It’s interesting to think about events we have forgotten, our brains blocking trauma. You forget the panic, the sickness, but once you remember, it’s like reliving the experience.

I’m in the passenger seat of Dad’s 1967 Ford Bronco—we call her Green Gerty. I try to think of something to say, I never know what to say to him. We’ve made it to the last block towards home and I see Sandy’s dad kneeling on the ground.

“Ah, gardening.” I point out as an off-hand observation.

Dad does a double-take and whips the car around to haphazardly park along the curb. “I don’t think he’s gardening.” 

He flings his door open and shoots out. I sit dumbly, trying to understand what just happened. I unbuckle and step out into the road, and I see Dad over with someone else, they’re picking up Sandy’s dad from the sidewalk. There are a couple towels strewn about. 

All of them are red.

I panic and look at Dad, and he’s trying to help out with the bleeding, coming from the man’s head.

“Should we call 911?” I stand to the side, not wanting to be in the way, not wanting to provoke Dad. Glancing down, I feel terrible, I don’t even know his name. Sandy’s brother—he was the other man—is trying to talk to his dad, get any response, while Dad moves a pair of eye-glasses so they don’t get crushed.

“What happened?” I’m not sure who asked the question, maybe it was me. I was completely numb.

“He tripped over this uneven crack in the sidewalk.” I finally look at the ground, where he hit his head is obvious. There’s a pool of blood sitting right there.

Sandy’s brother looks up at us, “Can you go next door and tell Sandy that dad fell?”

Dad walks away so I follow behind, jogging slightly to keep up with his long legs and urgent pace. I hadn’t talked with Sandy lately, and after this day I still haven’t looked her in the eye.

I stand to the side as Dad knocks on the door. His knuckles make a deafening rap, rap, rap in my head.

“Oh hi!” Sandy opens the door. She’s wearing sweats, she must have been lounging around since getting off work. My stomach flips once, twice.

“Hey. I wish we’d come during better circumstances, your dad fell.” Sandy’s face drops.

“Of course.” Her face is scrunched, antsy. She starts fidgeting. “I’ll put some shoes on, was it just around the corner?”

“Yeah, the front lawn of your parent’s house.” 

We leave Sandy and go back to the scene. Another one of Sandy’s brothers has shown up; I could never remember how many there were but they all lived  close by. Small towns.

I look around, trying to find a way to help. An ambulance was already called, the only thing I can think of that I could do. I wring my hands together, eyes fixated on the bloody pool still sitting on the cement.

“Come hold this.” Dad has an arm extended in my direction, a half-used towel in hand. I step forward and take it, along with a look at Sandy’s dad.

His forehead is cut open, his face is crimson where the wound keeps bleeding but Sandy’s brother keeps wiping it away as it comes. I stare at it, blood gushing out at me. The same rap, rap, rap in my head. That noise kept me awake for nights after.

“Oh dear.” Sandy rushes to her dad.

Adults are swarming, and I step back—out of any of their ways. I continue staring on, feeling useless as I pull on my fingernails to keep my hands busy. I must’ve dropped the towel. My stomach got a first-class ticket to the biggest roller coaster at the state fair.

The ambulance arrives and Dad backs off, letting the family deal with paramedics. Sandy’s dad is loaded onto a stretcher and an EMT examines his head.

Dad and I go back to the Bronco; Dad’s special car that only he drives, only taken out on rare occasions. Before, the memories I had were trips to A&W for root beer floats, but now whenever I look at Gerty, I see the bloody sidewalk. 

I black out returning home. I tell the adrenaline to go away, it’s over, but it hardly listens. I remember Mom asking from the living room, “What do you want for dinner?” when we come in. I rush to the nearest sink.