Every Second Counts

By Jeanne Althouse

/ Flash /    

Her truck took the sharp turns of the coastal road with ease. Gripping the steering wheel one handed, knuckles red, with her right arm across my seat-belted chest, Jenny held me, as she always had, my older sister, my protector. All I wanted was to sleep, lulled by the twists and turns, pushed side to side, like a child bounced back and forth on a swing. I heard the wind beat against the passenger window. My white hair whipped across my forehead, my scalp tingled, the right side of my mouth drooped in the odd face I saw reflected in the glass.

This morning was summer solstice, the day with the longest period of light. I woke to the first light, civil twilight, when the sun was still six degrees below the horizon. A faint dawn-like candle of sunlight rose up our gray bedroom shades, but the cabin walls around it had a strange half-light that was going dark behind my eyes. I had a severe migraine. I was afraid.

I knelt beside our shared bed, hands folded, attempting the Lord’s Prayer. Our light which art in heaven, hallowed be thy flame. Jenny heard my confusion. She sat up straight, flashed me a look, rushed me out the door, grabbed the truck keys from the hall table.

No time to dress. Every second counts, she said.

Jenny has internal GPS; her brain is like a computer. She’s not a dreamy storyteller like me.

Her truck took the sharp turns of the coastal road. Out my window was enlightened silence, the great quiet, spiritual, like the Quaker’s first Sunday, sitting in a circle outside among the Redwoods. Far away, the sad soft cooing sound of mourning doves. As the morning light moved through the leaves, the earth opened and I saw the tree roots, circled together like a family, whispering. Alongside the truck was a stream with its fish, swimming, leaping, gills alive. One massive largemouth bass jumped into my chest, thumping around, suffocating. I pressed my hand on my heart to stop its agony.

I closed my eyes. Jenny’s arm still held me in place. I felt her warmth on my skin, the heater fan billowing the skirt of my cotton nightdress, the hum of tires, rounding turns. 

Behind my eyes in the dark, I slid back to the past, reviewing my life. I was at the cabin many summers ago, when Papa was still alive, and Mama made her sticky buns on Sunday mornings. Papa with his two girls, yearning for something lost, always gave us boys’ toys. That year he gave us a train set, the Lionel, which had lights, sound effects, and smoke. Jenny measured everything, set up three trains on the same track, ran them independently. She played for hours. I crept off to a corner to write in my journal. I felt the pen in my hand, saw the cursive letters, the discovered arc of a story. We liked to do different things, but always in the same room together.

The truck took its last turn on the coastal road.

My body jerked with the braking. The passenger door opened. The echoes of doves from the Redwoods, the train whistle, the sense of falling into dreams. Jenny’s scream: hold on. 

Then the creaking of the gurney as its frame adjusted to my weight, wheels grinding on pavement, the shock of the defibrillator. 

I opened my eyes to see Jenny’s face. Jenny never let go.