over the river

by Kymberlee Rosen

AFTER CLOSING NIGHT of Tis’ Pity She’s a Whore, I drive north at a pretty good clip out of Milwaukee in Mom’s brand-new 1984 Toyota Celica—custom chocolate brown, tan interior, with a moonroof, too, but there’s no moon tonight. The city lights twinkle in my rearview mirror. I’ve got blood stains on my hands, stage blood that I made for the show, and I feel a little like Lady Macbeth driving this long hour home through the countryside to West Bend. I’m wearing a black, sleeveless, asymmetrical sheath I designed, and Gran’s big pearl choker, too, and a new pair of pantyhose—the pricey ones that come in a plastic egg. I swear I’ve taken this route so often I could drive it blindfolded.

A light mist hangs in the air, and I flick on the wipers and turn them off and on again because it’s not really raining. The wipers squeal. I pass cornfields and cow pastures separated by unincorporated towns that consist of a few houses, a church, a cemetery, and at least three taverns with bright neon High Life, Blatz, and Old Style signs lighting up the gloom. The mist on the windshield fuzzes the tavern signs just enough so they look like Christmas lights in May.

About a year ago, my older brother Brad got into a bad accident in mom’s old car. He rolled it over three times and only survived because he wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, so I refuse to wear a seatbelt.

I sing “Over the river and through the woods…” because that’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m going home to grandmother’s house.

I mean, it’s our house now, too. A couple of years ago, we left our crappy apartment on the other side of West Bend and moved into Gran’s condo when she had a stroke. Her right side is completely paralyzed, and her brain is a big bowl of coleslaw.

When it first happened, we looked at a bunch of nursing homes, but Mom thought they were the third ring of hell and couldn’t imagine leaving her mother in any of them—and those were the good ones. The ones in our price range were really awful, with dirty beds smelling of urine and the residents parked in hallways and ignored. We thought about a full-time home caregiver, but they charge like a bazillion dollars an hour, which—we found out the hard way—is still not enough pay for all they have to do. Mom figured she could take a leave of absence from her job and keep Gran home until the end. Mom was the convention coordinator for the West Bend Company, and since the next convention was almost a year away, her boss thought it would be okay to take some time off because Gran’s condition was so severe that doctors said she wouldn’t last more than six months.

That was almost five years ago. Mom looks like she’s aged twenty, her hair gone fully white, her sparkling blue eyes turned a dull gray. She’s hunched. She’s permanently tired.

I should help her more, but I don’t. I’ve been driving back and forth to college in Milwaukee, an hour each way, nearly every day of the week. I’m graduating from college in a few weeks, so maybe I’ll have more time then.

Mom’s life is lifting Gran in and out of her wheelchair, on and off the commode, wiping, changing, bathing, feeding, medicating, treating bed sores. And Gran babbles and drools and waves her finger like she’s saying something profound. And she gets really angry and tries to hit or scratch. And there’s always poop or something gross under her nails.

It’s all a complete drag.

I pass Cedar Creek Tavern, which sits on the bank of, you guessed it, Cedar Creek. The water is only about eight or ten feet across, but the bridge is arched just enough that you can’t see the road on the other side. The car dips before the river and rises, and two glowing eyes glare out of the darkness. Right in the middle of my lane is a possum. He freezes, staring at his imminent doom.

Before I can formulate a thought, my foot slides left and brushes the brake. I can still hear Mr. Clements yelling from the back of the Driver’s Ed room when I braked for the simulated rabbit on the screen. “Miss Egan, you’re dead! How many times have I told you, do not break for small animals in the road!”

The car swerves wildly left, right, left. A deep V creases the hood when it meets with the black and white post on the other side of the road, and I lock my elbows. The crunch of metal is deafening. The rear of the car rises, I’m looking straight down into the ditch, and suddenly, I’m flying.

The air is cool and there are a million stars in the sky. Weird that there aren’t many clouds. Where is the mist coming from? And how tall are these pine trees? They look small from way up here. This is really going to hurt when I land. I hope the damage to the car isn’t too bad. Mom loves her new Celica. And then nothing.

Something cold and rough presses against my cheek, and all I can see is wet blacktop and a possum’s butt end waddling across the road. It takes a moment, but I finally realize that I’m in the middle of the road, too.

