Written for RDP, where drkottaway asks us
to get creative with the words ‘accident’.
Thanks, Doc! Here’s my take.
Tag: Car Accident
GOLDEN CHILD
A couple of months ago I was driving north on Weaver Street in Larchmont for a meeting with my publisher in White Plains. Up ahead traffic was stopped in both directions for a funeral procession just leaving Sacred Heart Church. This gave me the opportunity to admire a rather old and impressive Victorian-style house on my left which was situated on a corner lot. The front of the house faced an intersecting street while the side of the house was parallel to Weaver Street. I was impressed by the tall arborvitae along the side of the house; the bushes acted as a natural barrier between the house and Weaver Street. They also camouflaged the rather spartan-looking stockade fence which ran from the corner down the entire length of the house.
I sat in the car listening to the radio and patiently waiting for the traffic to move and that’s when I saw her – a little golden child. She was alone, weaving her way in and out of the arborvitae, and I smiled as she skipped from one tree to the other. She looked to be about 8 or 9 years old with long blonde braids that bounced with every hop, skip and jump she took. I wondered why she was home from school; it wasn’t a holiday and she certainly didn’t look sick but there could be many answers to that question.
There were certain things about this golden child that intrigued me. It was rather chilly with a brisk wind but she wore no coat. Her clothes looked fresh and clean but were definitely old-fashioned. Her below-the-knee jumper-style dress was pink, brown and white plaid; she wore a plain white shirt underneath and ribbed white tights. On her feet were brown lace-up boots which rose above her ankles; her braids were tied with a ribbon that matched her plaid jumper. She reminded me of one of the girls from photos of the turn of the century.
I rolled down the car window to listen for the girl talking or laughing as she ran among the trees but all was quiet. Then I suddenly lost sight of her; she probably ducked into the backyard of the house via a gate in the fence. The last car in the funeral procession exited the churchyard and the stalled traffic began its slow crawl up Weaver Street. As my car inched closer to the house, I looked for the golden child but didn’t see her. Being a curious sort, I quickly turned left onto the intersecting street and parked my car in front of the house; I needed to get a closer look at the fence.
I got out of my car and took a little walk around the arborvitae, examining the fence. To my surprise, there were no gates or openings of any kind. What’s more, the fence continued beyond the line of arborvitae and butted up against the fence of the neighboring house. The only way the girl could have gained access to the backyard of her house was by walking down along the path of arborvitae to the intersecting side street, close to where my car was now parked, and around to the other side of the fence.
There was no reasonable explanation for the disappearance of the little girl. One minute she was there; the next she was gone. She certainly did not walk down to the corner of the property; I had an excellent vantage point and would have seen her. There’s no way she could have escaped my line of vision … unless I never saw her at all. Was this child a figment of my imagination? Were my tired eyes playing tricks again?
As I walked back to my car, a young woman called out from the house. “Can I help you?” she asked. I walked halfway up the front path and replied that I was just looking for something and didn’t mean to intrude on her property or her privacy. I gave her a little wave and started walking back to my car when I heard the woman say something that made me stop cold in my tracks.
“You were looking for the little girl, weren’t you? You’re not the first to have spotted her.”
As you can imagine, dear readers, her comment gave me pause and I was eager to learn more.
“Yes, I was. I saw her from my car. Can you tell me something about her?”
“I can” the woman replied. “I’d be happy to tell you what I know if you’d care to join me for a cup of tea. It’s chilly out here and I’d enjoy the company.”
I hesitated for a second – not because I was afraid of walking into a stranger’s house but because my publisher was waiting for me. The urge to know more won out and I accepted the woman’s invitation. I stepped inside the house which turned out to be as impressive on the inside as it was on the outside. I followed the woman into the kitchen; as she went about preparing tea, I called Gabi, my publisher, and rescheduled our appointment for the following day.
