I was making sounds, groping for my Czech words,
just like Aunt Martha was groping for Uncle Stu's
arm. We both failed at grabbing onto what we
were reaching for.
Aunt Martha, quite expertly, fell. Worse than that, I'd
had a chance to catch her and I didn't. Because, in
that split-second that she started to fall, I'd truly
thought, "Nope. Not this time. She'll be fine. They
don't need my help. I don't need to be so close."
In a flash, she fell down to her butt. Then, her legs
buckled and slid along the chrome walls of the
escalator which sent her into a momentum-gaining
backward somersault where she then banged her
head on the razor-sharp grooves of the steel stairs.
Her face contorted into a painful wince when she
hit; I can tell you that I never want to see something
like that again. Ever.
And, by the way, a similar thing happened two
years ago in Berlin! I had just arrived to Berlin
Hauptbahnhof with my mom and my producing
partner and suddenly a person fainted or had a
stroke or something on the escalator and ended in
an unconscious heap at the bottom, sprawled
horribly on the highly-polished marble floor.
Uncle Stu, realizing that Aunt Martha was no longer
by his side, ran down after her. Panic and fear
registered in his eyes, wide behind thick tortoise-shell
glasses. He yelped something in Czech and
stooped to pick her up from her sort-of sideways
fetus position. I've lost my own balance on these
crazy escalators, and I'm no Aunt Martha; so you
can imagine Uncle Stu, being an older gentleman
himself, tying to gather her up. It was a struggle, to
say the least. I sprung forward and grabbed Aunt
Martha's elbow and helped pull and push her up to
her feet. Her body was slightly stabilized, but that
was about it.
Another kind patron, who spoke Czech, helped the
both of them and the journey up continued. I was
sincerely thanked and left rightfully forgotten in the
background. But from behind, I could tell Aunt
Martha was not herself. I was hoping she would be
alright.
And that's when the blood started dripping down
the back of her head and onto her winter-white,
puffy coat.
Blood makes me sick to my stomach. Like, really.
"Oh, God." I thought as I staggered a bit myself. I
mumbled something in some garbled panicked
language, that maybe sounded like the word,
'Blood'. I wanted to throw up. The words got stuck in
my throat. They didn't hear me.
I kept thinking. What do I do? Do I touch this
person? Do they want my help? There's blood. I
don't have any rubber gloves. What do I do? And
then I stopped thinking. I got close. I reached into
my parka pocket for the only thing I had, which
unfortunately was a not-clean Kleenex (like the kind
your babička has tucked in her sleeve) and I
stepped forward and pressed it onto her bleeding
head. That's when they finally noticed there was
blood. And by then it was really dripping. Fast. In
globs. Smearing all over her white coat. Soaking my
tiny, crumpled Kleenex. Uncle Stu quickly produced
a checkered handkerchief from his pocket which
totally caught the bleeding better.
We reached the top of the escalator, finally. They
took Aunt Martha toward the metro booth to get
help. They thanked me again. Sincerely. I wanted to
give Aunt Martha a hug; to wait with them until an
ambulance came, to be close with them. I really
did. Instead, I stood there holding the bloody
Kleenex. Frozen. Shaken. Aunt Martha's blood
clinging to my hands. I stood like that for a while
until my own two feet turned me in the direction to
where I was supposed to go and I returned to my
own journey.
Stay close, my friends.
Peppur (www.peppurchambers.com) is an actor, writer and
creator/ performer of Harlem’s Night Cabaret performed by
the sultry, sassy, sophisticated and sometimes funny, Brown
Betties. Her debut novella, “Harlem’s Awakening” is now
available on BlackHillPress.com. She’s also created the
award-winning webseries, “The Brown Betties Guide: How to
Look for Love In All The Wrong Places” based on her book of
the same title. www.brownbetties.com Email her at
[email protected] or follow her on Twitter
@BrownBettie. But really, go buy Harlem’s Awakening!
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