to fall once again, the growing flakes spiralling in a hypnotizing vortex against the windshield.

  When the accident happens, like all accidents, it happens without warning. Afterward, Julie will remember it in fragmented slow motion images. The transport truck coming toward them from the opposite direction: the commotion of snow lifting and swirling up from beneath multi-tires; the billowing clouds left in its wake as the loaded semi speeds by; her white-knuckled hands, gripping the steering as they enter the blinding whiteout.

  Only later will she question whether the black blur she sees on the highway as she comes out of the swirling snowstorm could truly be a bear at this time of year. But in the moment the fleeting image causes her instinctive reaction. A reaction, which, even as it occurs, she knows is wrong. In that split second of recognizing that there is a living creature in the path of her Jeep, she is unable to prevent her foot from slamming on the brakes, her hands from swerving the wheel. Then the helpless feeling as suddenly the Jeep’s tires—the best money can buy—lock and skid sideways across black ice, as easily as sliding through grease. Her mind racing, Julie tries to turn the useless steering wheel in the direction of the skid, but it’s too late, out of her control. Careening toward the bank on the other side of the road, she lets go and gives into the inevitable. In the heartbeat the car becomes airborne, and sails into a silent white abyss, the unbidden thought whispers inside Julie’s mind. “Darla, I’m coming.”

  Their soundless flight is broken by the grinding screech of impact. Something solid rips through the undercarriage and the windshield shatters at the same moment the airbags explode. Still the vehicle keeps moving, bucking and rolling, smashing against unyielding objects, while the unseen world spins out of control. Then as suddenly as it started it is still, the only sound the whine of the motor. Disoriented, Julie reaches for the ignition key. The deflating airbag blocks her search. She forces it away to find herself staring through the bottom edge of the shattered windshield at a world turned sideways, a world where hundreds of white papers flutter from an upside-down sky.

  Her trembling fingers locate the ignition key on the steering wheel and turn off the motor. In the ensuing silence, she feels the wind and snow swirling inside the Jeep. Only then does it dawn on her that the vehicle has landed on its side with the tailgate door thrown wide open, and that the sheets of paper fluttering down are Ian’s files.

  Ian?

  With great effort she turns her head to the right, her jaw and face aching from the impact of the exploding airbag.

  “Ian,” she cries, feeling panic for the first time. “Ian, are you okay?”

  The slack passenger airbag moves, and Ian’s face appears above her. “Yeah, you?”

  “I think so.” She looks around. “We’ve got to crawl out the back,” she says. “I’ll need to go first, so you’ll have room.”

  It takes a few moments to unfasten her seatbelt. Twisting and turning carefully, she squeezes herself out from under the steering wheel. She crawls over the seats toward the rear of the vehicle, feeling the Jeep rocking precariously as she does.

  In the front, Ian suddenly drops from his seatbelt restraint. “Careful,” Julie hollers back to him as she rolls out onto the ground, “the Jeep’s not stable.” As Ian pulls himself toward the rear of the vehicle there is a warning screech of metal and Julie screams in horror as the vehicle teeters and then rolls slowly from its precarious perch. As it flips over, Ian is tossed out like a rag doll, slamming onto the ground below, a moment before the Jeep lands on its roof in the same spot.

  Razor sharp rocks beneath the snow rip through Julie’s clothes, cutting her hands and tearing skin as she scrambles down into the ravine. At the bottom she pulls her way around the Jeep, her heart pounding in her throat. Relief floods through her at the sight of Ian lying face up, as if waiting for her, on the other side of the car. His glasses are nowhere to be seen and his right leg is bent up against his chest while the left, from the thigh down is lodged under the Jeep’s roof. Still, he attempts a grin when she drops down beside him. “Well this is bloody stupid,” he says. “My leg’s stuck. I think it might be broken.”

  Julie chokes back a nervous sob. A broken leg. They can handle that. It could have been so much worse. Looking up at the path of destruction on the steep hillside she thinks it’s a wonder that they’re here at all.

  “Can you move?” she asks.

 
Ian struggles to pull his leg out from beneath the Jeep, the pain blanching his face. “No. It’s pinned.”

  She puts her arms under his shoulder and, bracing her legs against the metal, tries to slide him back, but it’s useless. She stands up and pushes against the vehicle, but it won’t budge.

