“Hi, neighbor, good to see you coming by.” I can’t say how relieved I am.
“What happened?” Scottie reaches for his head. “Ouch.” He looks dazed and stares at his blood-covered hand.
“You had an accident. I found your car hugging a tree down the ditch and you’re bleeding all over my designer jeans.” His empty, expressionless gaze tells me I just wasted a great joke on him. Maybe my timing needs polishing? I open my first aid kit. “Let me put something on that gash.” He tries to lift his head, but I push him back down.
“Easy!” I put antiseptic on the cut, and he jerks up with a groan.
“Ouch. Careful, Kiddo.” A sigh of relief slips through my lips. He’s talking, so he’s out of immediate danger, I’m sure.
“Come on, don’t be such a baby. I can’t get you up the bank. You are too heavy. Do you think you can help me to get you into my van? I’ll take you home and we’ll have you fixed up in no time.”
He looks at me with what I assume is his version of the you-overstepped-the-line look, but it turns into a ghoulish grimace as he tries to stand.
“I guess it’s not just your head that suffered. Lean on me.” I offer him my arm and step by laborious step we make our way up the bank and to the van. Pale like a ghost, he slumps with a moan in the passenger seat and closes his eyes. If I were the praying kind, this would be a good time to do so, but I’m not. I’ve learned to help myself. Relying on others never worked for any of us.
I don’t trust people. Perhaps Miss Marple, and maybe there might be others who are trustworthy. But I guess finding them is hot, sweaty work, like looking for opals in the Australian outback. And Scottie? He might be a decent enough person and I’m happy to help him. Trusting him is a different story altogether. I’ll trust him as far as I can throw one of the giant boulders in the riverbed. That is that!
When I swing myself behind the steering wheel, Scottie opens his eyes to a small slit. His ragged breathing scares me. I realize I haven’t got the foggiest idea what ails him. It could be nothing or it could be something serious. Are we running out of time?
“Thanks,” He murmurs and closes his eyes again.
A last glance at his truck tells me the smoke has stopped coming from its hood. It’s probably safe to leave it here. Not that I have any other options. I need to get Scottie to the house. What took me five minutes on the way out, takes me over ten minutes back. Yes, I admit it, I am scared and drive like a hundred-year-old lady who celebrates her escape from the old people home with a joyride in the country at the mind-numbing speed of ten miles per hour.
At our place, he’s awake enough to stagger to the house. First, he pushes my arm away but when he almost falls over, he seems to rethink his strategy and leans on me.
“Are all men this stubborn?”
He puts on another unsuccessful grin. I open the door and he stands there like he’s nailed to the floorboards.
“Whoa, what a change.”
His jaw hits the ground. Metaphorically. I feel a tad insulted. What did he think? That we’re sitting all day in the sun and painting our fingernails? I’m getting a little pissed off with him. Just as I warm up to the fact that he is a good-looking guy, in a mature kind of way. Not such a wimp as Horace was.
I lead him to Aunt Amanda’s old couch. After Ama gave it a jolly good bashing with a skillet yesterday, you can sit on the thing without a cloud of dust fluffing up or a hoard of creepy crawlies skittering away. I still prefer the chair. Somehow, I expect arms to reach out from the split between the couch’s armrest and seat cushion and grab me. No thank you.
Anyhow, there is no time for sitting. Scottie needs his injuries looked at and I don’t want anyone saying it’s my fault he has a limp or a funny twitch. No way. I’m standing at the stove and check the hot water in the basin at the back of the stovetop. I chuck another log into the range and hope for the best. No, that’s not right, I am shouting inside as loud as I can, for Elise or Ama to come and help.
I’m not a nurse. I never wanted to be one and I never will. When I say I’m the girl who gets the job done, I mean fixing the computer, or going to the shops and buying things, pretending at a funeral, talking to the post man, that kind of stuff. Never ever did I say I know how to apply a band-aid. I don’t. I know my strengths and my limits. This rescue mission has been way, way out of my comfort zone. Confuse me with Florence Nightingale at your own peril.
Did I say peril? Yip, that’s what I meant.
Elise: 22 November 2015, Late Morning, Wright’s Homestead
What’s the obsession with fresh air and living surrounded by nature? They say it’s good for you, but I’m not so sure. It makes me sleepier than I usually am. Maybe all that pure oxygen is not as good for you as people pretend?
