WEEKLY WRITER'S PATH #10
OVER THE 25 YEARS WE HAVE BEEN TOGETHER, I have learned not to worry about my husband, Ron. He’s told me often enough not to, and it has been a good habit for someone with an active imagination. So I didn’t freak out when a stranger named Leo called my cell phone Wednesday afternoon and carefully explained there had been an accident in Pilar, just outside of Taos. My husband was OK, he said, up and walking around, but had lost his phone and asked that I be called.
Looking back, I could best describe myself as being in a giddy state of shock. I didn’t ask for specifics — some unwritten code of ethics between the family at home and the strangers at the scenes of accidents, I suppose. I didn’t ask, Is he bleeding? Is anything broken? I didn’t ask, Is he crying? I did ask Leo to tell Ron that I loved him. It seemed so silly, so obvious, trite almost. But nagging the back of my mind was the thought that Leo was sparing me the full details, and it was possible that Ron was seriously hurt. It just seemed like the appropriate phrase to be uttered at that moment.
Before we hung up, Leo did give me one distressing bit of information: that the van had rolled and the ambulance was taking Ron to the hospital for tests, “just to be safe.” The image in my mind was of the groceries Ron had just bought at Cid’s. We’d talked several times already by 2pm and twice about what groceries to get. I thought of the loss of those groceries: the gomasio I’d specifically requested, the organic fruit and vegetables he bought every week when he made his salsa and chile deliveries to Taos.
The other image I had was of Ron the moment before he rolled, the intensity of his trying to control the vehicle. If he swore under his breath, if he saw it coming, if he heard the screeching of tires and shattering of glass like they do in the movies. Leo had explained a car had tried to pass him, but didn’t make it. That the other driver was claiming full responsibility. That the van was totaled. I told Leo that I knew Ron was wearing a seat belt; he always did.
I realized I’d have to rearrange my afternoon to go get him. I let the ten million details of getting out of the house and organizing the kids control me. I actually had to force myself to remember how to drive the two hours to Taos.
It wasn’t until I was in Española that I heard Ron’s voice. The fuzzy, white noise of the emergency waiting room didn’t obscure his soft tenor. He was already done; they’d X-rayed and let him go.
“Are you really OK?” I pitched my voice over the car’s engine.
“Did they tell you I rolled six times?” he asked.
I couldn’t answer, my voice caught in my throat. I pulled into the Dairy Queen and called everyone to let them know he was OK.
When I got to Holy Cross Hospital I was amazed as anyone would be to see him sitting in a chair reading a paper. He was not limping, he was not bleeding, no bandages, only scratches on his knuckles, a piece of yellow straw embedded in the shoulder of his grey sweater. The worst bloody spot was the taped cotton ball over the inside of his elbow where they’d stuck him for an IV. I shook my head at him and smiled.
“Thank god for the seatbelt angel,” I said.
“I think Ralph Nader is an atheist,” he answered.
The next day, Ron drove back up to Taos to recover his books and phone from the van. Later that evening I walked past the kitchen sink and saw a spaghetti squash, apples and oranges floating in water — chunks of salsa, tomatoes, cilantro and onion splattered over their bruised, scraped flesh. I had to turn away, the smell of that bloody salsa turning my stomach.
The next morning the food was in the drying rack, all cleaned up, but still damaged. This fruit, I thought, went through the same experience that Ron went through. I picked up an apple, turning it in my hand. Dark brown bruises on every side, gouges a quarter of an inch thick, "Braeburn Certified Organic” sticker still in place. And he'd saved it, brought it home.
I took it to my desk where it sits on my alter in a place of honor.