I lift my head, pull my hands under my shoulders, and press up. This is harder than it should be, feels like an elephant is sitting on my back. My arms shake with the strain. I squint at the bright taillights and notice the license plate is upside down. Then I see the wheels on the top of the car, one still spinning. A single, thin whiff of smoke rises from the underbody. The headlights are shining into the weeds

When I haul myself to my feet, I feel strange. Is one of my legs suddenly shorter? Shreds of nylon and threads of blood—real blood—cover my knees and shins. I’m only wearing one shoe, and it’s missing its heel, and I limp over to the car and lean on the door and slide down into wet grass and stretch my legs across the gravel shoulder of the road.

Quiet is everywhere, and I can hear the night. An owl in the distance hoots about something that probably has nothing to do with me.

Something tickles my forehead, and there’s a sharp sting when I touch it and now there’s something gooey and black on my fingertips. More blood. Real blood. My neck is killing me. Gran’s pearls are too heavy so I reach up to take them off but they’re not there. I grab at my throat and feel all the way around.

Shit. My head falls against the door with a thwump. I can’t lose those. Maybe they’re still in the car. I flop down and roll onto my side so I can see in. The roof of the car is smashed flat to the top of the steering wheel.

Now the possum chitters from the edge of the creek.

“What are you still doing here?” I ask. “Enjoying the show?”

Inside the car, there’s mangled metal, big tufts of upholstery stuffing, shattered glass scattered like blue diamonds in the glow of the dash lights, but no pearls. Fuck!

The night seems to be getting darker and the chirping crickets, impatient. The mist is turning to rain, and the wind runs through the field with a whisper, up through the oak next to the creek. The leaves rustle and clatter. Finally, the wind rattles the pine branches over my head and tiny pinecones drop with muted thumps.

The Cedar Creek Tavern is only about a quarter mile back but seems three miles away. Slowly, I pull my feet to my butt and push up, walking my hands up the side of the car. Everything hurts. Cold is seeping into me even though the temperature has to be in the mid-seventies.

I clop, pad, clop, pad, keeping my balance with one hand on the chassis until I get to the front of the car. The gravel hurts my bare foot, so I hobble along the edge of the road, one foot in gravel, one in grass. The possum inches back as I advance.

“This is all your fault, you little fucker. I shoulda just killed you like Mr. Clements said.”

He sits up on his hind legs as though he understands.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m glad I didn’t kill you.”

I take another unsteady step and he scurries away.

“Hey! Where you going? Aren’t you gonna stick around and help?”

There’s a driveway leading through the pines alongside the road. I can’t see a house, but it’s probably right on the other side of the trees, which would save me a lot of steps. I take the gamble and walk up the driveway.

The trees are only two deep and the house is close. I’m right on the line between the darkness and the porchlight when the door opens. A barefoot woman in a quilted robe and curlers swings the screen open, squints at me, and calls back over her shoulder, “Irv, I told you I heard something. Call the sheriff.”

I hold up my hands so she can see them. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to trespass. I just need to use your phone,” I say.

“Tell him we need an am’blance too,” she says. “Looks bad.”

“Thank you,” I say and drop my hands.

“Anyone with you?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “I’ll go wait for the sheriff by my car.” I turn back up the drive.

“Do you want some help, hon?”

“I’m okay. Thanks though,” I call over my shoulder and limp back up the way I came. I wish I could just disappear.

“Irv! Would you hurry up? Put your shoes on and go with her.”

“That’s really not necessary,” I say. “I’ll be fine. I’m sure they’ll be here soon.”

Just then, Irv comes out of the house, pulls a trucker cap over his milkweed white wisps of hair. “I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” he says. He’s wearing a plaid bathrobe tied at the waist with a rope. His legs are bare. He has on heavy boots that he didn’t bother to tie. The laces flap with each step.

“Really, sir. There’s no need,” I say.

“Hush now,” he says. “She ain’t gonna let me back inside before the sheriff gets here anyway.”

“Thank you,” I say.

We clear the trees and he asks, “You slide into the ditch?”

“Not exactly,” I say.

He walks toward the car, and as soon as he’s not looking directly into the headlights, he stops, hands on his hips. “How in the world?”