The woman joined me at the table and introduced herself as Denise Gallagher. We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes and I told Denise I was an author. Before she began her story, I asked if she’d mind if I recorded our conversation; she readily agreed. This is what she told me:
“In the late 1920s there was nothing here except trees and an occasional house; they were very few and far between. Not even Weaver Street was here. In the early 30s construction began on Weaver Street, or Route 125 as it’s referred to on the map.
In 1938 this beautiful house was built; a young couple and their three children moved in. Weaver Street was still very new and traffic was extremely light. It’s been said back then a whole hour would pass without a single car going by – hard to believe in this day and age, isn’t it?
Well, one day the kids who lived here – a little girl aged 9 and her 7-year-old twin brothers were outside playing in the yard while their parents unpacked boxes in the new house. There weren’t any fences and those arborvitae hadn’t even been planted yet. Anyway, the kids were playing and their ball got away from them. The little girl chased after it and without a second thought, ran right onto Weaver Street just as a car was coming around the bend. The driver tried to stop but it was too late and the car struck the little girl. She died right out there in the middle of the street.
Can you imagine how awful that must have been for that poor family? The parents must have been wracked with guilt over their preoccupation with unpacking. I’ve got young children of my own and the thought of something happening to one of them is just too much to bear. Well, the family couldn’t stand living here after that and they moved away. People say that child you saw today is actually that little girl’s ghost and she’s looking for her ball.”
I sat there in stunned silence while Denise nonchalantly sipped her tea; I guess she’d told the story so many times, it had lost a lot of its impact for her. Not for me; while I had a feeling that’s where her story was going, it still came as a shock to me. We sat together for a little while longer and I told Denise I had to get going. I thanked her for the tea and her time, grabbed my phone and headed home.
As soon as I got home, I settled myself at my computer to write down everything Denise told me. I clicked the playback button on the record app on my phone and could hear only static. Damn that free app! I knew I should have checked if it was working before recording Denise’s story! Well, I’ve got a pretty good memory and I quickly typed out as much as I could remember of her amazing story.
The next day as I was on my way to see my publisher, I decided to make a stop at a nursery on Weaver Street where I bought some flowers as a ‘thank you’ for Denise. When I arrived at the house there was a man mowing the lawn. I smiled at him and continued up the path and rang the bell. I waited for a minute, rang again and decided no one was home. I wrote a little note on the card that came with the flowers and left them at the door for Denise.
The man who was mowing asked me if I was there to look at the house. I said I didn’t understand what he meant and that’s when he told me the house has been empty and on the market for months. I stared at him in disbelief as he drove off on his mower. How could this house be empty and for sale? I was just here yesterday drinking tea in the kitchen. Utterly perplexed, I walked back to my car and sat inside for a few minutes thinking about what the man told me. Was I losing my mind? Gabi was going say what she always says: “You’re working too hard, my friend. Time for that long overdue vacation”. I don’t know; maybe she was right.
After my head cleared a bit, I started the car and turned onto Weaver Street on my way to White Plains. I was feeling uncharacteristically cold and blasted the heat. When I arrived at Gabi’s, her eyebrows rose at one glance at me. “What’s wrong with you? Are you feeling OK? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
“You have no idea” I replied and began to recount the episodes of the last 24 hours. Gabi knew me long and well enough not to question the veracity of my story and suggested we do a little research. We began by Googling ‘pedestrian accident on Route 125 1938’. Surprisingly, we found very few involving people on the street during that time period. Gabi asked me if I remembered the house address.
I paused for only a second. “Yes. It’s on Briar Way in Larchmont.”
“Do you know the house number?” asked Gabi.
I sipped my coffee, thinking; then it came to me. “Yes, number 1! I remember seeing it this morning as I rang the doorbell.”
“Good! Let’s try that” replied Gabi as she typed in the house address. “Well, here’s the real estate listing from this morning and here’s another listing. What? Wait a minute. Come take a look at this.” As she scrolled down the screen, we saw one listing after another for the house, each one separated by only a couple of years. “This house has been bought and sold ten times more often than any other. Something’s going on to make people leave so soon after settling in.”
