by K B Jensen
“I have to trust you,” she said. “That’s what the survival books say.”
And so she climbed over the armrest and wrapped her arms around the damp, brown jacket. She brushed his hair to the side so it wasn’t in her face. Her legs lined up with his legs. It was an odd pairing, like the wrong kind of food with the wrong kind of wine.
“I told you you’d sleep with me,” he said softly.
And just as she started to get comfortable, just as the shivering seemed to have slowed down, that’s when she noticed the blood. It had soaked through the back of his jacket. It was hot and sticky and congealed against her shaking fingers.
The sight of his blood made her stomach lurch. Her heart pumped her own blood through her veins in an uneasy, fast-paced rhythm. She could feel her heart clunking away sloppily through it all, like it was going to sink in her chest, another piece of faulty machinery in a broken down car. Up to this moment, she had been upbeat and hopeful that help would come soon enough. Now she wasn’t so sure.
“Oh my God,” she yelled. “You are hurt. I’m so sorry.” The features of her face squeezed together as if the tears would rush out of her eyes any minute. But they didn’t. She fought to blink them back. Crying wouldn’t help anything. It would not make him feel any better, and she didn’t want him to panic. “It’s my fault, isn’t it? I’m the one who hit you,” she mumbled. “Fuck.”
“How bad is it?” he asked. “Is there a lot of blood?”
“Not that much,” she lied. “It will be okay. It’s… it’s not that bad.”
“My head does ache, but it’s not the first time,” he said.
“Are you delirious?” she asked. “Have you been delirious the whole time?”
“I never had any intention of shooting anyone,” he said. “They shot first.”
“Hush now,” she said. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
He had a concussion, she thought. He was in shock. She pulled back his collar and saw it was not water that had melted along the back of his jacket but blood. The color had been hard to make out in the dark. She pulled back his hair, and she could see the small wound, a gash at the base of his skull with its edges puckered. It must have started as a tiny trickle of blood at first, but as the time had passed the inside of his jacket had become wet, the collar soaked. He yawned.
“You might have a concussion,” she said. “You shouldn’t sleep.”
“Is that what the survival shows say?” he said, shivering. “Screw it, I’m going to sleep.”
“No,” she said. “You can’t. “You have to stay awake.”
She opened her jacket and tore a piece of her T-shirt off underneath her sweater and held it against the base of his skull. The blood gushed warm into the white cotton. Her fingers were sticky and wet. She was angry with herself for not noticing she’d hurt him. How do you not notice a head wound? What if he died?
“Now that you pointed it out, it does hurt like a bitch,” he said. “Distract me.”
“You want a story?” she asked.
“You and your stories,” he said. “Tell me something juicy, or I’m going to fall asleep.”
“Okay, I think I know how to keep a man awake. So Mr. Psychic, what do you think about this one?
“There once was a girl who was a nymphomaniac. She figured it out when she was fifteen, and a boy made her toes curl so hard they cramped up.
‘How often would you want to have sex?’ the girl asked him.
‘Once a week,’ the boy said.
‘That’s it?’ she said.
‘How about you?’ the boy said.
‘Everyday,’ the girl said, watching his eyes widen. Ahh, she was a freak, wasn’t she, she thought. And so she made this rule early on, a rather old-fashioned one.”
“What was the rule?” the dying hitchhiker asked, perking up.
“Never fuck a man you don’t love.”
“Then you aren’t really a nymphomaniac,” he said.
“It’s a made-up story,” she said, blushing in the dark. Why couldn’t she think of a better story? A real story about a safe topic, a boring, normal topic.
He laughed. “Sure. You know, if you were a man, you’d just be called a man. No one would think anything of it.”
“It’s not fair, is it?” she said. “I guess it’s just a label. Fuck labels.”
“So you aren’t going to be granting a dying man any last wishes, then?” he asked.
“Nope,” she said. “Not unless you make me fall in love with you in a couple of hours.”
“That’s impossible,” he said, starting to close his eyes. “Impossible love. Why don’t you tell me some stories about that?”
“I don’t know about love but I can tell you impossible stories,” she said, dabbing at the back of his head. She examined the wound again. It was ripe and raw with a flap of skin spewing wine-colored liquid in the dark. What did the survival shows say? Keep him awake. Go outside, find a dead reindeer carcass and feed him pieces from it. Oh, those fucking shows. Press down on the wound. The cotton was dripping. “It’s the least I can do since I almost killed you,” she said. “I don’t know what the hell the stories will be about, though. All I can think about is the fact I nearly killed you.”
“It’s not your fault, you know,” he said. “I jumped in front of your car. Besides, it’s nicer to bleed to death inside a warm car than freeze to death out in the cold.”
“Actually, the survival shows say freezing to death isn’t so bad,” she said. “You just go numb and get sleepy.”
“I always mess these things up, even my own death,” he said, smiling. “At least I get to look at someone beautiful as I bleed to death. Turn the engine on, please.”
“It’s already on,” she said.
His head slumped forward and she slapped him gently. “Wake up, now. If you’ve got a concussion, I don’t want you sleeping. They’ll find us soon enough. You can sleep in the hospital.”
