Narrative Draft

Circumstances, emotions, lives. They can all change in an instant. I have never felt this more powerfully than I did this summer.

It’s a pleasant day in early July. I'm driving home after walking through a park with my boyfriend. Sunshine sparkles through the thick, leafy oak trees that spread their branches over the road. I roll my window down and let the evening breeze play with the wisps of hair that have fallen out of my braids. The day was starting to end, but it had been the most beautiful, magical day, I couldn't help but turn the radio up and sing along.  

Even driving the familiar road home is fun. My summer has been perfect, and it’s not even half way through yet. Mechanically scanning the road up ahead, I notice a few cars are turning around. The abnormality of it breaks my thoughts. It must be a car crash. I begin thinking about alternate ways to get home: there’s a road that runs parallel to this one and I've always wondered if it would be faster.

I let myself coast to a turnaround point, and being much closer I realize people are standing around stunned. Help hasn't arrived yet.

Suddenly I am yanking the steering wheel to the right and pulling my car into someone’s driveway. The brake is hardly on before I jump out into the street. I find my way through spectator’s cars before coming upon the scene. I can’t help but just stop and stare.

A black car is upside down on the right side of the road, nestled into the ditch. The other car sits at an angle in the middle of the road, with the front end badly damaged. Glass and crumpled pieces of car were scattered all over the place. If that's how the vehicles fared, I wondered about their occupants. Numbly, I ask a man standing next to me if everyone was okay. The question felt childish. What I really wanted to know was if anyone was dead. Did we need to pull broken, battered, bleeding bodies out of these vehicles?

The man explained the driver of the upside-down car was the guy sitting on the shoulder of the road. He was shaking uncontrollably and I could tell he was trying to talk but he couldn't get much out. A woman was talking to him so I turned my attention to the battered Honda in the middle of the road. The front end was crushed enough that it had bent the passenger door. It wouldn’t open. A woman was trapped inside; her legs were pinned in the mess of metal and car.

Her window was rolled halfway down, she had probably been enjoying the breeze minutes before. The door was bent enough that the window had become dislodged. I grab the top of it with both hands and pull it out. I stand there for a second and wonder what to do with it. It dawns on me I just pulled a window out of a car with my bare hands. The woman groans and it tugs me out of my thoughts. I prop the window against some other wreckage and go to her.

Another man had come to see what he could do. It was obvious we couldn't do much to help this woman. So we talked to her. He put his hands on both sides of her head to stabilize her spine. I held her hand. Even her hand had bruises. She breathed quick, sharp breaths.

The man helping looked intimidating. He was a tall man with broad shoulders. If not for the compassion that filled his scarred face, I wouldn’t have expected him to be so gentle and calm. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Teresa.” Her voice was stained, thick with pain.

“How old are you Teresa?” We knew we needed to keep her conscious.

“Forty-two.”

“Where are you heading to Teresa?”

In between her breaths came something about a party, it was clear talking took a lot of effort. Someone came behind and asked how she was doing. The man turned and I heard him quietly say, “It looks bad.” My eyes wander down to where her legs disappear into the car. I can’t see how bad it is. Then I realize I don’t want to and look back at Teresa’s face. She had quieted down and her eyes didn't seem to be focusing on anything at all. The man sort of shook her to bring her back to us.

“Don’t… Don’t do that.” She moaned.  

“They’re almost here, alright? You’re doing so good, hang in there.” I don’t know what else to say. What can you say? I have no idea what it’s like to be going through pain like this. There’s nothing I can do alleviate it. My words seem useless compared to the struggle she is in.

            She started complaining about her hair. When the man had shaken her, some had fallen in front of her face. I gently brushed away a dark, wavy strand and tucked it behind her ear. In that moment she became so precious to me. This stranger. She became my relative, my best friend, my mother all at once.

            She seemed to be getting weaker. The way her breathing quieted, it was almost like she was giving up. “Stay with us Teresa.” The man wanted to see her freed as much as I did. Time isn’t going any faster. I keep looking towards the road, willing the paramedics to get here.

            And then we hear it. Sirens. Help is finally here. A fire truck parks so as to completely block the road, and men start pouring out. I realize I need to leave. I am only in the way now. I let go of Teresa’s hand and slowly back away. Yet I can’t help but stand on the sidelines and watch. The firemen moved with such purpose. They were hurried, but confident. Everything they did—shouting to each other, pulling out equipment—it was all done with perfect communication and teamwork.

            One fireman sees another bystander taking pictures and asks him to leave the area. I know I must leave too. But I wanted to see them free Teresa. I wanted to see her okay.

The same guy tells another woman to step back. She is in tears and would hardly listen to him. “Did you know her?” I asked.

“That’s my daughter and son-in-law!” The almost panic in her voiced begged the unjust question, why them?

Again, I didn't know what to say. I lamely tried to comfort her and told her that her daughter was strong and the firemen knew what they were doing.  She continued to cry.

I realize it isn't my battle. I should leave. The man who talked to Teresa with me was already walking away. I catch up with him and shake his hand. “Thank you.”
He barely let me finish before saying, “Oh, you too! What’s your name?”

“Lydia.”

“I’m Steve. Yeah, I just saw the whole thing happen right in front of me. I used to be a volunteer fireman so the training kind of kicked in.”

We said goodbye and headed our separate ways. I drove the rest of the way home in silence. 

Three months later I still wonder if Teresa recovered completely. If she even remembers me or Steve. But I have realized how dear life is, even that of a complete stranger. We all have our differences, our disagreements, our opinions. But each and every life is important, something to be treasured. And we have small opportunities everyday to show love and help each other out.