Cheryl Wolverton - Among The Tulips

Short, round and wearing an apron, he shook his meaty fist before pounding on her window. With each slap to her window, her head pounded out a cadence of objection to the noise.

He shouted, loudly, in Dutch.

Her head nearly exploded.

She had to calm him down, had to apologize, make him understand that she hadn’t meant to hit his car. What was she doing? Why had she come here? Did they arrest foreigners for auto accidents?

Lifting her hand to her aching head, she felt something wet and sticky. Glancing at her fingers, she saw her hand come away with blood. Oh dear. She felt dizzy and turned her head away from the sight.

She couldn’t help her eyes from slipping closed. Her hands went to her eyes and pressed gently as if to relieve the headache. “Do you speak English?” she asked.

Alarmed at how weak her voice sounded she tried to speak up. “Does anyone speak English?” When no one answered, she lowered her hands and opened her eyes.

Her window was still up. No one could hear her—and the man still screamed.

Fumbling, she reached for the knob to the window and proceeded to roll it down. “Does anyone speak English?” she repeated, her voice still sounding weak. She hurt from head to toe and didn’t think she could move.

The man ignored her question and jerked the car door open.

She gasped as she realized she could move—but it caused her a lot of pain. The throbbing noise in her head increased, drowning out some of her attacker’s unintelligible words. He pointed at his car and then back at her.

Had she been in the wrong lane? She tried to remember, but everything was fuzzy. All she could remember was she had been driving down the street on the way to the hotel just outside of town…

She turned to get out of the car. A crowd was gathering. Panic edged up her spine. She had to do something, say something, find someone who could help her. Her chest tightened and her palms grew slick with sweat.

Why hadn’t she listened to her son and daughter? They’d both nearly disowned her when she’d told them of her plans last week. She’d seriously considered not coming, but Cynthia and Amy had convinced her she would have a great time.

She reached up and grasped her head. It pounded viciously from her movements. The front window of the car was smashed. She must have contacted it with her head. That would explain the lump that was forming on her forehead as well as the blood.

Pushing herself around, she gasped in pain as she moved her right leg. Looking down she saw both knees were bloody too.

Hearing the murmurs, she glanced carefully back up.

“Does anyone speak English?” A large crowd swarmed around, talking and pointing. A mob? Did they have mobs here? What would they do to her? Her vision narrowed as she felt herself breathing faster.

Oh no. She had never been in a situation like this. Never. She tried to slow her breathing.

A policeman appeared and started asking questions. She wanted to cry.

She couldn’t understand a word he said.

Again she asked herself why she had come to Holland.

“English. Eng-lish!” she cried out.

“Do you need some help?” The deep baritone voice came from in the crowd. Desperately she looked around, trying to find who had spoken.

The crowd obviously knew. People turned, pointed and started babbling.

The noise level doubled, which in turn, doubled her headache. “Please, yes. Who said that?”

She reached for the car door, intending to stand.

“I did.”

A tall man, at least six foot, stepped forward as the crowd parted. Dressed in a pair of casual jeans and paint-splattered top, he looked vaguely familiar—American, she thought. Long hair to his shoulders, slightly wavy and pulled back in a ponytail, and deep blue-gray eyes; he had a casualness that bespoke comfort in his surroundings.

Funny she should notice all of that about a stranger. “I can’t understand the policeman. I’m a tourist.”

The man turned and spoke to the officer, who in turn motioned for the people to move back. Another officer showed up and began directing people out of the way.

The man who had been yelling at her now turned to the officer and began telling him something in rapid-fire Holland-ese. What language did they speak? She didn’t remember.

Finally her link to the local language turned back to her. “Are you hurt?”

Insurance papers. Driver’s license. What all was she supposed to show the officer? “Yes.”

Annie gripped the side of the car and the door and started to lift herself out.

“Wait—” the American said.

The first bit of weight on Annie’s right leg told her more than anything else that she really wasn’t okay.

She cried out in pain and pitched forward—right into the arms of the American.

She saw stars, and then, the next thing she knew, she was lying in the man’s lap on the sidewalk, staring up at a blue sky.

“Why did I do this?” she moaned.

“I tried to warn you that sometimes shock will prevent a person from noticing injuries. Now lie still until we can get you to a hospital.”

Annie blinked. Warm strong arms surrounded her, holding her gently.

“Who are you?” she asked, more than willing to take his advice because moving, she decided, wasn’t a priority.

“Call me Victor,” he said simply.

She nodded, or tried to. She realized Victor was holding a hankie to the lump on her head. “Ow.” The pressure hurt.

He gentled his ministrations. “You have a small cut there.”

“I want to go home,” Annie whispered.

She could hear all of the voices around her, and she had never been so frightened in her life. She trembled from the pit of her stomach to the limbs of her body. She lifted her hand and saw her fingers shake with a palsy of shock and pain.

“I just turned forty, you see. My friends thought this vacation would be a wonderful idea. I didn’t think about the language problem or driving or…anything. We just made reservations for today, my birthday and then I got on the pl-pl-plane. Well, yesterday in America, you see. I was on my way to the hotel when th-th-this accident happened. I only want to go ho-ho-home now.”

She realized she was rambling, and worse, she realized tears had filled her eyes and had spilled over. Oh heavens. Dear God, please help me get control, she silently prayed.

Victor reached up and brushed away the tears before pulling her closer. “It’s shock and an adrenaline rush. Don’t worry. It’s going to be all right. Let’s take one thing at a time. First, let’s get you taken care of, okay?”

In the distance, a siren’s blare grew louder—a very odd foreign-sounding siren that made her feel so much more alone and different. Annie bit her lip. “But the hospitals overseas…I’ve heard stories…and I don’t speak the language…”

“Let me handle this,” the man said gently.

She nodded. “I’m so-so-sorry.”

“For what?” he asked.

The siren died down as an ambulance pulled up.

“For getting you involved, for taking this trip— I don’t know—for many things.”

Two men got out and approached her.

As they knelt next to her, Victor asked, “Is your husband here with you? Someone I need to notify?”

Annie shook her head slightly, immediately regretting it. “No. I’m a widow.”

Victor released her, gently laying her down on the sidewalk and then stepped back to allow the men to get to her. She didn’t move. She hurt too much to move.

“I don’t suppose I can have your name,” he said.

Annie realized she hadn’t told him. “Annie. Annie Hooper.”

“Nice to meet you, Annie,” the polite stranger said.

“You have no idea how nice it is to meet you,” Annie said, meaning it with every heartbeat.