  From the highway above comes the sound of a vehicle approaching in the distance. But as Julie listens anxiously, it speeds by without slowing down. She is suddenly aware of the seriousness of the situation. No one can see them down here. They’re going to have to get themselves out. They’re damn lucky if they come through this with nothing more than a broken leg.

  “I’m going to try digging your leg out,” she says, and goes around to the back of the Jeep. She has to scrunch down to look inside. Empty. Everything that was once stored there for emergency, the shovel, first aid kit, jumper cables, must all have been thrown out, along with the boxes. She scans the churned-up path the Jeep took to its final resting point, frantically searching for any sign of the shovel, only to see, scattered across the hillside, hanging from tree branches, and lying on the snow like laundry waiting for the sun, jeans, t-shirts, sweaters—Darla’s clothes.

  She shakes away the image, she can’t think about that right now. At the sound of another vehicle on the highway above, she glances up in hope. So near, and yet so far. The engine roar increases then turns into a distant drone heading toward town. Julie rushes back to Ian, drops down on her knees and starts clawing through the snow beneath his leg with her bare hands. Her fingernails rip as they scrape against dirt and rocks. The ground is too hard. She knows it’s futile, but can’t give up.

  “Julie, stop.” Grabbing at her hands, Ian tries to sit up. He slumps back, the colour drained from his face. “You’re going to have to go up and flag someone down.”

  God, how can she leave him down here alone? she wonders, but answers, “Okay.” She removes her jacket and spreads it on top of him.

  “Don’t,” he says, “You keep it on.”

  “I’ll be warm enough, climbing up that damn bank,” she says, “while you just get to lie here and relax.” Ian’s attempted smile turns into a grimace. Reluctant to leave him, but fully aware of the threat of shock, or hypothermia, Julie leans down and kisses his forehead. “Like the man said, ‘I’ll be back.’”

  She starts climbing, following the path of the Jeep’s descent, grabbing at roots and branches, anything to help pull herself up. At the sound of another vehicle on the road above, this time coming from the direction of town, she scrambles faster, frustrated as it too passes by. But then, instead of fading off into the distance, the motor slows, idles and then with a roar backs up to stop on the highway directly above. As car doors open and close above, Julie screams out, “Help. We’re down here.”

  She hollers it out over and over, even after the three faces appear on the edge of the bank, their dark eyes looking down to meet hers.

  47

  Hah! I always knew there must be a reason for keeping that ugly red sweater. Mom bought one for each of us as a joke, the Christmas that I was fourteen. She thought the tacky sweaters were funny. I even wore mine that Christmas Eve.

  None of the other drivers heading in to town saw it hanging from the tree below the highway like a red flag. But the ladies in the blue van, on their way home to NaNeetza Valley, noticed right away that something was out of order in the landscape when they passed by. Thank heaven, the women stopped and went back to investigate. And no, don’t go getting the wrong impression. I had absolutely nothing to do with this. I’m not sure that even when I was alive I could have come up with an idea so bizarre.

  Now, while one of the women stays above to keep watch up on the road, the other two make their way down the hill with a shovel that Mom had asked for. I wonder if she wasn’t so concerned with the accident, with getting Dad safely out of this predicament, if she wasn’t in a bit of a state of shock herself, running on adrenalin, would she recognize her rescuers? Would she remember them from the summer Levi invited us all out to the local rodeo on the NaNeetza Reserve?

  Would she recall how we had come upon these same three ladies working behind the concession stand counter, chatting and laughing in the way that good friends do when there’s no one else around? Or how the laughter ceased the instant they realized that they were not alone, and then their polite, guarded acknowledgements as Levi introduced us to them?

  And I wonder, after they get Dad back up to the highway, will Mom recognize the third woman waiting there? Will she see in her wide handsome face, the older version of the woman in the photograph at Virgil’s cabin? The photograph of Levi as a baby on his mother’s hip.

  Without questions or directions, as if they are called to do this every day, once the two women reach Dad, they make fast work of digging under his trapped leg and sliding him out from under the Jeep.

