Cautionary Tales (14 page)

Her friends said, giggling, that it meant the boy liked her. He just couldn't say it openly without getting razzed, so he touched her in another way. Well,
she
didn't like
him
. Not after that. Anyway, her folks were hopelessly twentieth century, and refused to let her date yet. She was just an ordinary girl, nothing special, not great athletically, indifferent as a student, and certainly no beauty. So there wouldn't have been much prospect for dating even if she could.

Naturally she wished she could somehow amount to something. To accomplish some great deed, become famous, or at least recognized. But she was realistic enough to know a foolish dream when she saw it. She was doomed to nonentity.

Now she saw a group of boys by the bus stop, and that one was among them, so she just knew that they knew. She didn't take the bus, as she lived close enough to walk, but her route went right by the stop. They would tease her unmercifully. She'd be lucky if they didn't “accidentally” rip her shirt open to prove it. Neither parents nor teachers had any notion what real life was like in or around school. Not only would she be further humiliated, she'd get the blame for making a spectacle of herself. That was always the way it was.

So she detoured quickly, before they spied her. She made a right angle turn, going north. This would take her well out of her way, but would spare her the cruel gantlet of the boys and their juvenile humor. There was another through street two blocks up that would take her safely toward her house. She would be late, but her folks weren't home at this hour, so wouldn't notice.

She made the turn and approached a larger intersection. And heard a crash. She looked up just in time to see the delivery van turn over. It landed on its side with a second crash and slid to a halt. Meanwhile the car that had hit the van skewed to the side, paused, spun its wheels, and squealed away: a hit and run driver. The jerk had probably run the light and caught the van broadside. She wasn't in a position to see its license tag; it was just a nondescript white car.

She ran up to the van. She was the first person on the scene. This was exciting!

Then she saw the man.

He was evidently the van's driver, and he had somehow been pinned half under it. He lay on his back, his arms spread out to the sides, facing up. He was conscious, because he was moaning.

She dropped to her knees beside him, letting her purse, lunch bag, and homework book fall beside her. Then she saw the blood leaking out beside his body. She stiffened with horror. He was badly injured.

“How can I help?” she asked him, unable to think of anything more sensible.

“My legs!” he gasped. “God, they hurt! Make the pain stop!”

And how could she do that? She obviously lacked the strength to lift the van off him, and even if she could, it wouldn't make him stop hurting.

She did remember one thing. She fished her cell phone out of her purse and dialed 911. “Bad accident! Man injured! Send help immediately!” She gave the intersection. “Can you hurry? He's in awful pain. What can I do?”

“Comfort him,” the voice said. At least that was as much as she was able to assimilate at the moment.

She had no idea how to do that. But she knew it would take at least a little time for help to come, and the man was in pain now. How could she help him in the interim? She couldn't stand to see him suffer.

His head rolled back and forth and his eyes were scarily wide. Then his wild gaze caught hers in a desperate glancing contact. “Please!” he begged.

She had to do something! But what? What could she possibly say to comfort him? How could she make his pain go away?

Comfort. Could she somehow comfort him the way her mother sometimes did when she was hurting? Not with words so much as with a hug. But she couldn't hug him; it was physically impossible, there on the pavement. Apart from the dirt and blood. Was there anything else?

She acted before she knew it. She picked up his near hand and brought it to her slight bosom, hugging it to her. This was of course absolute foolishness, but what else could she do? “Help is coming,” she told him reassuringly.

His eyes abruptly focused on hers, and she felt his arm relax. It was working! She was hugging his arm, and it actually seemed to be helping him.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “You're an angel of mercy.” His breathing became less labored. Could that really be all he needed?

But then his eyes closed. She realized that he was relaxing too much. In fact he was probably going into shock. She knew about that from her health class. It was when there was not enough blood left, and the body shut down and died. Maybe like freezing to death. She couldn't let him relax too far, lest he sink into oblivion. She had to keep him alert, at least for the few minutes until help arrived.

Maybe it wasn't comfort he needed so much as distraction. To keep him conscious, alert, but not thinking of his legs. He was a man, and they had certain interests, as the attitude of the boys indicated.

She turned his hand around, then untucked her blouse from her waistband. She threaded his hand inside and set his palm against her small bare right breast. Would it be enough?

His eyes popped open again. He knew what he was touching.

“Don't tell,” she pleaded.

“Never!” he agreed, with a fleeting smile. His fingers squeezed gently. He was definitely awake and distracted. “I'm feeling no pain.”

Someone came. She looked up, and was horrified. It was her church pastor! He recognized her. He saw where the man's hand was. Now she was in awful trouble.

“He's hurting,” she said lamely.

“It is not for us to question the manner God works His will,” the pastor murmured.

Did that mean it was all right, or at least that he wasn't condemning her completely?

“You deserve credit for helping this man survive,” the pastor said.

“No! My folks would never understand!”

“You prefer anonymity,” he said, unsurprised.

She nodded, ashamed.

There was the sound of an approaching siren. The ambulance was finally coming. In fact there were several cars. The police were here also.

“I will handle this,” the pastor said. “Whom may I say comforted this man?”

He was giving her a chance to be truly anonymous! She gazed wildly around. She saw the cover of her school book:
Romeo and Juliet
. It was the Shakespeare play the class was reading, that promised to be really dull homework. “Juliet.”

The pastor intercepted the newcomers, speaking quietly to them. They saw his collar and knew he was legitimate. Actually, probably all the city personnel knew him, because of his calling.

The injured man's hand was still inside her shirt, still grasping her breast, but the medics seemed not to notice. The pastor must have warned them. “Can't help him until we get that vehicle off him,” one said grimly. “Can't medicate him until we know the complications.”