“That’s it, Gabi! That’s our answer! Every couple of years the family from 1938 makes their presence known. Apparently the people living there at the time are literally ‘spooked’ away. It’s a veritable ‘ghost house’, Gabs!” I was excited by our discovery yet strangely saddened, too. I couldn’t help wondering why the family kept returning. Could they possibly be looking for the little golden child? Maybe when the little girl was spotted running through the arborvitae she wasn’t hunting for her ball; she was searching for her family!
After my meeting with Gabi, I got back in my car and headed home to Larchmont. As I approached the intersection of Weaver Street and Briar Way, I slowed down hoping to see something, anything. All was still and quiet.
I continued driving toward my house. When I looked in the rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of the golden child running happily between the arborvitae but this time she was not alone. Running toward her and laughing gaily was a young woman with a handsome man and two small boys. The woman was Denise, the lady who drank tea with me just yesterday.
My eyes filled with tears at the sight of a family reconciled. I will never be able to shake that image from my mind.
NAR © 2023
WHEN THE FOG ROLLS IN
This is a follow-up to my January 2021 story, “On The Way”. To see how it all began, click here first: https://wp.me/pc3LSm-yr
Tom Delaney sat alone at his favorite bar sipping his third bourbon. Life had quickly gone down the shitter a few months ago when he bet big time on a “sure thing” that didn’t pan out. That was one of Tom’s biggest faults; he was always looking for the money angle, whether legit or not. Now here he was, a 38-year-old washed up ex PI with a huge chip on his shoulder, a failed marriage and no money.
When the bartender announced closing time, Tom grudgingly slid off his stool and made his way to his car. He took Route 718 toward a friend’s cabin which he was using until he got his life on track.
The weather was changing and when the fog rolls in, driving on 718 gets hairy. He wasn’t on the road very long when he found himself in pea soup conditions. Suddenly a deer appeared out of nowhere and Tom swerved, coming to a screeching stop. After a brief standoff, the deer gracefully bounded down the steep edge and disappeared into the thick woods.
Shaken, Tom settled himself in his car. The glow of the headlights revealed a shiny object in the thicket below. Being a curious type, Tom drove his car closer to the edge, grabbed a flashlight from the backseat and gingerly made his way down the side of the bluff settling on a heavily overgrown landing about 15 feet below. He walked around for a few minutes before his foot came in contact with something hard. Crouching for a better look, he discovered a battered helmet with the weather-beaten orange and black ‘KTM’ emblem of a bicycle manufacturer.
Disappointed that his find wasn’t something valuable, Tom stood up to leave. He took a few steps and heard a strange ‘crunch’ under his shoe. Shining his flashlight on his foot, Tom couldn’t believe what was buried under the leaves and debris.
“Holy shit! It’s a human skeleton! Poor guy must have ridden his bike off the road. Wonder where his bicycle is? What have we here?” Tom moved some leaves out of the way and discovered a waist bag which he took. Maybe he’d get lucky and find some money in the bag. Deciding to investigate a little more, Tom eventually came across the bicycle caught up in a large bush. It was a mangled mess, certainly of no value to him; nearby was a moldy leather jacket. Tom snagged the jacket and went through the pockets; nothing. Noticing a zippered inner compartment, he found an iPhone inside. Slipping the phone into his rear pocket, Tom climbed up to his car and drove off. He left with that uneasy, suspicious feeling he’d get while working on a case. Old habits die hard.
Once home, Tom emptied the contents of the waist bag: assorted crap, a wallet and an iPhone. “Hmm. Two iPhones. Why would one person need two cells? There had to be two people there that night. What the hell happened? Was this the scene of an accident or a crime?” Tom’s PI sixth sense was really kicking in now.
