Page 28 of Every Good Thing
“Lucky break, huh?”
I tell him my code, and I’m grateful to see the home screen appear. With his phone tucked against his ear, he scrolls through mine. He calls Dot, who answers on the first ring, and relays my instructions.
When he is done with her, he calls Ben on speaker.
No answer.
“Try again, please. Keep trying.”
He obeys, saying, “Her head seems to be working, kinda, but she’s startin’ to freak out,” into the other phone.
No answer. His voicemail clicks on. “Ben, it’s Jack Harvey on Lena’s phone. Call us back. It’s an emergency.”
A million fears rush me at once. Why isn’t he answering? Has something happened to him? Is he hurt? Or is he avoiding me? He’s mad about this morning. He doesn’t want to talk to me.
I know not to listen. These thoughts aren’t my reality. Ben wouldn’t intentionally snub me. More likely, he’s on a difficult call that’s keeping him occupied. Years of therapy have taught me to focus on what I know, not what I think.
But Ben’s never failed to answer before.
Jack laughs as he juggles the phones and eyes the mess around us. “If you’d gone one foot to the left, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. It’s a dang miracle.”
One foot to the left—tree branches would’ve impaled my head. This doesn’t help. I brace my right hand against the steering wheel to keep it from shaking.
I can’t move my left hand or feel anything but immense pressure on my legs.
The pain intensifies with every passing second, like my body is catching up. Or maybe it’s in my head. That hurts, too. My headache makes me woozy. Sirens echo in the distance, growing closer.
Jack narrates the action quickly. “Police are here. Fire truck, too. They’ll have you out in a jiffy, Lena.”
“Ben’s on duty downtown. Ask the police to contact him,” I say.
Jack steps away. I see booted feet coming together around the pavement’s edge.
“Hey, Lena,” another voice says. “You’ve gotten yourself in quite the pickle here.”
“Donny,” I say, remembering the fireman from the numerous times I called 9-1-1 when caring for Mom. “I can’t reach Ben.”
“Officer Bennett is contacting Wilmington PD right now. How you feeling, dear?”
“Um, anxious. My head hurts, my legs, I can’t move my arm.”
“Let’s get you out of there, huh?”
An embarrassingly strenuous and complicated effort ensues—six firefighters with a slew of tools, two police officers directing traffic, and Jack Harvey navigating two phones and a chainsaw, which he keeps in his truck, of course. When they finally brace my neck, pull me onto a straight board, and lift me onto a gurney, I expect a squishing suck-noise, like a sardine freed from a tin.
Instead, I hear collective sighs and muted praise as they congratulate each other on a safe extraction.
“Dot’s got Ruthie,” Jack reports. “They’ll meet you at the hospital.”
“WPD says Lt. Wright took PTO today,” Officer Bennett adds. “He’s off duty. Is there anywhere else I can call?”
My mind blanks. Off duty? PTO? Maybe it’s the bump on my head, but these words don’t make sense. It’s Thursday—Ben works on Thursdays. “Um, I don’t know.”
Jack checks the family calendar app on my phone with my help. Ben might be at the dentist or getting his hearing check-up.
“Nope. It says he’s at work.” Jack’s perked brow and I-don’t-know expression incite more anxiety, like we’re both thinking the same thing. This isn’t like Ben.
Donny squeezes my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Lena. We’ll find him. Let’s focus on you right now, huh?”
