Page 27 of Every Good Thing
“Ben, Lena’s been in an accident.”
Six
LENA
“Hey there, little lady,” a faint but familiar voice encourages my eyes to flutter. “Lena, do you hear me?”
My eyelids feel weighted as they peel open. Jack Harvey looms over me, upside down. He wears his usual dirty overalls, dingy baseball cap, and a wide-mouthed smile.
Through an incomprehensible haze, I say, “I used to think you and Alice were serial killers.”
“Did ya now? We get that a lot,” he says. “How ya feelin’, sweetheart?”
“This is a weird dream.”
“This ain’t a dream. Don’t you go fallin’ asleep, ya hear?”
“What’re you doing here, Jack?” I ask faintly, though I don’t know where here is. My eyes don’t seem to be reporting properly to my brain, like the connections have been shaken loose, probably thanks to my massive headache.
Upsidedown Jack is on his phone, murmuring to someone else while talking to me—it’s very unlike him. “Is that Alice? Tell her I said hi… and thanks for Ben. Always, thanks for Ben.”
Alice’s extensive contacts led to me calling Ben Wright to help with my parents’ gun collection after Mom died. Fuzzy memories swirl of bonding with him over guns and cupcakes. “He eats them in two bites.”
Lightheaded, I close my eyes. Now doesn’t seem the right time to talk cupcakes. Silly goose. I smell them in the air, though. Scents of lemon and cream cheese mix faintly with swamp and gasoline.
“Lena, stay with me, hon.”
His stern words force my eyes wide open. What the fuck am I seeing?
“Holy shit!” I gasp. The dark cave I somehow imagined is my car—twisted, broken, distorted. Reality is a funhouse mirror. Everything’s wrong. It’s a nonsensical tangle of nature and car—tan plastic and leather, dark metal pieces, and glass everywhere, juxtaposed with ditch water, a dirt mound, and thick tree roots pushed into the side like a passenger.
The cracked windshield lies against black mud, murky water seeping through the gaps. The dashboard is crinkled like a can underfoot and spotted with purple icing and yellow cake bits—Millie’s cupcakes. The dashboard and steering wheel are jammed into my lap with a deflated airbag in between. Too much pressure.
And blood.
There’s fucking blood! Smeared against the airbag, on my shaking hands, splattered over the gauges. My hair dangles against broken roots, cutting through the car over my head.
Not over me. Under me.
Jack’s not upside down—I am! My seat belt holds me in place.
“Call Ben.” My voice sounds unsteady and unfamiliar. “Please, call Ben.”
“Stay calm, Lena. We’re trying to reach him. Everything’s fine, but you shouldn’t move. Help’s comin’. Okay, darling?”
Where am I?
My head throbs, just trying to put the fuzzy pieces together. Driving. Dinner plans. Ruthie.
“Jack! Jack!”
“Right here, Lena.” His massive frame blocks the sunlight as he leans in.
“Call Dot, please. Ask her to pick up Ruthie from preschool. Tell her to haul ass.” Tears flood my eyes that I can’t do it myself. I wriggle in my seat, desperate to pull through the smashed driver’s window. I’m too cramped, too constricted, and panic surges through my broken fortress.
Ignoring the pain sharply cutting up my body, I squirm to reach my phone, lying on the dashboard. “Use my phone, Jack.”
He fishes it from the dashboard nook by its charging cable. Then, with a grin, he holds it up to show me its intact screen.
