Stop Acting Like You’re Saving Them
By Maddie Rae
Grief like the guy still spinning the sale sign on the corner of the street where a car crash just proved fatal. He was spinning when the cars initially collided, an unprotected left turn at the light. He was spinning when those random strangers from the other cars jumped out to help, like they could help. He spun when the ambulance arrived, when the bodies were peeled from the seats, when the white sheets were draped over their bloodied faces.
He spun not for the dead, but for the living: all those stuck in the traffic behind, looking desperately over their dashes to try and see the carnage. It’s like the guy knew people like carnage. It’s like the guy knew people were sick and gross and nosy and liked to shake their heads at car crashes and think that’ll never be me.
The two sitting in the sedan a few cars back had seen the accident happen. Before he knew they were dead, the boyfriend said, fuck, what idiots. They were not among the strangers to jump out and help. At first, when the paramedics arrived and the white sheets were pulled, the girlfriend averted her gaze. She closed her eyes and grimaced like she’d seen people do. The boyfriend tried to imagine the moment of the crash where their breathing stopped. Was it impact or was it moments later?
But thirty minutes later and the ambulance doors were still open. They stared blankly at the nondescript figures beneath the white sheets, settled side by side on their stretchers, unmoving. He wrung his hands on the leather of the steering wheel, it screeched under the strength of his palms. She glanced at him, and his knuckles were white. She wanted to tell him to stop but instead she sighed loudly and propped her elbow on the door and her head in her hand.
Their groceries warmed in the seat behind them. She thought about the ice cream, how when it melted it would leave the bag and the other items in it sticky. It was the reusable kind of bag, so she couldn’t just throw it away. She sighed again, loudly, imagining washing it in the sink.
At the store, he had suggested putting the ice cream in a separate bag, in one of those plastic ones you have to pay for. She had insisted on using the reusable one instead, making room beside the eggs. He called her cheap. She had argued back, said it was the principle of it all, the karma, the morality. He said, fine whatever, but I won’t be the one to clean the eggs when it melts all over them and she said, that won’t happen.
She was beginning to wonder why he didn’t bring it up as they sat there, heat on high, just waiting for the ambulance to close its doors. He was certainly thinking about it, she knew it. It was only a matter of time before he mentioned it. Or perhaps he was waiting until they got home just to really make a show of it, pulling each item out of the bag in disgust. She could already imagine the voice he’d use when he’d say just look at these eggs! She imagined how soggy their carton already was.
She watched the paramedics and the police amble from one side of the accident to the other. She thought, they’re dead, stop acting like you’re saving them.
She sighed. Her boyfriend said I wish you wouldn’t do that. You know I hate it when you do that.
What? Am I not allowed to breathe?
He wrung his hands on the steering wheel. She turned in her seat, facing away from him. She watched the guy spin the sign just outside her passenger window. They made eye contact and she didn’t look away.
THE END
Author Bio: Maddie Rae is currently a MFA candidate at Western Washington University, and she finds most of her story inspirations by spending time outside rock climbing, mountaineering, or hiking in the Washington wilderness. She lives in Bellingham with her rabbit, Fab.