“Yeah, I know,” I say.

“You been drinking, young lady?” he says.

“No, sir. There was a possum in the road. I swerved to miss it.”

“Ya know,” he says. “Ya should’a just hit it.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“You’re lucky you ain’t dead.”

“Ya think?” I say.

“Hmph,” he says. “You ain’t gotta be like that.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right.” I cross my arms and rub my hands quickly over my bare skin.

Irv looks at me. “I’d give you this robe, but I ain’t got nothing else on,” he says.

“I’m good,” I say. “Thanks though.”

“Where you coming from, dressed like that?”

“Milwaukee. I was at a play.” I’m suddenly very self-conscious and brush my hands down my sides, smooth my dress. “There was a closing-night party.”

“A play, huh? Not used to country roads?” Under his breath he adds, “City folk.”

“Oh, I’m not from the… I live in West Bend.”

“Like I said, City folk.”

He takes his hat off and uses the bill to scratch the top of his head as he walks around the car. “Fancy ride,” he says.

“Yeah, it’s my mom’s. Or it was my mom’s.”

There’s a distant cry of sirens getting louder.

“She’s gonna kill you,” he says.

“That’s the least of it.”

Two sets of flashing lights come over the hill: one sheriff, one ambulance.

The sheriff rolls to a stop in the middle of the road, gets out, and inspects the wreck before he even looks at me. I wipe another trickle of blood off my forehead with the back of my hand and wave.

He pulls a pen and pad from his breast pocket and comes too close. I take a step back. He takes another forward.

“Are you the driver?”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

“License and registration?”

I point at the car. “They’re in there.”

He clicks his pen. “Have you been drinking?” he asks and tries to smell my breath.

“No, sir. I swear.”

He radios the station, gives them my information, and tells them to notify Mom, as two EMTs—one man, one woman—jog up, rolling a gurney between them. There’s a board on the gurney that they tell me to lie on. The man pulls straps across my head, chest and hips, pinning my arms to my sides.

“Is this necessary?” I ask.

“We have to make sure you don’t have a spinal injury.”

“I don’t,” I say. “I’ve been walking around for half an hour.”

“Ma’am. Please lie still.”

“Ma’am?” I say. “Really?”

They roll me to the back of the ambulance and slide me in like pizza on a peal into a brightly lit oven. They climb in, one on either side of me. The woman straps a blood pressure cuff on me and pumps it so tight I think it’ll amputate my arm. The man takes a pair of scissors and starts cutting my pantyhose.

“NO!” I shout and press against the restraint, try to lift my head.

He stops and looks at me, his eyes wide. “What?” he says.

“I just bought these,” I say.

“But they’re…” he looks at the woman. She shakes her head and he looks back at me, shrugs and continues cutting the hose.

I accept my fate with a whimper.

By the time the ambulance pulls into the ER, Mom is already at the hospital . I’m not sure how she got here without a car.

There are tests and X-rays, and a CAT scan, pokes, prods, and a million more questions. The sun is streaming through the windows by the time they move me to a regular room. Mom stands next to the bed.

“She’s a bona fide miracle,” the nurse says. “From what I understand, the car is completely totaled, but she’s got nothing more than a couple of scrapes and bruises. She didn’t even need stitches for the cut on her head. She’s gonna be just fine.”

The look on Mom’s face says I might not be once she gets me alone.

“The doctor wants to keep her twenty-four hours for observation so she can go home tomorrow,” the nurse says and leaves the room.

When Mom looks at me again, tears break their dam and stream down her face.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I get it if you never speak to me again.”

“I’m so glad you’re ok,” she wails and falls across my chest, squeezes me like she’s never letting go.

“What happened?” someone on the other side of the bed asks, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Brad is standing in the shadows.

“You scared the sh— ” I look at Mom and back to Brad. “Scared the crap outta me. As usual.”

“It’s a talent.” He shrugs and comes to the side of the bed. “What did you do?”

“Well,” I say. “I didn’t kill a possum.”

About the author:

Kymberlee Rosen is a fiction writer who has recently dipped her toe into the nonfiction pool. She received her MFA in Creative Writing from Pacific University last June. She and her husband live in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Now that their two children are grown and flown, they share their home with a dumb but loveable dog and two feline overlords.