It was late and I felt sick. Being almost eight O’clock on a Wednesday evening, there was hardly a soul on the bus. With Nine Inch Nails pumping through headphones, I tried to concentrate on the lyrics rather than the potholes that churned the mediocre dinner I had wolfed down only hours before. I finally decided to move to the back of the bus, believing it was a safer location for the contents of my stomach. I gathered my things and stood up and moved towards a seat in the rear. As soon as I took a seat in the back, I immediately started to feel better. I tossed my book bag and coat onto an empty pair of seats and kicked by feet up onto the back of the seat in front of me and closed my eyes.
The bus came to a halt a few moments later. The doors opened and I was shot by a fury of cold air. An elderly woman, who was waiting by the stop, began to enter the bus. She was wrapped in layers of warm clothing. Her gloved hand gripped a spider-cane. She took her time. I noticed and turned to see what the delay was. As I turned, I watched as she underestimated the last step. The cane that was supposed to help her remain vertical, slipped on a glob of melted snow on the bus floor. She fell. Her right hand had still been clamed onto the railing, so as she fell, her body angled to the right, careening into the wall. Her hand slipped and she fell down again onto the stairs making a loud, padded thumping noise. I winced. Her cane lay a foot away, out of her grip. She let out a small cry and a whimper and then was silent as she struggled to stand, seemingly unharmed.
I tore off the headphones and swung my legs over the back of the chair, rushing to her aid. I grabbed onto an outstretched brown leather glove. It had small cracks in it.
Eleanor, an elderly neighbor of mine, had fallen down her concrete stairs in the winter of ’97. I had been shoveling the ice and snow that had precipitated the night before and saw her slip as she slowly made her way to the Sunday paper. She slid on some ice and fell down the stairs headfirst. Come to think of it, she shouldn’t have even been out on such a slippery day. I had rushed over to help her up. She denied needing any, but after being unable to stand, she thanked me and took my hand and struggled tremendously to reach and maintain a standing position. Her beige slacks were torn and her knees were skinned and bled through the material. Her forehead was also bleeding. I had asked if she was ok and if she needed an ambulance. She rejected my request and said she was ok. I believed her. I grabbed the newspaper as I led her to the door and handed it to her as she entered the house. She thanked me again. Two weeks later, she had a stroke. I was there. Two weeks after that, she was dead.
“Are you ok?” I helped her up. She slowly walked to a nearby seat and grabbed on tightly to a metal pole next to the chair before letting go of my arm. I reached for her cane and handed it to her. It hurt to swallow.
“Yes, I’m fine, dear.” Her voice was shaking as she plopped herself onto the seat.
I believed her.
The doors closed and the bus began on its journey again. We rode the bus in silence. I watched as she removed a few layers of clothing to check for any wounds. There were none. I thought of Eleanor once again, this time regretting my actions. I should have insisted that she go to the hospital. I should have come by the next day to see how she was feeling. I remembered standing in front of her coffin at the wake. I blamed myself for her death and now because of my thoughtlessness, I would never hear her playing the piano in the late afternoon when I returned from school. I would never get to taste her chocolate chip raisin cookies she made just for me. I would never again receive a birthday present from her. The birthday – Christmas present had a significant meaning to me. She would give it to me three weeks before Christmas or my birthday, and it was always something like a make-up kit or headbands or bows for my hair. She had lived in that house since we moved into ours and had seen me grow up. She, however, never admitted to herself that I had grown up and she manifested this through presenting me with immature gifts. I liked it, though.
When my stop approached, I stood, putting on my coat and flinging my backpack around both shoulders. I passed the woman as I went to exit the bus. She looked at me and smiled. “Good thing I had all of this padding.”
“Yeah.” I paused. “You’re lucky you didn’t hurt yourself.” I smiled and she smiled again. I waved and stepped down off the bus. The doors closed behind me, and the bus continued its route.
The air was cold and I jammed my hands into my pockets and watched the doors close and drive away. “Really lucky” I sighed to myself as I turned and walked away.