Thank goodness Delaney wasn’t here or she probably would have missed the bus, I chastised myself as I slapped it into reverse and hit the gas.
There was a loud thump and the van jerked as I slammed into something.
“Oh my God!”
I put the van in park and jumped out, a hundred percent sure I’d hit my own trashcans. They often got knocked around by the wind, and today, I didn’t even look behind me to make sure the driveway was clear of them.
As I ran around the back of the van, I immediately knew I’d hit more than a mailbox. There was a painful moan, and that’s when I saw her.
My neighbor, Fran, slumped on the ground behind my left tire.
Chapter 15
BEFORE
“Fran!”
This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. This can’t be freaking happening!
“Uhhh …” Fran’s eyes fluttered open, then, much to my dismay, she started lifting her head off the ground.
“No, don’t do that! Don’t move. I’ll call for an ambulance.”
I don’t remember what I said next – the words were jumbled, one long string of pleas. A voice not even my own begged someone to help on the other end of the line.
I knelt back down beside Fran. Her eyes were still open, wide and wary.
There’s no blood. She can’t be dying if there’s no blood, right?
“Does anything feel broken?” I gently placed my fingers on her arm, feeling for what, I wasn’t sure. Fran was moving her legs, trying to sit up, so they weren’t broken then. But her arm … her right arm was twisted at a funny angle.
My stomach curled in on itself as I stared at an edge of bone sticking out.
“Stop trying to move, please. I think your right arm might be broken. An ambulance is on its way. It’ll all be okay, I promise …”
“Quit talking to me like I’m a child,” Fran snapped.
“I’m sorry,” I said, quietly. “I didn’t see you! What were you doing in my driveway anyway?”
“Your mail. Wrong box …” Fran huffed. That was when I saw it – several envelopes scattered around the yard, blowing away with the wind …
“I’m so sorry,” I repeated.
Fran rolled her eyes, still facing her head away from me. That arm was looking mighty nasty, and I fought back the urge to vomit.
Sirens rose in the distance, a welcome relief.
“There they are. Almost here …”
“Nothing is wrong with my damn ears,” Fran snapped.
Moments later, the ambulance whipped around the corner, and pulled up next to the curb. Two young paramedics climbed out.
“What happened here?” one shouted, as the other began unloading a stretcher from the back.
“I hit my neighbor with my van. She was bringing me mail,” I said, dully.
“Step back, please.” I did as I was told, watching with concern as one of the paramedics sat on the ground beside Fran and began assessing her injuries.
Fran still looked pissed off, but she surprised me by saying, “Young man, this was my fault. I walked right in front of her while she was backing out. A total accident.”
“No, Fran. I should have looked …”
The paramedic glanced back at me, briefly, and then Fran said to me: “Do you ever stop talking, lady?”
I pursed my lips and leaned against the back of the van.
I definitely wasn’t going to make it into work before my boss showed up. I needed to call the office, but it seemed rude to take out my cell phone with Fran still sprawled out on the ground.
“This arm does look broken.”
The other paramedic joined him with a stretcher in tow.
“I don’t need that. My legs are fine. I can walk myself over,” Fran said. Once again, she tried to sit up, but the young paramedic held her down.
“There could be more broken bones. Or worse, internal injuries. The doctors will have to look and see.”
“I’ll ride with you,” I said, gently.
“No, you won’t,” Fran huffed, just as I heard more sirens.
“Ma’am, you’ll need to stay here. The police will need to speak with you,” the young man said. My heart lurched.
As they loaded Fran into the ambulance, a police officer arrived on the scene. I prayed that I’d done a good enough job of brushing my teeth this morning, because four hours ago, I was hammered drunk.
Chapter 16
BEFORE
The next day it was front page news:
ELDERLY WOMAN RUN DOWN BY NEIGHBOR
“Christ!” I slapped the newspaper shut and pinched the bridge of my nose as hard as I could.
“They make it sound like I ran her down on purpose. A maniac running down a sweet old lady in the street …” I moaned.
I expected Pam to laugh or make a joke, to tell me to stop being so dramatic. But she reached for me, pulling me in for a hug.
We were sitting at my kitchen table, untouched coffees beside us.
I let her hold me, enjoying the sweet smell of her coconut shampoo and the tickle of her dyed blonde hair on my cheek as I swallowed down the lump in my throat that always appeared when I was on the verge of tears.
Finally, she released me, but gripped both of my shoulders with her hands. She gave me a determined look.
I know that look.
“This could have been so much worse. We both know how much worse She could have been killed, Ivy. And it was an honest mistake. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve backed up in my own driveway without a second thought. When you live alone and don’t have small pets or kids, you don’t always think about what’s behind you …”
But that’s the thing: I usually do. It’s just that on that particular morning, I had been over-tired and hungover. Still possibly a little drunk.
Luckily for me, Fran wasn’t pressing charges. Her arm was broken and I’d offered to pay her medical bills.
Who was I kidding? I didn’t have money for that.
But she’d assured me that she had insurance and I needn’t worry. The cop who’d taken the report had also been kind. They hadn’t asked me if I’d been drinking and they hadn’t carted me off to jail …
The only people who seemed upset with me were the people who were supposed to love me the most: my daughter and her father. I’d called Michael first to tell him about the accident, not because I wanted to share, or because he cared, but because I didn’t want him hearing it from someone else. Or seeing it on the front of today’s paper.
“You always were a shitty driver,” he said, the disgust evident in his voice.
I wonder if he called Samantha a ‘shitty driver’ when she had her accident.
I’d expected Delaney to call after he told her, but I still hadn’t heard a word. I guess an accident involving me didn’t require the sort of tearful reaction that Samantha’s wreck did.
But that’s unfair. Samantha’s accident hadn’t been her fault, and she’d been injured. This time, it’s the other way around …
“I don’t know, Pam …” I reached for the paper, begrudgingly turning it over, then back. The picture of me was terrible – double chin, teary-eyed, hair a mess. I was carrying a bouquet of cheap flowers in my hand, crossing the hospital parking lot to visit Fran.