Migrations(77)

“You’re alive,” I say again, “and you’re upside down in your car, and I’m going to get you out.”

The pervasive fog of fear evaporates within me. I hold fast to the facts that will keep us together, the three of us, and these are the facts that I know: she is alive and I’m going to get her out.

“Help,” she whispers. “I have to get out. I have to get out.”

“I’m getting you out,” I tell her and I have never been more certain of anything. I crawl out and run to the other side of the car, climb in feetfirst so that I can smash my foot against the seat belt buckle. The shoes are useless, heels, for the goddamn first time in my life. I crawl out and fling them off, fling them with all the rage I can afford and then there’s calm again, certainty, as I crawl back in and smash my bare foot against the plastic and it hurts, it hurts so much, I can feel the blood in a warm flow over my foot and ankle, but I kick it again and again until I feel the plastic give way, letting the woman free. She falls on her head and I twist around until I can slip a hand beneath her skull. What good it will do I don’t know.

She is crying, sobbing, bleeding. It is catastrophic. I have the thought simply and clearly: this is madness.

Our faces are lying close. Turned like lovers.

“I have the uniforms in the boot,” she says.

“What’s that, my love?”

“For my son’s football team. I picked them up today. I was meant to get them a week ago but I kept forgetting and they had to train in their tracksuits. He was so annoyed about that. He’s such a brat sometimes.”

We laugh together, both of us.

I stroke her face. “I think we should try to get out of this car.”

“Yes. Can we make sure to get the uniforms?”

“Of course. What’s your name?”

“Greta.”

“Greta. I’m Franny.”

She is shaking, her voice a croak.

“Can you move your body, Greta? I left your door open so you can crawl out, if you can.”

“My hair’s short because of cancer,” she says.

“What?”

“I shaved it. To raise funds. Not because I have cancer. Oh god, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that I have cancer—”

“Shhh, it’s okay, I understand.” She is panicking again so I say, “It looks fucking badass,” and she smiles, bolstered somehow.

“It does,” she mutters. “It does look fucking badass.” Then, “I really need to get out now.”

It occurs to me that I haven’t seen her move at all, and maybe that’s because she can’t, maybe she shouldn’t. “It might be better to wait for an ambulance…”

“No, I need to get out. I have to get out.” She starts to struggle and I’m worried she’s going to do herself more damage.

“Okay, hang on,” I say. “I’ll go round to your side and help you. Wait for me.” I crawl out backward and sprint round once more.

“Niall, she’s awake!”

“Good,” he calls.

“I’m getting her out.”

“Is it safe to move her?”

“She’s moving herself, I need to help her.”

“All right, good girl.”

Poor Greta is all contorted in her seat, lying dazed on her head and neck, and I pray she doesn’t have spinal damage, I pray we’re not about to make anything worse, but if I can get her into our car then maybe, if it’s still running, I can drive her to a hospital.

“Can you get the uniforms first?” she asks.

“No, love, we’ll get you out first and then I’ll get the uniforms, I promise. Come on now, can you move your arms up a bit so I can … Yeah, that’s the way…” I don’t know how to drag her out, I can’t get a grip anywhere, her body is too slippery with blood …

I take another breath and force myself back into the car, my body pressed atop hers so that I can get my arms around her torso. “Wait,” she says, terrified, “just wait, wait,” but we’re past that now, I have her just right so that I can brace myself on my knees and drag her out and at first she isn’t moving, she’s wedged, but I clench my teeth, demanding everything I can, screaming with the effort and her body is sliding out over the twisted metal and the rough bitumen of the road and— I see her eyes fall closed.

All the blood leaves her face. She is waxen, gone. I don’t know how I know it so soon, so immediately, but I can see her gone.

“Greta!” I shout.

She’s dead.

I stand, recoiling from her. There’s so much blood. I see it now. It’s spreading around my bare feet. I have pulled her almost in two.

“Niall,” I say. “Niall, she…”

I turn and stumble back to our car. I open Niall’s door and lean over for his seat belt, which he hasn’t removed, strangely, and I click it open so that he can get out, and I say, “Come on, we can’t stay here—” and then I see.



* * *



His eyes are still open.

They are so beautiful, so changeable. I see so many colors hidden within them, the russets of autumn, tawny forests, and even flecks of gold in the right light. They have been deep browns and hazel greens and an endless night black.