He moaned and closed his eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I thought you were crazy. I didn’t know you were bleeding.”
“Maybe I am crazy,” he said. “Why should it matter?”
She leaned forward against the dashboard and heaved a sob or two before collecting herself. The fear ratcheted up in her stomach, tightened in her abdomen, squeezed her chest and spilled out of her mouth in a series of short, tight gasps.
“I’ve made this drive a million times. It’s only sixty miles,” she said. “I should’ve just skipped class.”
“Maybe you should go get help?” he said.
“And where am I going to walk to? This is a rural area in the middle of fucking Wisconsin. There’s not a barn or a house within ten miles of here. I know this road. We just have to stay with the car,” she said. “That’s what we’re supposed to do, stay with the car.”
“Oh, my head,” he said, his hand cradling his skull. “Worst headache of my life. Distract me, please. Please just distract me.”
“Did I ever tell you the story of the dog?” she said. “Of course not. We’ve never met before this.”
“It feels like we have,” he said. “I think I’ve known you a long time, since we were children.”
That doesn’t make any sense, she thought. The poor man isn’t making any sense anymore. Did he ever make sense? Why was he walking in the middle of a snowstorm? The wind roared outside, shaking the car slightly.
“What were you doing out there walking around?” she asked.
“I don’t remember,” he said. “Why were you driving?”
“I told you I had to get home,” she said.
“A sixty-mile commute. Environmental karma. Your carbon footprint must be horrendous,” he said, leaning back his head and wincing. He seemed to go in and out in terms of coherency. Sometimes she’d swear he was normal. She wondered if he could be faking it, but then again, she could see the wound as clear as day.
She ripped off another piece of her T-shirt and dabbed t
he back of his head and his neck. Her stomach felt exposed under her sweater and coat. She just pushed the cotton against the mouth of the wound. The bleeding seemed to have slowed. He moaned. She rubbed his back with her other hand.
“Has anyone ever told you the story about the dog?” she said. “The St. Bernard?”
“No,” he said. “Why, does it matter?”
“It’s a true story,” she said. “A friend of a friend swore it was true. His friend was babysitting this guy’s St. Bernard while he was on vacation, and the dog died.”
“Oh no,” he said.
“And it was a record hot Chicago summer and the thing instantly started to rot and stink in the heat. She called the vet offices to find out how much it would cost to cremate the poor thing. The cheapest place was $200 bucks. She was a student, so she didn’t have any money or a car, but she was gonna put it on a credit card.”
“Why didn’t she call the owner?” he asked.
“She tried, but she couldn’t get a hold of him.”
He leaned back his seat some more and closed his eyes, picturing the giant dead dog and this scrawny, blond girl in his head.
“Then what?” he asked. He took a broken breath.
“So she has no way to transport it. The dog weighs hundreds of pounds and she stuffs it in a huge suitcase and can’t even close the zipper all the way. One of its paws is sticking out, and she keeps trying to push it back in. She wheels the suitcase to the Brown Line train station. But the station has no elevator and she’s struggling up the steep, narrow, wooden steps.”
He opened his eyes and there they were at the bottom of the steps and the petite, blond girl with the wavy hair was pulling this suitcase up, step by step, walking backward, her back hunched over, her thin arms stretched out like her elbows were going to pop from the strain.
“And this guy offers to help her. ‘Thank God,’ she says. ‘Thanks so much.’ He carries it up and they get to the top a split second before the train pulls away, and he darts inside. The doors slide shut, and she watches him pull away with the suitcase with the dead dog. He was a thief. He stole the dog. And she’s left there wondering, shit how am I gonna explain this to the owner. He’s never going to believe me.”
“That didn’t happen,” he said, shaking his head and then wincing from the pain. “Come on. That’s impossible.”
“Maybe the details are sketchy, but there’s still some truth to it,” she insisted. “It did happen. And imagine the thief, what he must have thought when he opened the suitcase and found a dead dog.”
“I can imagine,” he said.
“You know why I’m telling you this story?” she said. “A week ago, my cousin from Mississippi told me the same goddamn story. I kid you not.”
“What happened to the dog?” he asked.
“I like to think he’s been traveling,” she said.
“All the way to Mississippi and back,” he said.
“Yeah, you get it,” she said, smiling. “No one ever gets my stories.”
Then he slipped off into unconsciousness for a while and she let him stay in the land of dreams. She hoped she didn’t let him stay there a little too long. She tapped her foot nervously and then stopped, worried about bothering him.
“Have you ever stolen anything?” she whispered in the dark when she saw his eyes open.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve stolen a few hearts.”
She rolled her eyes and then remembered he was hurting. She hoped he hadn’t seen her reaction in the dark. It was unkind and she knew it. She rubbed his sleeve and the fabric felt cold. Her fingers were cold in her gloves, their tips going numb. The gas was getting lower and lower so she didn’t turn the engine on. Their breath rose like clouds, twirled and evaporated then rained down along the windows in streaks. She couldn’t help but draw on the windows with her fingertip, anything to pass the time. Help, she wrote. Help!!! No one would ever read a sign in condensation. No one would ever notice it. But it felt like a cosmic message she was sending across the universe, nothing fancy, just another prayer really.