Both phones were wet. Drying them off, Tom placed the phones and SIM cards in two separate Ziploc bags filled with silica gel packets he had stockpiled. They’d have to dry out a day or two. Next he went through the wallet: $47 which he immediately pocketed, an expired debit card and a driver’s license. The license was issued to Joseph Barnes, 312 Ogden Drive, Sparta, NJ. – a 90-minute drive from the cabin.
Tom broke out his own phone and Googled ‘Joseph Barnes, Sparta, NJ’; it took a little while then BINGO! There it was – a missing person flyer dated January 2021. Last known location was Bethlehem, PA – a few miles from the cabin. There was a phone number to call. A picture of Joseph on a bike holding a KTM helmet smiled at Tom; the same face was on the driver’s license.
Tom spent most of the following day at Wind Creek Casino in Bethlehem playing the penny slots with Joseph Barnes’ $47. He was on a roll and left the casino with $100 in his pocket. Tom couldn’t wait any longer and anxiously drove home to see if he could get the iPhones up and running. He took the phones out of the bags, inserted the SIM cards and turned them on; both phones started up. To Tom’s amazement, neither phone needed a passcode. As he suspected, one phone belonged to Joseph Barnes; the other belonged to someone named David Stapleton from Allentown, PA.
“David, David, David. Why were you on Route 718 that night and what did you do to Joseph Barnes?” thought Tom.
Tom realized that after 14 months David Stapleton could be anywhere with a different phone number but there was only one way to find out. After his win at the casino, he was feeling lucky. This could be the big break he was waiting for.
Slipping David’s phone into his pocket, Tom drove to his favorite bar. On the corner was an old phone booth with a pay telephone – the untraceable kind. Tom opened ‘Settings’ on David’s iPhone; there were two different phone numbers for David. Tom hesitated for a minute thinking about his days as a PI. Instinct took over, suggesting he ignore the first number on David’s phone and go for the second one. Tom reasoned that the first number was likely David’s cell number; there was a chance the second number was for a business, a house or a place where David used to work – anything that might provide a clue. It was worth a shot. After all, Tom wasn’t looking to talk to David just yet; all he wanted was a lead. Tom dropped two quarters into the public phone slot and dialed the second number on David’s cell. The call was answered on the third ring.
“Hi. This is Dave at Stapleton Plumbing and Heating in Allentown. We’re closed now but will reopen at 8 AM. Please call back then.”
Pay dirt! Tom Delaney may be down but he wasn’t out! He’d head back to the cabin and Google David’s business, maybe get an address. This called for a little celebration – some company at the bar with his old friend Jim Beam. Sipping his drink, Tom could practically smell the shakedown money he’d be raking in.
As he drove home from the bar, the ubiquitous late night fog rolled in. Tom was momentarily blinded by a pair of oncoming headlights and swerved right to avoid a collision. He turned the steering wheel sharply and his car plowed through bushes, bounced off trees and crash-landed upside down at the bottom of the cliff before it burst into flames.
Poor Tom. Just when things were starting to look up. Karma’s a bitch.
NAR © 2022
A ROLL OF THE DICE
It was a picture-perfect day just before Christmas, 2001; not a cloud in the sky. My husband Bill and I were returning from a two-night stay at Foxwoods, a casino located in Ledyard, Connecticut. It was a two-and-a-half-hour drive and we were enjoying the scenery and each other’s company. We fared well at the tables and were in good spirits, listening to the radio and discussing where we should stop for lunch. It was a fun get-away before the rush of Christmas.
The ride was smooth – clear sailing as far as we could see. I was driving at a fairly decent clip in the middle lane of a three-lane highway. As we rounded a slight bend in the road, we were startled to find the traffic had come to a stand-still. My vantage point had been cut off and I was completely caught off guard. Bill yelled “Watch out!” and I slammed on the brakes of my RAV4 hoping to avoid hitting any cars in front of me. In doing so, I swerved wildly and the rear end of my car fish-tailed out to the right. The car was now at a 45º angle. I was able to avoid crashing into any cars in front of me and I struggled to straighten out my car but the guy behind me came barrelling down the highway, slamming full force into the driver’s side rear quarter panel of my car.
