Help Is on the Way

FICTION

by Wendy Elizabeth Wallace

          When you hear it, you know immediately—someone has crashed into the utility pole in the front yard. It’s a wrenching force of a sound, a teeth and skull sound. This happens every time it snows, your house nestled in the elbow of a downhill curve that at least one person always takes too fast—“in the slick,” Ryan called these conditions. He’d always be the first one out the door, offering assistance, speaking in his deep, solve-everything voice. Now, it’s just you. You move flailingly in an attempt at speed, shoving your feet into the boots Ryan left behind and shrugging into your coat. 
         The car, a white SUV, is fabulously wrecked, the nose smooshed and accordioned, jagged chunks strewn in the snow. The pole has been knocked into a drunken angle, which is new—you didn’t know that could happen. 
         When you tap on the passenger-side window, the woman behind the wheel jumps. At first you’re relieved—for a moment you feared the driver might be seriously injured or dead—and then ashamed, because you’ve failed at your first task, putting her at ease. 
         When you ask if she needs help she doesn’t seem to hear you, which is good—stupid question. You move over to her side of the car and open the door so she can hear you better. “I’m here to help,” you say. “Everything’s under control.” 
         “Um,” the woman says, “okay, thanks.” She’s younger than you initially thought, likely in her mid-thirties like you. Her hair is thick and shiny and her puffer jacket hugs her flatteringly. Her hands, nails painted a neat white, are stroking the air bag absently. She is one of those put-together people you normally would be too anxious to talk to, but you are on a mission. You invite her to come into your house. 
         “I’m actually fine. I think I’ll just wait here,” she says. 
         You are unprepared for this. Every accident in the past, Ryan always brought the people in, settled them on the couch with a blanket, and made them tea or hot chocolate while chatting easily with them. You’d watch the worry release from their shoulders as they smiled, laughed, said they didn’t know what they’d do without the two of you. 
         “You really shouldn’t stay in here,” you say. 
         “I appreciate the offer, but it shouldn’t be long.” 
         “You’ll get cold.” 
         “I really am fine.” She’s not meeting your eyes.
         “Your car could combust.” You’re not sure if this is true, but it works. 
         The woman continues to resist the script. On the way in, she limps slightly, but won’t take your outstretched arm for support. Inside, she refuses the blanket you offer, even when you assure her that it’s clean. The woman also says no to tea, coffee, hot chocolate, milk, water, gin. The last is probably a bad idea, but still. 
         “Where were you headed?” you ask then, a question that, from Ryan, always led to interesting answers, a window into this stranger’s life—a fiftieth birthday party, a bridesmaid dress fitting, a stepdaughter’s first hockey game. It was your favorite part.
         “Look,” the woman says, “I’m a little shaken up. Is it okay if I just sit?” 
         “Sure,” you say. “Yeah, no problem.” 
         You sit and she sits and nothing happens. You’ve clearly done something wrong, something to set all of this on the incorrect path, and you want to put words to it until everything is fixed. The need rises, a hard pressure at the back of your throat. It was like this, too, in the last days before Ryan moved out. You explained and explained—if you had the right conversation, he’d understand. Understand and not leave you.
         But, it turned out, he didn’t want to hear that you didn’t love or even particularly like the guy from work you had sex with three times. How to explain that sex was just a side effect from how Paul looked at you like your ability to execute perfect latte foam art wasn’t just cute but mattered, like it was fine you weren’t using your master’s in German Studies, like you had shit figured out. “I can’t talk about this anymore,” Ryan said, finally. And then he packed—him, not you, because he knew you couldn’t afford to move.
         You know the woman wants quiet, but you’re talking again. “Usually, it doesn’t take this long for the cops to show up.” 
         She doesn’t look up from her screen. “How long since you called?”
         Oh. That was another step Ryan had clearly taken care of, a step that everyone but you would remember. Hadn’t you reassured her, when you approached, that you had everything handled for her? “I’ll just do that really quick right now,” you say.
         “Oh my god,” the woman says. “Seriously? Okay, I’m actually just going to call. From my car.”
         She’s struggling, foot-draggingly, to the door, and you tell her to please wait, please.
         She turns. “You know, there’s something actually wrong with you.”
         Then she’s gone, out to the wrecked shell that is better than your company. 
         You think about going after her, reminding her that at least you took responsibility for your mistake, that you really did try. But no one gives you credit for not being worse than you could have been. 
         You watch out the window as the fire engine, then the police cruiser, then the ambulance line up. Paramedics ease her into the back of the ambulance. You take a series of photos, the emergency lights brilliant flares. You send the best one to Ryan. You type, Another rescue.
         A few minutes later, Ryan responds. Yikes, hope she’s okay. I’m sure you did great. 
         You know he is not sure, because he knows you.
         The ambulance pulls out, then the fire engine, then the cruiser, and you’re alone. Next time, you actually will be great. You will, you will.