“Damn it, what the hell is the matter now?” Dawn muttered to herself. Experiencing automobile trouble, frustration festered. Her headlights were randomly shutting off, staying dark for a short period of time, then suddenly illuminating once again. The reliable car, a fairly new Pontiac Sunbird, never did this before. Things were happening. Beyond the car trouble, Dawn was feeling incurably ill. The unstable and unpredictable headlights were only a part of a greater instability. A depression, a sense of grave despondency internally manifested, becoming a physical presence that Dawn was positive was going to back up out of her stomach and onto her lap. She started swallowing in effort to halt the impeding vomit.
Earlier in the evening, she finished a bottle of wine, and after dropping off her daughter Jessica at the Simon’s home, she returned home and drank a Foster’s lager oil can. She rarely drank beer, purchasing the large cans because they reminded her of ex-husband Shawn. He used to drink the imported Australian beer regularly. Dawn took to keeping several cans of the large imported beer stored in her refrigerator.
As her automobile headlights switched off again, this time seeming as if they were not going to come back on, Dawn panicked, harshly flicking the switch off and on, desperately attempting to produce brightness. Thoughts scattered, focus wavering, she unintentionally pressed down upon the gas pedal. The acceleration sent the Sunbird into a slide. Out of control the car careened over an embankment and struck a tree, forcing it to a violent halt. The car stalled after a morbid belching sound. Steam rose from its crumbled hood.
Soiled and in pain, Dawn felt utter resignation. Her head struck the windshield and she could feel blood flowing down her face, tears quickly following. For some crazy reason however, Dawn’s mind wandered away from the accident and onto her checking account. It had become such a burden. It never was before, but now it was a problem. She was constantly forcing the bank to cover her checks with cash from her savings, the lack of effort costing her twenty dollars per transaction. It was just plain stupid and lazy. She considered herself organized and now she found herself unable to keep the simplest things in order. The pain and reality of the automobile accident was distant, just another problem.
There was a mental block stopping Dawn from dealing with the situation, a fear controlling her that was undermining the basis of her life. She saw it as something else, an evil force that she allowed to take control of her life. Fear ruled her every action and word, every step she took was under the presence of a devastating trepidation, a gnawing uneasiness that caused her to be constantly on guard. Everything seemed wrong. She started to cry hysterically as she saw a reflection of herself in the rearview mirror. She looked horrible, a bloody mess.
A thought struck, a concept recalled. She remembered hearing that as an adult everyone was responsible for the appearance of his or her face. One’s elderly face did not depend upon birth for beauty. Beauty for the aged developed through grace and experience. Some who were considered unattractive in their youth became beautiful through time. Some who were considered beautiful in youth grew only into awkwardness, their appearance becoming distressing. Within imagination, a face emerged. Dawn recognized the sanctified feminine face. It belonged to a nun she witnessed speaking on television. The religious sister possessed a soothing radiance, humble peace and purpose embodied. Dawn admired the face and disposition, concluding that was how an adult face should appear. The Poor Clare displayed a vibrant confident innocence. Speaking softly, she articulated on the story of Our Holy Mother in Fatima. Dawn scrutinized the nun’s face, searching for signs of inner frustrations or something regarding the results of celibacy, however she was pleased to be confronted with a sincere innocence, ashamed of herself for having putting the nun ‘on trial’. Accepting the integrity of the nun, she identified the beauty of a child within her adult countenance, a retained innocence she had never noticed in an adult face before, a vivacity she admired in her daughter Jessica.
Dawn could no longer stand to look at her own face. It was just another sign of her lack of control. She was nothing she felt she should be, or expected to be as a young girl. Unpredictably confronted with her mirrored image, such as moments when she stood in front of a window or glass doorway with darkness beyond, confronted by her reflection, Dawn instantly turned away, shuddering within insecurity. She could not stand to look at herself. She was positive she looked crazy. Now viewing her bloodied reflection, she started crying. The vomit she was successfully holding back released itself.
As Dawn wavered, she felt a strength arise. Within hopelessness, within striking a bottom, a blind subtle hope emerged. Dawn focused on Jessica, her daughter. She had to pull everything together for her little one. Her love and life called to her. She took inventory of herself, realizing she was really not hurt that badly. If she could only pull herself together. As she often did, she pondered what would happen if she simply did nothing. Could a miracle occur? The passing of time would produce results no matter what her actions were, so what if she just sat and did nothing? A miracle would never come. Who cared about what happened or what was going to happen anyway? Here she sat with her head bleeding, chest hurting and depression dragging her down, and for the most part she could really care less. The weight of her life was too heavy.
The Sunbird’s headlights switched back on, the light beams piercing darkness. Dawn laughed. The right headlight’s rays, forced to shine directly upwards due to the accident, appeared mysterious traversing into the night through the branches of the tree. Dawn held on to the image of Jessica. She must move forward. Hope was there. The Simons would help. Denny? She wished she could see him and tell him how shitty she felt, she didn’t care how weird it would seem. Dawn switched the ignition key off, then flipped off the car’s headlights, conceding the fact she would not be able to drive away from the accident. Calmness collecting, she wondered if she was going to receive a DUI.
Putting together a plan of action, she could not determine her location. Tracing mentally backwards, she recalled deciding to take a drive before going to a nightclub in Point Place. She was in Michigan. She recalled crossing the state border due to a colorful roadside sign announcing arrival in Toledo. The sign was decorated with a rising sun. Dawn noticed the sign because she recalled reading an article in the Toledo Blade describing the new welcoming feature announcing her city. It was the first time she saw one of the signs. Thinking about the signs helped produce clarity, providing structure and coherent linear thinking. Looking outside of her automobile, Dawn was surprised to see someone watching her. An elderly woman was standing in her bathrobe, reassuringly smiling at her.