Unless you’ve experienced a crash of that magnitude, it’s impossible to describe the impact; I never felt pressure like that before and it’s easy to see how the force could result in someone sustaining severe whiplash, a broken neck or worse. At that moment everything switched to slow motion, like we were floating in space. Acting on reflex, Bill raised his right arm above his head to protect himself.
We glanced at each other quizzically with that WTF look in our eyes as my car rolled over once, twice, three times then landed upright with a mighty thud like a miniature Sherman Tank on the right shoulder of the highway. It’s miraculous that no other cars hit us as we rolled over to the side of the road. How the hell did my car manage to land on its tires? Thank God it did; I can’t imagine what it would have been like landing upside down, the roof smashed in, dangling from our seat belts. What seemed like an eternity probably took all of five seconds. The guy who hit us was stranded in the middle of the highway, the front end of his car smashed in. We learned later that his car was a rental and the driver had no insurance.
Immediately upon settling, there was a tremendous whooshing sound as the sunroof caved in on us; we were showered with fragments of glass, dirt and gravel which the car must have scooped up as it rolled over. The safety glass of the windshield was totally shattered but did not fall apart or crumble into the car, seemingly held together by some sort of invisible industrial-strength tape. My only injury was a whacked left knee, probably because I had a death grip on the steering wheel the entire time. Bill wasn’t so lucky; his raised hand did little to protect him. His head was cut and bleeding and the index finger of his raised hand had a deep gash. His hand had also been badly jammed as we rolled over, sending shock waves of intense pain from his fingers all the way up his arm, into his shoulder and neck.
To say we were stunned would be a huge understatement. This was something we saw on TV; it didn’t happen to us. We became aware of the high-pitched “beep beep” of a tractor trailer truck approaching us in reverse. The truck driver witnessed the accident, pulled off the road and backed up to see if we were alright. Of all the vehicles on the road at that moment, only one person stopped to check on us. Jumping out of the cab of his rig, the trucker told us not to move while he called for help.
Within minutes we were surrounded by police cars, fire engines and ambulances. The doors of my RAV had to be pried open so we could be extricated safely; I was able to walk to the ambulance but Bill was strapped onto a gurney. He was covered with a blanket, still unable to lower his arm. It was a surreal sight watching him being lifted into the ambulance and I heard him yell out in pain as his fingers brushed against the roof of the vehicle. I didn’t even look back at my car as we were whisked away to a local hospital.
After being examined, I was told I had no serious injuries but Bill needed X-rays and an MRI. The cut on his head was stapled and bandaged; his lacerated finger was sutured and placed in a finger splint. The MRI revealed a pinched nerve which was preventing him from lowering his arm. The poor guy was in agony and the doctors talked about keeping him overnight. The last thing Bill wanted was to be admitted to an unfamiliar hospital and he made that perfectly clear to me and the doctors. They insisted he stay for at least a few hours for observation but after that, if they thought he was stable enough for the ride back to New York, they would not keep him against his will. Bill was worried about me but I assured him I was fine. He asked me where my car was and I feebly replied that I didn’t know. That’s when I realized I needed to take action; first on the list was to track down my wrecked car and all our belongings.
I was running on nothing but shock and adrenaline; the only reason I didn’t collapse from the trauma was because I knew I had to get things done. I must have looked a mess with ripped clothes and my hair full of road debris but I didn’t care. It’s amazing what’s important and what isn’t when your back is against the wall; it’s called survival.
