Page 8 of Catch a Kiwi
“Oh,” the bloody girl said. “Yeah. Sorry. I’ll wipe it off.”
“Never mind,” the concussed girl said. “I’ll just be bloody. Make me more … interesting.” Silence, then, and I thought she’d either fallen asleep or passed out again. Maybe they both had, or more likely, the bloody girl had passed into the sort of exhausted stupor that followed in the aftermath of effort, cold, fear, and adrenaline. Or, of course, shehadgone into shock. I probably should have got that blanket before setting out, but too late now, so I punched the heat higher instead.
I made it back to the motorway at last, put the car to the test once more, and decided this had been the right choice. In any case, doubt didn’t help you, not in the moment. Doubt was for later, when you were reviewing your actions. I focused on the road, on the feeling of the car that came to me through the steering wheel, through my very body. Fast, but under control.
“Breathing in,” I muttered aloud, “I calm body and mind. Breathing out, I smile. Dwelling in the present moment, I know this is the only moment.”
“Oh, my God.” It was the concussed girl again.
“What?” Alarm in the voice of the bloody girl. “What’s wrong? Hurts?”
“He’s quoting,” the concussed girl said. “Haven’t I been through enough?”
I smiled. Somehow. Driving much too fast, my car full of mud and blood, with no idea what would come next. “Theresistance to the unpleasant situation,” I said more loudly, “is the root of suffering. Ram Dass.”
“Delilah doesn’t love helpful quotations,” the bloody girl said.
“I’ve got a … helpful quotation,” Delilah said. “Shut the fuck up.”
I laughed out loud.
4
THE OTHER SIDE OF DESPAIR
Summer
Some amount of time later—I was in a bit of a fog, to tell the truth—the man was still driving, and I was still holding Delilah. That is, until she said, “You’re … wet. Making me colder.”
“Oh.” I pulled away. “Sorry.” My arms wrapped around myself instead, because I needed to hold on to something.My teeth were chattering, I was freezing, my skin felt clammy, and my mouth was dry as the Sahara despite the deluge outside. I felt very, very weird. The man was driving fast. I knew fast driving, and he was doing it. Like an … an entitled athlete. Arrogant.
The thought was hazy. It was also unfair, I realized dimly, trying to hold on, to stay here. I pulled my knees up to make myself into a ball, trying to get warm, and forced myself to focus. To think. He’d helped us. He was driving fast because … because he was taking us to the hospital. I should talk to him, ask his name. I should say thank you. I should figure out what we … what we …
Delilah. The van. Our things. All of it.
I couldn’t. My cut hand and leg started throbbing even worse at the thought, my mind trying to go blank. I couldn’t let it go blank, though. The man wasn’t in charge here. He was helping, yes, but it wasn’t his problem. It was my problem, and I was in charge. The minute we got to the hospital, I was going to have to … to figure everything out.
He got to a city—this had to be Dunedin—and slowed down, so we were off the motorway, then taking some turns. We must be getting close. It was good he knew where the hospital was. We’d go in, and I’d …
A driveway. The car pulled into it with a mighty splash and stopped in front of glass doors.
This was it. Up to me.
“Th-thanks,” I said. My teeth wouldn’t stop chattering, and my mind was still doing that blank thing. I fought it, pulled at the door handle with a trembling hand. “If you can help me get … help me get her out.” He was our ride, not our savior. Just our ride.
I was out of the car, then, around to Delilah’s side, saying, “Can you walk?”
“Sure,” she said, but when she tried to get out, she sank back, put a hand to her head, and said, “Just a little … dizzy. My head hurts a lot.”
“Come on,” I said, my arm around her waist. Then I had to put out a hand and steadymyselfagainst the door. Just for a moment. “I’ll help. We’ll go …”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” It was the man, behind me. “Would you let me do it?”
“You can’t … park here,” I said. That was clear to me. That was the focus. “Help me get her up. I can … I can take her.” I couldn’t get enough breath. Why couldn’t I breathe? I was fine. I wasfine!“Life begins on the other … the other side of despair.” That was by Sartre. My mantra, lately. “What if you can’t … what if you can’t get to the other side, though? I don’t think I can …”
I didn’t realize I’d said all that aloud until Delilah said, “Oh, my God. Just stop and have despair. I can’t take any more quotations.”
I said, “I … I …” I still couldn’t breathe, or maybe that was the rain, but my throat was closing up. Was I having an allergic reaction? Was I going to …