“Lift the van off,” the pastor said. “Quickly, while he is feeling no pain.” He certainly knew the score.

There was another vehicle there. In moments the van was heaved up and off. The victim's crushed legs lay exposed in their pool of blood. She averted her gaze, wincing. The medics got rapidly to work. They were used to this sort of thing.

“Now we can stabilize him,” one said. He brought a kind of cup and put it over the man's face.

The hand relaxed, letting go of her breast. She pulled away, hastily tucking in her shirt. Then she got up, picked up her things, and walked away.

“But she's a witness!” someone protested.

“I am the witness,” the pastor said. “Let her go.”

They let her go, heeding the man of the cloth. He had really helped her.

The accident made the news, but only in a minor way. Similar accidents happened all the time. No one seemed to think anything of it. Her folks never mentioned it.

That Sunday she was at church as usual, forcing herself to go. It was routine. That was the way she wanted it.

But then came the sermon. “This week I witnessed a miracle,” the pastor said. He described the accident, and how the victim's injuries were life-threatening. Was he going to mention her after all? She was frozen with apprehension. “Had he not been saved from shock, he would surely have died before the medics could stabilize him.” He paused. “But God sent an angel to minister unto him, for his destined time was not yet. She took his hand and comforted him, lending him her compassionate spirit, sustaining him, preserving his life. He survives today in the hospital, in coma, but stable. When he wakes he will know he owes his life to that angel.” The pastor paused, and she held her breath. “And the name of the angel was Juliet.”

She let out her breath with a faint wheeze of relief, but her folks did not notice. No one noticed. There was a murmur of appreciation, for the accident had been in this neighborhood and many parishioners knew of it. It was a great sermon. But no one thought anyone here was involved. She was home free.

Back in her room she resumed her homework, reading the ancient play. There would be a test. She discovered she liked Juliet. Juliet was a figure of romance and tragedy, the kind of role it would be fun to play on stage if not in life, if only she could be an actress. Of course she lacked dramatic ability too.

But mainly Juliet was an ordinary girl her own age who achieved greatness because she dared to love. A perfect role model for another ordinary girl.

Secret

She answered the door. It was Saturday, so she was home. “Pastor!” she exclaimed, surprised. He did make house calls, but seldom by surprise.

“May I talk to you and your parents?” he asked. “Something has come up.”

“Sure.” She turned her head. “Mom! Dad! The pastor's here.”

In moments the four of them were seated in the living room. “I dislike bothering you,” the pastor said. “Something has occurred, something private but important. I believe your daughter may be able to help. May I borrow her for two hours?”

Her mother and father exchanged a glance. This was unusual, but they trusted the pastor. He was a thoroughly honorable man who had done much good in the community in quiet ways. He would surely clarify his purpose when that was appropriate.

Soon she was in the pastor's car. “I need Juliet,” he said. “You are of course free to decline.”

“The van driver!” she exclaimed, belatedly making the connection.

“He has remained in a coma for more than a week now. The doctor has impressed on me the need to bring him out of it, as he needs to give consent for what may be risky surgery on his legs.”

“Doesn't he have parents?”

“He is nineteen, legally adult, and his family lives in a distant city. He is a student at a local university. He took the delivery job to support himself, as they are not wealthy. He is covered by insurance, and there may in due course be a settlement from the driver who hit him.”

“They found the ba—bad boy!” she exclaimed, gratified.

The pastor smiled, appreciating her stifling of the bad word. “They did. He was plainly at fault. But that will take months to clarify, while the crisis is now. Do you understand the nature of a coma?”

“He's out cold?” she asked, aware that it couldn't be that simple.

“It's a state of partial consciousness. It is almost as if he doesn't want to come out of it. He faces the possible loss of his legs, and even if they are saved, he will never participate in track meets again.”

“Track?”

“He was a competitive runner, on the university team. Not a winner, but with fair prospects for improvement.”

“And now he can't.”

“And now he can't,” the pastor agreed. “This surely makes for a serious depression.”

“Can't blame him,” she agreed. “But I'm no doctor, or even a nurse. What can I do?”

“You can perhaps bring him out of the coma so his physical recovery can proceed.”

“Me? If the doctors can't do it, how the he—heaven can I do anything? They won't even let me in. I'm not his family.”

“They will make an exception.”

“Why?”

“All he says is ‘Juliet! Juliet!'”

She felt a warm thrill. “Oh my go—gosh!” The man must have heard her say the name, before they put him out. Before he went into the coma.

“I repeat: you are free to decline.”

But she couldn't decline. “Okay,” she whispered. The implication was stunning. No wonder the pastor had said nothing about it to her folks.

Then they were in the hospital, approaching a check-in station. “This is Juliet,” the pastor said.

It was the magic word. This intensive care unit was restricted; only family and clergy were allowed to visit. But the hospital folk also trusted the pastor, and by extension, her.

“This way,” the supervising nurse said. “We call him Romeo.”

Because of what he said. But it really wasn't funny.

They stood beside the bed. The man lay quietly, his lower portion encased in some sort of massive cast. He seemed halfway conscious, but unaware of them.

“I will be in the hall with the nurses,” the pastor said. “No one will interrupt you.”

She nodded, and he departed. She was left alone with the patient.

“Romeo,” she said tentatively.

There was no response.

“I'm—I'm Juliet.”

“Juliet! Juliet!” he said. Then he lapsed back into passivity.

So it would take more than words to bring him out of it. She had somehow known it would.

She untucked her blouse, reached inside, and unfastened her bra. Then she took Romeo's hand and lifted it to her bared breast, setting the palm firmly against her modest flesh.

“Juliet!” he cried, his eyes focusing on her.

“Yes.” He was definitely awake.

“Juliet! I love you!”

Oops. “I—I—” What could she say?