I stop on the way and pick some berries. They’re disappointing—crunchy and tasteless—until I find one juicy berry that makes it all worthwhile.
Uncle Walt maintained one summer well out near the pasture. It has a hand pump and the water that comes out is clear and sweet. I have to prime the pump with a scoop of disgusting water that has been sitting in the bucket, growing algae.
Once the water is flowing, I work the pump with my forearm and let the water spill over my dirty hand. I have to really take care of this hand now. It’s the last one I have.
I laugh out loud at that and then I sigh.
I sit down in the grass and look up at the stars.
Will there ever be a time when things return to normal?
Am I ever going to get to a time when I can look back and make sense of this summer?
I got swept into an insane current and tried to ride it out. I suppose that I should feel lucky. With everything that happened to me, I just as easily could have died. Wasn’t that the plan though? At some point, I think I decided that death would be better and I stalked death through that long night, trying to hunt it down. I offered it my throat and it wouldn’t bite. All I lost was my hand.
When I spot another berry, I snatch it.
Halfway to my mouth, I inspect the thing. I want to make sure it’s one of the good ones.
I blink at it for several seconds until I get a good look.
Scrambling backwards across the grass, I pitch the thing away from me. It wasn’t a berry. It was a tick and I was about to put it in my mouth. The thought of that makes my stomach twist and lurch.
I push to my feet and head back towards the house.
If I had been thinking clearly, I would have brought a bucket or pitcher in order to take water back to the house. There will be plenty of time later, I suppose. I don’t have anything else to do.
Rounding the corner of the barn, I see their lights coming down the road. We’re on a collision course. The car that’s coming to visit is going to reach my uncle’s dooryard at the same time that I will. For a moment, I entertain the idea of running. I’m not expecting anyone, and I can’t imagine that the visitor is bringing good news.
Then again, this is my house. I nearly died defending it. Why would I hide from company?
I straighten up and walk towards the kitchen door, raising my arm to shield my eyes from the headlights. When they get closer, I recognize the shape of the vehicle. It’s the cops.
They stop just over the culvert. The driver turns off the engine and switches off the headlights. The house is still bathed in the amber glow of the parking lights.
I keep walking until I get to the side porch stairs. I stop and sit. I don’t want to appear to be confrontational. In the hospital, I learned that cops are like caged dogs. They respond to aggression with aggression.
“Can I help you?”
I recognize her voice when she speaks. She’s the one who first interviewed me after my amputation. She took advantage of my condition that time. I was still on really strong drugs.
“Didn’t we talk about you getting a hotel room?” she asks.
“I will,” I say. I’ve already slipped up. Why would I volunteer to do that? “I haven’t finished cleaning up. It’s going to be a long process.”
“You need your rest,” she says. “After what you’ve been through, you need to take it easy for a while.”
“Your concern is very kind,” I say.
The person driving is leaning against the hood of the police car. The woman is still approaching.
I wish I knew my rights. Can I order them to vacate my property? I guess that would be a bad idea. The last thing I need is a combative relationship with the police.
“You’re right on the line,” she says.
“Pardon?”
I look down, wondering what line she’s talking about.
“With a slightly different interpretation of the evidence out here, you could have been considered a suicide risk.”
I narrow my eyes at her. She would be easy to take care of, I’m pretty sure of that. Her partner is too far away though. I shake my head, dismissing that weird thought. I’ve never been a violent person.
“Are you threatening to have me committed?”
“That’s a hard thing to do,” she says. “It’s not so hard to hold you for a couple of days though. I actually argued to let you go on your way. In my opinion, you were still confused from heatstroke and infection. I thought that once you got back on your feet, you would be perfectly reasonable.”
“Is there something unreasonable about wanting to clean up the house before I go find a hotel?”
She pauses, looking between me and the broken windows. I’m glad that I put up the cardboard. It gives her evidence that I’ve been working to fix up the house.
Her voice is softer when she speaks again.
“Please don’t wear yourself out,” she says. I can’t tell if her kind tone is just an act. “I can see that you’re tough, but don’t underestimate what your body has been through.”
I take a breath, count to three, and then let it out.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m just afraid that I would toss and turn all night with the house in disarray, you know?”
She smiles and nods.
“When do you get your power back?”
“Who knows. CMP is on their own schedule, as usual. They’re probably charging me double for the electricity