The first thing I did was call the police station to find out where my car had been towed; all our luggage, including the money we won at the casino, was in the car along with the usual stuff people keep in their vehicles – everything from important car documents to extra packets of ketchup. Once I found out where my car was impounded, I asked someone at the nurse’s station for the phone number of a taxi company to take me to the salvage yard. When the taxi showed up, I was more than a little surprised to see it was a stretch limo. The driver told me he had a lot of upcoming jobs transporting people to and from Christmas events and he had just picked up the limousine.
When we arrived at the junk yard, I explained to the people in the tiny cubicle of an office who I was and why I was there; I was greeted with shocked silence and slack-jawed expressions. Finally the hush was broken when the manager pointed out the window to my RAV4 and said “You mean to tell me that’s your car? We didn’t think anyone walked away from that accident!”
We walked over to what was once my beautiful car. What I saw before me was a heap of mangled metal and broken glass. Had it not been for my ‘vanity plates’, I would not have believed that was my car. I stared at the wreckage in bewilderment; how were we alive?
Once the reality hit me, my knees buckled and I held onto the car to steady myself. The people from the junk yard gathered several boxes for me and the taxi driver helped me get everything out of the car. He removed my license plates and checked all the compartments to make sure we got everything. I don’t know how much I could have done without him. Satisfied that the car was empty, the driver loaded the boxes into the trunk of the limo and we returned to the hospital.
On the ride back I told the driver, whose name I found out was Yosef, about the accident and that Bill was hurt, unable to lower his arm. Yosef asked me where we lived and how I planned to get home. When I told him I hadn’t thought about that yet, he offered to drive us home. What?! It was almost three hours to New York and another three hours back, but he didn’t balk. He said it was the perfect solution; all our stuff from my car was already in the limo and there was plenty of room for Bill to lie down comfortably on the spacious sofa-like seat in the back.
This man, a total stranger, was willing to wait as long as it took to get us safely home. I accepted his kind offer and slumped down onto a chair in the hospital waiting room. I had to call our sons at home to tell them what happened. They were understandably concerned and wanted to drive up to Connecticut to bring us home but I told them it was all arranged; I just wanted them to stay put and be safe. I didn’t even realize Yosef had disappeared until he returned with a bagel and a cup of coffee for me. I couldn’t believe how kind that man was and I thanked him saying the food would help with my pounding headache. As if by magic, Yosef produced a couple of Advil. I looked up at him and he was smiling, one gold tooth sparkling in the bright hospital lights. At that moment he looked just like a guardian angel.
I must have dozed off in the waiting room. When I woke up I was under a warm blanket, my head resting on a soft pillow – definitely not hospital issue. A bit dazed, I glanced around the room; there was Yosef sitting in the corner, talking on his cell phone. He saw me and gave a little wave. I ran my hand over the blanket, my eyes asking if he had provided it; Yosef smiled and gave me a thumbs up. I silently mouthed the words “thank you” and held my clenched fist against my heart.
I checked my phone, surprised to see that four hours had gone by. A nurse came into the waiting room; I recognized her as one of the nurses who had been taking care of Bill. She asked me to go with her and I followed her to one of the many curtained-off beds in the ER. Bill was lying on his back, his arm still up but bent at the elbow with his bandaged hand behind his head. The doctor explained to me that he gave Bill a strong shot of Demerol and a muscle relaxant. He was able to gently manipulate Bill’s arm into a more comfortable position but he would need physical therapy to gain full range of motion. By the look on Bill’s face, it was obvious the meds were doing their job; he was pretty out of it. The doctor gave me two prescriptions to have filled when we returned home and said that Bill was free to go. He also advised me to get the prescriptions filled as soon as possible; Bill would definitely be needing them once the initial dose began to wear off.
With some assistance Bill was able to get into a wheelchair and escorted to the ER waiting room where Yosef greeted us. It wasn’t easy but we managed to make Bill comfortable in the spacious rear section of the limo; even in his drugged condition he was impressed with the car. There were bottles of water in the mini-fridge and more of Yosef’s blankets and pillows to make the ride home as cushioned as possible. Once we knew Bill was secure, we began our journey back.