  Mom crouches down and gently lifts his corduroy pants cuff. He winces as she pushes it back. She abandons the effort but not before getting a peek at where bone has punctured skin on the front of his calf. The two women are already in action. Pulling a small hand-axe from the leather scabbard on her belt, the tallest one strides toward a stand of aspen trees. Her friend moves along the hillside, searching through the strewn debris. After they return, Mom holds Dad’s leg straight while the women, using thick branches, stripped clean and shaped by the axe, expertly splint his calf from the knee to the ankle. His leg is wrapped up and bound securely before Mom can register that the pink material they used to cushion the make-shift splint is my favourite old terry-cloth bathrobe. Right on!

  Getting him up that steep hill is another matter. Even from my point of view it seems it will take divine intervention. But don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that it doesn’t exist, I just don’t know how to call on it. But those two women, hah, they don’t need to call on anything. Without hesitating, they hoist Dad up onto his good leg, his splinted leg hanging free, and throw his arms around their broad shoulders and then start climbing. Unlike Mom, who came straight down the hill, and then tried to climb back up the same way, they traverse the hillside, winding their way up as if there is a hidden path beneath their feet. Mom scrambles behind, keeping an eye on the injured leg, mouthing unnecessary warnings of ‘careful, careful,’ unaware that she’s doing it.

  Back up on the highway, a logging truck, with a full load of timber, flagged down by Levi’s mother, stops on the opposite side of the road. The driver climbs down and rushes over to the edge of the bank, arriving just as the women, with Dad slung between them, struggle over the top.

  “Jeeze,” he says at the sight of them. “I’ll go radio for an ambulance.”

  “Comes too slow,” the tall woman says, carrying my father toward the van.

  Levi’s mother glances from my father’s ashen face, to my mother, and I can tell right away that she recognizes them. The man and woman who had condemned her son, who had judged him without hearing him. The knowing flickers through her eyes, then disappears leaving her with an expression of nothing more than the steely resolve to do what needs to be done in the moment. She slides open the van door. Climbing inside, she folds down the rear seat, then in one quick motion unrolls a foam pad onto the van floor. She helps to ease Dad inside, then spreads a blanket and sleeping bag gently over his prone body. He’s too out of it with pain to recognize her, and Mom, climbing in beside him, is too out of it with worry. Without a word, Levi’s mother slides the door closed, climbs into the driver’s seat and turns the van toward town. I wonder if she would be so generous if she was aware of what her son is up to right now.

  Out in the forest at NaNeetza Valley, Levi is secretly building a sweat lodge. He knows that Old Alphonse won’t let him do another sweat again so soon, so he’s going to do it by himself. Virgil Blue is unaware of his young cousin’s plan or he would put a stop to it. But Levi is convinced that he almost reached me in the spirit world last time and he intends to try again. Alone. Dangerous stuff. If I knew how to intervene I wou
ld. Now it looks like the only one who can save Levi Johnny from himself, is Mom. But she is too wrapped up in her own drama.

  48

  “Interesting,” the doctor muses holding the X-rays to the light. “Compound fractures can be problematic,” he says studying first one then the other. Satisfied he lowers them and addresses Ian lying on the ER gurney. “You can thank whoever’s responsible for that strange-looking splint for keeping the damage minimal.”

  Julie would like to do just that, thank the women who not only rescued them, but also delivered them to the hospital hours ago. But after arriving, in the confusion of the ER attendants removing Ian from the van, loading him onto a stretcher, and rushing him through the automatic doors, she had not thought to. Only as the doors where sliding closed behind her did she turn back. But the van and the three Good Samaritans were gone.

  Now sitting in the green-curtained cubical, she listens to the doctor explain that they will be taking Ian up to the operating room shortly for surgery to realign the tibia bone. “Then we’ll just keep you in overnight, watch for any swelling beneath the cast,” he says. Switching his gaze from Ian to Julie, he adds, “But my guess is by tomorrow he’ll be good to go.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” Julie says in the void left by the doctor’s sudden exit.

  “For who?” Ian mutters.

  Startled by the curt response, she turns quickly to look at him lying flat on his back, his eyes closed. It must be the shot they gave him for the pain, she thinks and lets his comment go. The fluorescent light above his head casts a ghostly parlour on his already grey skin. She reaches up and switches it off. Before long his breathing becomes even and she settles back in the uncomfortable chair by his bedside.

  The heavy antiseptic hospital smells unsettle her stomach while she waits for someone to come and take Ian up to the OR. As soon as they do, she’ll go outside to get some fresh air.