|Photo compliments of my niece Erin Scott Mokler|
From inside the house I heard a voice I thought was my daughter’s boyfriend. Overhearing the word motorcycle in the short conversation, I was certain that Aaron had dropped by alone as Elizabeth was working this morning. Being right in the middle of some chore and not being able to contribute intelligently to a conversation about motorcycles, I figured I would complete my task before rushing out to say hello.
Suddenly a beckoning, “Barbara, come here…Barbara.” Stepping out onto the deck, I craned my head in the direction of my husband’s voice. I noted that Jerry and our friend Stanley were standing in the middle of our dirt driveway both looking down at something. Suddenly, I stopped. Fear had gripped me as I thought that perhaps one of our cats had met a final fate with a car. I couldn’t move.
“No, I said come here!” my husband’s voice was strikingly more assertive. I crept down one step and stopped again.
“I’m coming.” I croaked.
“No hurry.” Stanley added.
And then I saw her. Sitting in the middle of the driveway-her legs drawn close to her body with her chin resting on her chest. She ran her feet across the gravel and suddenly her legs were outstretched, then drawn in again, seemingly restless trying to seek comfort.
“I have to lay down,” she said. Accident was all I heard. No visible blood. Her body was moving, no moaning. I rushed to get a patio cushion while my husband stayed with her. She seemed disoriented and was ghostly white. Hospital I mouthed to my husband. He shook his head, “She doesn’t want to go.”
“Let’s go,” I opened the car door motioning for everyone to pile in. What was I thinking? There was no way she was ready to move on her own. She began to protest. Somehow I knew I wouldn’t win that battle.
“Did you hit your head?” Please Lord, I prayed, say no. “Did you break anything?”
“Just scraped up. Give me some time. I’ll be OK,” she said with certainty.
My husband held her hands in his and remarked, “Oh, you are so cold. So cold.” High anxiety returned. I coaxed a bit more, to no avail.
She lay on the patio cushion in the middle of our dusty driveway while I prayed that she would be all right.
Later, as we soaked her wounds and I patted them ever so gently.
Once it was over and she decided that she could go to work, I thought of the stranger scooping my beloved daughter into his truck and bringing her home to me. I am grateful for the happy ending, but I am also grateful for this kindness. I wish I could thank him in person for she is dearly beloved.