Dawn rolled her window down. “I seem to have crashed into your tree.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that. Are you all right?”
“I think so, nothing serious. I don’t think I can drive my car though.”
“Why don’t you just come inside and we’ll get you washed up.”
“That sounds nice. I hope it won’t trouble you.”
“No, not at all.”
Dawn was astounded. The elderly woman was standing in front of a streetlight, glowing as she looked at her. Her thin bushy white hair created the effect of a halo. An angel appeared. The woman helped Dawn exit her automobile. Standing, she felt a rush of blood that almost caused her to faint, the weight of her body collapsing onto the old woman. The smell of vomit was horrible. Dawn was embarrassed. Miraculously, the old woman seemed to pick her up, catching her, carrying her through the snow. Once inside, the elderly woman guided Dawn into her bathroom. The old woman turned her shower on, before helping Dawn strip herself of her clothing, then guiding Dawn into her shower. Before entering, gathering courage, Dawn observed herself in the mirror, shocked by the amount of blood stained upon her face.
“I think it would be best if we got you cleaned up. If you would like I will drive you to the hospital afterwards. I think I have some clothes that will fit you nicely.”
“Thank you for everything.”
“It’s OK. Just get under the water.”
The idea blossomed wonderful. The steam tumbling out of the shower looked extremely inviting. Dawn introduced herself as she stepped into the shower. Once clean and dried, she felt sore, but confident. The cut on her head was really not that bad, it had just bled a lot. On the whole, she realized her wounds were nothing serious. She had taken a blow, but she would be able to go on. The thing she needed the most was a good night’s rest, peaceful sleep to remove the effects of being drunk. Considering the fact she should have been wearing a seatbelt made her realize she should probably call the police. She definitely did not want to. The old woman entered the bathroom with an armful of clothing as Dawn grew anxious about confronting authority figures.
“Here is something for you to wear. They were my husband’s. He passed away just over three years ago. They don’t get much use now. I think they will fit you though. He wasn’t that large of a man. Why don’t you get dressed and come into the kitchen? I made some coffee.”
Dawn was amazed by the fit of the clothes. Slightly large they seemed perfect for her mood. A pair of cotton boxer shorts, a white cotton T-shirt, a cotton sweatshirt, sweatpants, sweat socks, and a pair of white boat sneakers made her feel comfortably warm and protected. Embarrassed, she wondered what the woman had done with her filthy clothes, her attire for an entertaining evening of single adult fun. She wanted to know the elderly woman’s name.
Drinking coffee, having learned that the woman’s name was Betty, Dawn avoided talking about the accident. It seemed Betty was not going to bring it up either. Oddly, they were making small talk about a niece of Betty’s who worked in the emergency room at Mercy Hospital. She had not seen her in a while, wondering if she would be working. Although other hospitals were closer, the idea of a relative of Betty’s working at Mercy made it more appealing to travel a greater distance for medical attention. The sound of the doorbell ringing interrupted the women’s conversation. Together, Betty and Dawn answered the door, neither were surprised to see two Toledo police officers.
“Good evening Ladies. We had a call from a neighbor regarding an accident. We were wondering if you knew anything about the car in your front yard.”
Approximately forty-five minutes later everything was settled. Dawn’s car was towed to a garage. The police were satisfied with her explanation about losing control as she tried to get her headlights to work. The possibility of alcohol playing a role was never brought up. Betty acted as if she had known Dawn for a long time and insisted an ambulance would not be necessary. One of the officers found Dawn to be a charming and attractive lady. Dawn perceived his admiration as she settled the matter of the accident. The officer slyly mentioned that he and his partner ate dinner every Wednesday at around seven at a diner on Telegraph Road, just north of the Ohio Michigan border. Dawn caught the intentions of the invitation, complimented by the affectionate attention. It made her feel less ugly. Departing, sitting in the passenger seat, the officer kept his eyes on Dawn, smiling and waving as the police cruiser drove off.
Dawn laughed when she thought about the despairing mood that had overtaken her during the accident. Feeling lighthearted, she found it amusing to turn and see Betty standing next to her also waving at the police car. She tucked her arm into Betty’s and simply smiled at being alive.
“Betty do you know how bad I felt right after I hit the tree.”
“I think so dear. I was standing there for a while watching you. It wasn’t just the accident. I could see that. You were struggling badly with life. I felt very sorry for you. I lost my husband, as I have already mentioned, and we never had children, medical reasons on my part. So I have struggled.”
“So what do you do?”
“Nothing. I don’t want to give evil a foothold in my life. I quiet my fears, trusting God. I believe evil thrives on sadness and suffering. It takes advantage of such things, inducing fear. I let the negativity that is so easy to wallow in go away and then I cherish little things, like offering a young lady who needs a hand a shower and warm clothes. What else can I do?”
Dawn thought about her ex-husband Shawn. What was he trying to do? She thought about herself. What was she trying to do? What did she want to do? Oddly, she recalled her boss, the photographs he had shown her of his recent summer vacation. Her boss, fresh from a second divorce, had tried unsuccessfully to put the moves on her when she first started working for him, causing an initial loss of respect. His vacation photographs were taken during a motorcycle trip to Sturgis, South Dakota for a Harley Davidson rally. The man, a lifelong professional executive, purchased his first Harley Davidson the summer before, then ventured to the rally clothed in leather with a red bandanna wrapped around his head. It was a drastic image change for the man. He undertook the trip with three buddies, all upper class men in their early forties. Dawn found the photographs asinine. All she could see were pictures of men trying to be something they were not. Once again she thought about Shawn.
“We should get you to the hospital.” Betty placed her arm around Dawn as she guided her back into her home.
