It’s just one mile away, I tell myself. I’ll get there in time.
I’m bundled in my warmest Alabama clothing, which isn’t even half as warm as it needs to be to survive this state. I’m walking towards the school, as fast as possible, because my intuition says I’m needed.
My sister works at the school, but I can’t imagine that anything is wrong with her.
Nothing’s wrong.
Still, I ignored my intuition once before and it led to 3 brutal years of marriage, and my now impoverished near-isolation in this middle-of-nowhere-city in a corner-to-nowhere state. Thank God for sisters, but seriously– never again. The gut says to go, so I’m going.
It’s just one mile away.
Sister is the school nurse and I can’t imagine a better one, except for maybe me. Say anything you want about our father, but he trained us for our future jobs well. We know bruises, and when an injury is not what it claims to be. We are fierce defenders of the children who otherwise have no voice.
She’s fierce. She’s fine. The school is around the corner so I start jogging. Just for exercise, because she’s fine.
The school yard is empty except for two little kids. An older sister and a little brother. They look Indian, but I thought everyone in this town was white. It doesn’t matter either way, but the thought is lighter than my thoughts before. I stare at the girl, trying to place her ethnicity.
She’s angry.
As someone who lived most of their life angry, I know the face. There’s a smile somewhat in place, but she’s doing the countdown.
10, 9, 8… yes. I know that face. She seems to have better control of it than I did at that age. She shakes it off, and then starts to hop down the tall concrete staircase leading to the school.
There’s that gut kick again.
I look at her brother and he knows what’s coming, too. He starts running in her direction, and so do I. Neither of us gets there in time.
My last footstep splashes in a pool of blood.
I catch her, somehow in the middle of another bounce, before she keeps falling. Her brother appears by my side– silent and steady for, what, a kindergartener? Well heck, for anyone. He reaches up and ties his shirt around her head to try to slow the bleeding. His arms are covered in blood by the time he’s done.
When did he take off his shirt? Who is this kid? A tiny brown John McClane?
The girl is breathing still, and I run her up the steps. My sister is already on her way out the door.
Good girl. She’s never forgotten to listen to the gut kicks.
There’s a woman just behind her. She doesn’t look anything like the girl in my arms, but she’s already crying– the tears of a mother. She hands me her car keys and asks me to drive to the hospital. She says she’s too shaky to drive.
I look down. A Mercedes.
Are you kidding me, lady?
I look at her directly so she can see my piercings and tattoos– and my unknown face. She doesn’t know me, but she looks at me like she does. Like a mother. My sister pushes me forward, and I go.
We race down the hill and bolt the girl in the back of the car. I tell the lady about blood on leather, but she waves off my sentence before I finish. Clearly, she could give two flaming yellow ducks about her leather.
The boy has already climbed into his seat by himself and he’s telling his sister to stay awake, as he calmly twists blood out of her long hair. Seriously. Who is this kid?
We take off towards the hospital and get there in record speed. The little old doctor who is stitching up the girl looks just like Mr. Magoo, and he knows all of them. He asks how I’m related.
Do I look related? Can this guy see anything at all?
The boy says I’m a family friend, and I wonder how long it’ll take everyone to realize they don’t know my name. The girl’s dad walks in. I don’t know him, but he looks like her. People scoot out of his way and I wish for a moment that I had that gift.
I add it to my bucket list: Learn to clear out a room with a scowl.
He leans down to talk to the boy, then comes over and gives me a hug. Mr. Magoo loses the stitches in the girl’s hair, and Mom is helping find them.
When did I start calling her Mom? This family is crazy.
“Hey,” I tell the father. “I should go…”
He nods and tells me to take the car. He’ll drive the others home.
“Are you serious?” I ask, “It’s a Mercedes.” I grimace at myself. They’re going to think I’m a mechanic the way I keep going on about this car. “Listen, I’m just gonna leave the keys here and walk. I hope everything works out.”
I’m walking out the door when Mom says stop. The security guard moves in front of the door like he’s her personal guard. He didn’t need to stop me– I full stopped on her words.
What is it with this family? Mom’s got a superpower in her voice.
She rushes towards me and tsks about my clothes. She uses a napkin to clean blood off my hands as she’s talking to me. Then, she hands me her necklace. A diamond necklace.
“I can’t take this.” I say.
“I wore it today for you,” she says, and somehow I know exactly what she means. “Wear it, as a guide, or sell it for your new life.”
The weirdness of all of this is catching up to me and my shoulders tense. What makes this lady think I need a new life? Even if it is true. She doesn’t know me.
“Don’t be offended,” she coos, “It’s family lore. We say people are called in to be guardian angels when they need to be reminded that they deserve a new start. You deserve it. You deserve everything. Take it.”
She presses it into my hand, I take it, and she bustles back to her family. I don’t know why I took it.
But I know I’m not going to sell it. Just in case, you know.
The little brother struts by me and opens the door like a butler making way for a queen. I realize he’s holding it for me.
This family is so weird.
_________________________________________________
I was 7 when Dr. Magoo (not his real name) gave me 15 stitches for the head wound I incurred on my swan dive off the concrete steps of my elementary school. Amy saved me. This was written from her perspective, based on the story she told me afterwards and what everyone else remembered.
In case you’re wondering, she lived on a Top Ramen diet for year, but she still owns that necklace.
_________________________________________________
This is perspective shift is brought to you by the Weekly Writing Challenge, the Remember The Time hop (who kindly absorbed the theme of the Weekly Writing Challenge to lend it some support), and the letter R.
A huge thank you for everyone who participated– you made it a blast to host– and a doubly huge thank you to WordPress for giving me that opportunity. I’m still working through the entries– but I will get to each and every one of you. (That sounded less evil in my mind.) If you haven’t read any yet, be sure to check a few out. I’ve been amazed by each and every entry.
Remember The Time is now a monthly blog hop so you still have time to get in on that bloggy love. Learn more at Emily’s or Kelly’s. Or hey, both.
(Oh, and just for you, Kozo- the brother in this story is the one who saved me from a fridge, who reminds me of Gru, and the one who engaged in cookie-peace talks with me. ♥)
____________________________
Have you ever gotten stitches before or fallen down a flight of stairs? What’s your favorite R word?