“I’m going to die, aren’t I?” he said.
“No, you aren’t,” she said. “Not in my car.”
“Would that be impolite?” he mumbled.
“Yes, you’ve got to live so you can pay for my upholstery cleaning bill,” she said dryly.
He didn’t laugh. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll pay for that.”
“I’m just kidding,” she said, grimacing. “I’m sorry, I have a knack for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. What the hell is wrong with me?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Maybe it wasn’t a bad thing to say. It’s true. Your upholstery is ruined. And what’s wrong with feeling a sense of earthly obligation? Maybe it will keep me here for a while.”
“You talk kind of funny for a sick man,” she said.
The upholstery was all black anyway and the car wasn’t exactly new. The blood would never even show.
“I am a learn-ed man,” he said, smiling. “At least I was once, in a past life.”
She smiled, and he winced suddenly, like a knife had been twisted into him.
“I’m in so much pain,” he said. “No one ever seems to notice.”
“I’ve noticed. I’m sorry,” she said.
“What are you studying?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Accounting,” she said, involuntarily making a face.
“Respectable profession. Why the face?”
“I’d rather be a writer.” She sighed.
The wind whistled outside the car. She pulled the sleeping bag up higher against her neck.
“Then why don’t you?” he asked.
“Everyone tells me I’d starve,” she said.
“Maybe you would,” he said. “But you could always marry well.” He laughed.
“Maybe,” she laughed. “But there’s one other problem. I never share my stories.” “Why not?”
“I’m afraid everyone will think I’m crazy.”
“Maybe you are,” he said. “Nothing wrong with that. I like crazy women. I can relate to them.”
He smiled, and she smiled, and he grimaced again.
“I like to tell stories,” he said. “How do you come up with a story?”
“I daydream it,” she said. “I just sit and daydream it, and it plays like a reel in my head. I can see the characters sitting and talking to each other. I can hear the dialogue like a play or a movie. The edges are blurry. It’s a rough sketch, maybe I don’t know what the furniture looks like, or the color of the kitchen counter or the color of someone’s eyes, but I love to dream up a story. It’s a great escape.”
“You ever have nightmares?” he asked, taking her gloved hand and holding it in his own. She nodded. He squeezed her hand tightly. There was no warmth between them. There was too much fabric.
“I used to have nightmares that I’d been shot in the neck,” he said. “I’d call 911 for help and the dispatcher would tell me, ‘You’re not really hurt, you’re fine, you’re going to be okay, you can still talk.’ I’d ask my parents and friends for help and they’d all say the same thing. You’ll be fine. I’d just keep wandering and bleeding and asking for help, and no one would listen until finally my brain had had enough of the torture and told me to wake up.” “I’m sorry I didn’t notice earlier,” she said. “You haven’t been shot. You’re going to be fine. You’re going to be okay.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m still talking, aren’t I?”
She was quiet after he said that. She had said the wrong thing again, hadn’t she? She had lied to him just like the people in his dreams, and what’s worse than a lie?
“Tell me one of your stories,” he said.
She sat there, her breath rising, her chest rising, trying to think of something. One character or another flashed through her head, a line here or there. She’d have to tell it on her feet. She wasn’t good at telling stories on her feet, she thought. She was nervous. Something
about telling a story was like taking off her clothes, and he was a stranger. But what the hell, it wasn’t like he was going to remember judging by the state of his head. He might not even live. Her chest was tight. Her shoulders were tight from the cold.
“Okay, this story isn’t true…” she said.
“Of course not,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“Let me get started,” she said, trying to buy time.
“Hurry up,” he said. “I have a bad feeling we’re going to die at four a.m.”
“Four a.m., really? On the spot?” she laughed. “I’ll keep an eye on the clock.”
She probably should’ve been more frightened. “I know it’s silly, but I’ve always thought I can’t die until I finish writing my book,” she said quietly. “I’ve got to stick around.”
“Is that so,” he said. “I didn’t know writing was a ticket to immortality. Maybe I should take it up.”
“I don’t know about immortality,” she said. “Maybe if you get famous, but I never will.”
“Why not?” he asked, leaning his head gingerly back against the headrest.
“My stories aren’t that good.”
“Ah, a writer without an ego. Why don’t you let me be the judge of that,” he said. “Tell me a few. Come on. To pass the time.”
“Do you think it would be better if I tried to go get help?” she said. She reached for the handle on the door.
“I don’t want you to leave me alone,” he said, pulling her back. “Besides, what do the survival shows say?”
“To stay with the car,” she said softly. She was trying to convince herself it was the right answer. It was eerily quiet. She waited for the whoosh of a car going past but there was nothing, just the howling of the wind.
“Tell me a story about a taboo,” he said dreamily. “Tell me a story about something no one talks about. Tell me a story about something you don’t know a damn thing about.”
He had beautiful eyes, she thought. It was hard to see them in the dark, blue and deep in the pale snowlight. There it was again, silver and pale. The snow had let up. Now the wind was blowing wisps of snowdrifts around the car. It felt like they were moving, but they were still. His eyes were starting to close again and she lightly shook him.