Yosef suggested we stop at the nearest CVS Pharmacy to get the prescriptions filled. Since the meds were “controlled substances”, the script would only be valid in the issuing state; I wouldn’t be able to get Bill’s meds in New York – something I didn’t think of. Once again Yosef came to my rescue and we stopped at CVS before continuing our trip.
We rode in silence for a little while, then I thanked Yosef for the blankets and pillows. He said “it was nothing”; he had gone home while I was napping in the ER, told his wife Zeynep what was going on and she insisted he take the pillows and blankets with him. That gave me an opening to find out a little more about this Good Samaritan who crossed my path that day.
Yosef and Zeynep were married for only a short time when the Iraqi Kurdish Civil war broke out in 1994. He talked quietly about the war and the horrors he witnessed. He swore that if he and his bride made it out safely he would strive to help anyone in need whenever he could. With the assistance of American forces, he and Zeynep were able to escape their town of Diyarbakir in Turkey. They made it to Greece, then on through Italy, France and finally to England where Zeynep had relatives in Birmingham. They stayed in England for several months, then decided to emigrate to The States, settling in Connecticut. The couple found work in a small Turkish restaurant and when Zeynep became pregnant and could no longer work, Yosef took on a second job as a taxi driver. He said they had two little girls – Aiyla and Esana – the treasures of his life.
Just then my stomach growled and I realized I hadn’t had anything to eat all day except a bagel and coffee. Yosef said there was a basket with some food in the back of the limo and I should help myself. Zeynep had prepared black olives, hummus, ekmek flatbread and a thermos of black tea. Yosef said it was the perfect food for travelers – something that was easy to carry and provided sustenance as well as comfort. I sat near Bill and ate my meal with gratitude for this stranger who found me at a time when I desperately needed help.
I asked Yosef what his name meant; he replied “God increases”. How very fitting. He went on to say that Zeynep meant “precious gem”, Esana meant “safeguard” and Aiyla meant “moonlight”. I scribbled everything Yosef told me on a paper napkin. Maybe it was my imagination working overtime or the fact that Christmas was just days away but those names made me think of the birth of Jesus and what Christmas was really all about.
Yosef asked me the meaning of our names; I explained that Bill was short for William which meant “strong-willed warrior” and my name, Nancy, meant “filled with grace”. Yosef thought they suited us; I thought that day they couldn’t have been more appropriate.
The ride was uneventful and time passed quickly. Before I knew it, Yosef had delivered us safely home. Together with the help of my sons, Yosef managed to get Bill from the car into the house. Bill was awake now but groggy and he reached for Yosef’s hand. With a voice heavy with emotion Bill whispered “Thank you for everything”. Smiling, Yosef nodded and wished Bill well.
My sons brought the boxes into our house and I walked with Yosef to his car. I took some money out of my coat pocket to pay him for everything he had done – if one could even put a price on all he did. He covered my hands with his saying “No, please. I did not do this for money. I truly believe there was a reason I received your call for help – to aid you in your time of distress. Seeing you safely home is all the reward I need.” I was overcome with emotion and humility and I impulsively hugged Yosef. I wasn’t at all embarrassed by my actions or that my face was streaked with tears of gratitude.
I croaked out a heartfelt “Thank you, Yosef. God bless you and your family. Merry Christmas”. He smiled and replied “God’s blessings on you, Nancy filled with grace”.
I stood outside my house as Yosef drove away, watching the taillights of the limo disappear down the street. I looked up at the pale moon; to the north was a dazzlingly bright star shining in the black sky.
It was a cold night but my heart was glowing. I truly felt like “Nancy filled with grace”.
This is a true account of a terrifying situation; we will never forget that accident 20 years ago today. God was watching over us.
