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by David Lanvert
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I’m enjoying the first beer of the morning at the tavern down the street from my apartment. I’m alone in the bar except for Phil, the bartender, who’s at the far end sneaking a drag on a cigarette he keeps lit on the ashtray on a high shelf. An engine roars outside, getting closer, horns in the background honking in protest. Then there’s an impact and the bar shakes. It reverberates in my chest and I flinch. The adrenaline kicks in and my fingertips are tingling, suddenly cold. Phil turns towards me wide-eyed, with a “do something” expression on his face, his mouth agape, cigarette falling on the floor.
I’m out the door a moment later, blinking in the sunshine, headed around the back of the bar. The few people out on the street are vibrating with the indecision that comes from witnessing an accident. They move with the randomness of windup toys in a store display. No one wants to be first on the scene. Turning the corner, I find a mid-60s Buick lodged into the back of the bar. Through the passenger window, I glimpse an elderly woman lying on her right side across the sedan’s bench seat, her feet still under the pedals and her head towards me, near the door. At least she’s in the “recovery position,” on her side instead of her back, keeping her airway clear. It’s not the first thing I learned in combat medic training, but something that’s always stuck with me.
The car’s still moving, bucking and stuttering, intent on continuing its mission. I open the door, lean over her and grab her keychain, turning off the ignition and setting the whole thing swinging. Keys, a bottle opener, a small Lucite picture frame of twin girls with “Grandma” in pink script, and a silver whistle all sway back and forth over a floor littered with cigarette butts, ashes, and animal cracker crumbs. Grandma’s purse sits upside down on the floor mat, half on her foot and against the accelerator. The handbag is the size of a 7th grader’s backpack. Clipped grocery store coupons and all manner of tissues, cash, coins, receipts, prescription bottles add to the tableau.
I back up and look her up and down, from her feet on the far side to her head resting nearest me. Her arms are dangling in the footwell. The right one is at an odd angle due to a nasty fracture, a greenstick break in the forearm. The sharp bone is poking through the sleeve of her blouse, an insult to the pattern of yellow daisies and bluebells. I lift her left arm enough to reach her wrist and search for a pulse — nothing, and no wedding band either. No husband waiting at home for her return. I kneel on the ground and lean on the doorsill, turning my head to position my good ear near her mouth, listening for a whisper of breath, a gurgle, a moan. I try again for a pulse at her wrist, my touch light and hopeful against her radial artery. Grandma’s face is unmarked, but she’s lost most of her teeth on the steering wheel. They’re on the seat next to her cheek like kernels of corn. I’m sweating, and the car is redolent of dust and burnt oil. I take a pause and wipe my forehead with my sleeve.
What’s next? There are no bullet wounds or signs of trauma from an improvised explosive device to find. Grandma’s not eighteen years old and lying in the desert under a smoke-filled sky as I grope to find a wound, to fix something. Iraq was years ago, but my last patient is with me every day. He’s with me now. His name was Schroeder, and he had a thing for Snickers bars, which is why his face was always broken out. I don’t eat Snickers anymore.
I cradle Grandma’s neck, check one more time for a pulse, and find the surprise under my hand, a lump like an Easter Egg. Why am I thinking “Easter Egg?” I glance up to the keys dangling, the photo swaying like a metronome, keeping time. The girls in spring dresses posing with the Easter Bunny stare back at me, smiles frozen on their faces. Sorry girls, Grandma’s broken her neck. She’s gone.
A siren calls in the distance, getting louder. I think about my beer growing warm on the bar inside. I dust off my pants, straighten my shirt, and wait, keeping her company.
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David Lanvert is a management consultant and has worked in a variety of industries including healthcare, consumer products, and the tech industry. The son of a Cold War veteran, he took advantage of a recent lull in business-related travel to pursue his dream of becoming a published author. He lives in Southern California with his wife, who is his number one critic, editor, and fan.
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