M. K. Stelmack - Coming Home To You

Her gaze drifted to the green lettering on the man’s black baseball cap. Greene-on-Top . The logo showed a roof peak jutting up through the lettering. Beneath the cap, his hazel eyes were warm and steady. Was this what Elinor meant when she praised Edward Ferrars for “the expression of his eyes” in Sense and Sensibility ?

“How can I help?”

Ah. Yes. He’d asked her that already. She needed to answer. “My godmother.” It sounded like an expletive, so she gestured to the driver’s seat.

The man—what was his name again?—looked past her to where Fran sat slouched, arms wrapped around the wide wheel, head down, in a kind of sitting dead man’s float. “I’ll be right back,” he said and disappeared inside the restaurant.

Before she could turn to Fran, two more people approached the door. A man dressed nicely with a tie and polished shoes, and a young woman in jeans and a neon yellow safety vest.

“You hit our vehicles,” the woman said, pointing a thumb to her fellow complainant.

Oh. Oh. He must be the owner of the hearse, the undertaker. Daphne had wrenched the wheel from Fran after she hit the hearse, only to ram into the building. She decided not to point out to the woman that Fran was the one in the driver’s seat, as they could very well see for themselves. Or that she was clearly not well. Instead, she pressed Sense and Sensibility to her chest. “Thank you for pointing out the obvious. You may go now.”

The woman looked ready to storm the steps, but the man touched her arm. “Let’s give the lady some room. She’s not going anywhere.”

Daphne was only too happy to let the man edge the neon-clad warrior away. Through the open door drifted a male voice on a phone. “Right away. Traffic’s backed up a quarter mile in both directions, the parking lot’s a mess...Okay, thanks.” Oh. A call to the police.

A long horn blast burst out, and Daphne whirled to see that Fran’s head had fallen against the steering wheel.

“Fran!” Daphne lifted her godmother’s head, easing off her thick sunglasses. Fran was deathly pale and her eyes fluttered shut. Was she having an attack? Had she mixed up her medications? What? What?

A young man in a Tim Hortons shirt appeared at the door. “Everyone okay here? Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

At the mention of an ambulance, Fran straightened in her seat. “Nonsense. I’m fine.”

“A man said he was going for help,” Daphne said. Wait. He’d said he’d be back, and she’d assumed he was going for help, only—

“I got this.” Mr. Greene-on-Top had reappeared with a blonde woman around Daphne’s age. The other woman made a beeline up the steps to Fran. Mr. Greene took up a position on the top step, while the Tim Hortons fellow scuttled back into the restaurant. Would he call an ambulance?

The woman crouched beside Fran. “Hello. My name is Linda and I’m a nurse. How are you feeling?”

Fran groaned. Daphne recognized it as a sound not of pain but of aggrievement. Fran had acquired the same pained tolerance with nurses that she had with her academic peers, and they with her.

“Not bad for stage-four terminal pancreatic cancer. And you?”

Linda’s mouth twisted in either humor or annoyance or pity. With Fran Hertz, likely all three. “Not bad either, considering you nearly ran me over.”

She turned to Daphne. “Did she lose consciousness at any point?”

“Just now, she closed her eyes. I don’t—”

Fran slapped Daphne’s hands off her head, one of which still clutched the paperback. “I didn’t lose consciousness. I didn’t get the chance before you nearly shook the teeth out of my head.”

A blatant lie.

Linda tossed out another question. “When did you first notice signs of impairment?”

“Impairment?” Fran said. “I haven’t been drinking!”

Daphne didn’t know how to answer except with the embarrassing truth. She held up her book. “I’m unable to comment. I was...reading.”

“The same story for the tenth time,” Fran said. “Can’t get enough of Elinor and Edward.”

More like the fiftieth. “Nothing seemed amiss until she attempted to negotiate the turn onto the street. I strenuously advised against it but she—”

“Wouldn’t listen. Story of my life. Anyway, all’s well that ends well.”

Mr. Greene looked out the windshield at the RV lodged in the restaurant wall.

Fran grunted. “I guess we’ll have to sort things out.”

“I’d like to see you lie down,” Linda said. “Do you want help to your bed or can you manage on your own?”

Fran opened her mouth in protest but the wail of sirens preempted her, and she sighed. “All right. Let’s do this.” She turned to Daphne. “You still not in clothes?”

Oh. Daphne glanced at Mr. Greene-on-Top, who suddenly found a great interest in the geometric floor tile. Oh! She clapped the book over her chest. To assist Fran, Linda edged closer to Daphne. Daphne shuffled out of the way, only to bump against her hide-a-bed, which was still folded out. Off balance, she plunked down on it, or more precisely, on a bag of chips, which crunched ever so finely under her bottom.

Linda eased her hold on Fran to lower her onto the bed.

“I’ll sleep here over my dead body!” Fran said. “Granted, that won’t be long from now, but still, I will not lay my bones on this refuse heap. My room’s at the back.”

More crunching, rolling and crawling of the three women ensued, ending when Daphne pressed against the small dining table to allow them to pass down the hallway.

“Just so you know,” Fran said as Linda ushered her through the bedroom door, “the second you leave, I’m back at the wheel.”

“That’s fine,” Linda said, “since I will have the keys.”

Oh, heavens. Fran thrived on adversity. Her fragile health always seemed to rally just so she could rail against someone who dared to oppose her. Which probably explained her deteriorating state on this trip, since Daphne avoided controversy the way a mouse skirts open spaces. Still, Daphne now had a reprieve to face—

Mr. Greene-on-Top was gone. Breathing a sigh of relief, she slipped inside the bathroom, which doubled as her dressing room.

She set her book by the sink. It wasn’t easy; her hand had gone into a kind of rigor mortis, and she had to pry her fingers from the cover and then flex her hand repeatedly to regain motor control.

She peeled off her nightie. Yes, the apparel was unseemly and impractical, but Daphne had been in desperate need of inspiration. Writing a book required some.

Unfortunately, all the nightie had served to do was embarrass her. Which was par for the course. Nothing on this sweaty, bumpy, boring, mosquito-tormented, quarreling, pill-driven, five-week and are-we-there-yet? excursion across the True North Strong and Free had turned out as intended.

She’d spent the past month secretly hoping they’d head home to Halifax. Back to her university office, crowded with shelves of silent, stationary books. Back to her apartment, with its full bookshelves and thick curtains and a quiet so profound that the starting of the fridge fan could jar her.

Well, with their means of transportation now stuck in the wall of a Tim Hortons in some Albertan town, her wish had partly come true. Not exactly a return to Halifax, but they wouldn’t be moving forward. At least, for a day. Longer, if at all possible. If not for Daphne’s sake, then for Fran’s. The accident had proved that neither of them were in any shape to continue.

Over the loud sirens outside and through the thin wall between the bedroom and the bathroom, Daphne heard Fran’s voice. “Rest with you here, ready to rob me blind? I might be dead tomorrow but neither was I born yesterday.”