A big shout-out to the caring trucker, whoever you are. Huge thanks to all the incredible emergency and medical personnel who cared for us.
Blessings upon blessings forever to Yosef, Zeynep, Ailya and Esana. Yosef – there are no adequate words to express our gratitude. You are a giant among men.
Sincere good wishes to all who read this. May you have a wondrous Christmas!
NAR © 2021
ON THE WAY
David’s decision to flee the scene was fueled by fear, self-preservation and adrenaline. An electrical storm during the night wreaked havoc with the streetlights causing them to flash at indiscriminate intervals. Even though his was the only car on the dimly lit road, the strobe effect from the lights was haphazard and dangerously distracting. There were shadows looming everywhere; David never saw the cyclist cross his path.
The impact was powerful yet made only a quiet thud like the subtle reload of a gun’s magazine. The visual impression, however, was appalling. The tableau switched to slow motion; David watched in horror as a mangled body performed a ‘danse macabre’ across the hood of his car while musical phrases from “O Fortuna” screamed in his head. The cyclist soared through the air like an acrobat and landed in a twisted heap fifty feet or so from the car.
David sat motionless in his car; no other living creature was anywhere in sight. “What to do? What to do?” raced through his mind. He’d never had a car accident, not even a parking ticket. Now he had run someone down – an innocent cyclist. Was it a man or a woman? Surely this person would be missed by family and friends, perhaps his or her parents or – God forbid – their children. What a terrible fate, a horrible accident. Yes, David had a few drinks with friends after work, just a few; the alcohol had to be out of his system by now. But wait; the cyclist wore no reflective clothing, not even a warning light on the bike’s handlebars or wheels. Out cycling in the night, alone; wasn’t that tempting fate? Maybe they got what they deserved.
Slowly David opened the door and looked around; the deafening silence was pounding in his brain, the absence of people other-worldly. With measured steps he approached the crumpled body. A gentle push of his booted foot confirmed what he already suspected: the cyclist was dead. A battered helmet sat near the edge of the road; the bright orange and black ‘KTM’ emblem of the bicycle manufacturer in Austria stared at David accusingly. The longer he looked at the emblem the more he realized he had two choices: he could report the accident to the police and face the consequences or he could clean up this mess and get on with his life.
As he walked back to his car David knew what he had to do. A look at the front end showed very little damage, a small inconvenience he could deal with later. More pressing matters prevailed; first he had to extricate the bicycle from under his car. David sat in the driver’s seat, shifted the car into reverse and gently backed up. After a couple of seconds he could feel the car and the bicycle disengage.
The bike was a wreck but there wasn’t much debris on the road. Retrieving his jacket, David wrapped it around the top tube bar and carried the bike back to the dead cyclist. Taking a few steps away from the road he realized it would be easy to throw the bike over the edge, making it look like the cyclist had swerved off the road – if the body was ever found at all. He gave the bike a hefty toss and it disappeared onto the woods below. With his foot David then rolled the cyclist’s body and helmet down the hill.
David walked back to his car and broke off a low hanging branch from a tree which he used to sweep the road clear of any pieces of glass or metal. Getting back into the car, he turned on the radio and cranked up the volume; the song was Euclid’s “On the Way”, his favorite revolutionary political heavy metal band.
“Ok” David murmured to himself. “It’s all gonna be ok. Just one last thing. Got to take care of that little dent in the hood of my car.” David kept driving until he reached a busy gas station. He drove up to a pump, intentionally smacking into a metal barrier; witnesses could attest to the mishap.
David drove home feeling much more relaxed and confident. He reached for his jacket but it wasn’t there. His face went pale and he broke out in a cold sweat. Closing his eyes he could clearly see his jacket wrapped around the bicycle, his phone still in the pocket, as it made its final descent into the woods.
NAR © 2021
For Part 2, “When The Fog Rolls In“, please click here: https://wp.me/pc3LSm-1az
The Elephant's Trunk 