Witness: An Accident

Regina, Saskatchewan is a beautiful hamlet with a population of 200,000 nestled deep within the canola fields of a Canadian province located just north of Montana which has a total count of two million people. To fly over it is to bear witness of a colorful patchwork quilt of ya-hey-dere farmland. That isn't to say there's nothing but corn-like crops in Canada. Regina actually has quite an imposing skyline. A cluster of chrome-and-glass skyscrapers splay out into a small latticework of big-city sundries. Banks and shops, bistros and offices chunk off forming rehabbed brick beasts and plots of down-home ranches. These all empty out into a sprawling city park, a stone Veteran's Memorial, a technicolor polystyrene playground, all which stand in the shadow of the Hotel Saskatchewan, the majestic heritage manor where I stayed and where the wedding took place. This is indeed grand lodging. It has the kind of room where you don't touch anything for fear of devaluing it. The Queen has her own room there, only for her, though I'll bet Mick Jagger got his share of it when the Stones played here weeks ago. This ain't Vancouver, but damn, do they share genes.

From anywhere downtown the most eye-catching architechture in the sky belong to the HSBC buildings. These twin towers add a gender-bending twist to contemporary cityscapes. Their sleek skin of slippery glass, stretched tight around strong, firm, thick steel dowels, then sloped, a slice slit diagonally toward the center, velvety smooth and slippery into a tight, inviting, reflective V. Feminist architechture at its finest.

It was within this vulva where I found the woman.

She was old, squat, a gray tumbleweed. Dirty laundry hung around a rubber-ball frame with three blankets draped over one arm and a well-worn handbag hanging off the other. Between the buildings sits a brickstone plaza punctuated with metal benches and stone planters. I had just left a stroll through the Farmer's Market that erupted this morning right in front of the Hotel, tossing some loonies for the buskers and taking a snapshot of some Mounties. I was hunting for something to eat after my first night of drinking, and I wanted a place I could be alone. Didn't think much of the lady when she popped up in sight. She was at a planter in front of the Post Office, perhaps thirty feet in front of me, when she freezes. Her blanketed hand raises and guides her. Something's pulling her. I swear to God, it looks like she's being led by the hand, backward. Too fast, too far. Then slip, SLAM, right onto the brick. I was right there. I saw her fall.
That hurt.
People quietly start to talk.

"Ohmigod. Are you alright, miss?"

"Seizure. She had... that's a seizure."

"It looked like something pulled her."

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I've been trained in CPR and I have seen people hit the floor unconscious, but nothing I've done in years has prepared me for this. A small scuttle of people clamor, staring stunned at their cell phones like they're light-based puzzleboxes. I find myself already down on one knee gingerly talking to the woman. She hit the ground hard, I'm not gonna move her. But I want to know how reactive she is. And how bad it was.

"Miss, are you okay, miss?"

She doesn't stir for a while. She doesn't respond to my poking. The couple behind me quietly quabble about calling someone or finding some cops or whatever. I tell 'em there were some Mounties at the Farmer's Market, go get them. The guy leaves.
She's shaking, once, abruptly. She's moving. Her head turns and everyone can see the red splatter on her forehead near her eye. She's so out of it. Her body turns and I can see a Medic-Alert bracelet.

"Miss, you have a Medic-Alert bracelet. Can I see it?"

"No I'm agah mumnumblah fumma."
Word salad. Not good.
"Miss, just stay down. We're getting help."

She's moved around a bit. She can get up into a sitting position. We're getting help now and she's staying down. Good. I can try and orient her.

"Miss, do you know your name?"

"No, I'm okay, I'm okay."

"Miss, do you know where you're at?"

"No, I'm okay, I don't need it, I don't need it."

"Miss do you know what the time is?"

"I don't need it. I'm okay. I'm okay."

I'm looking her in her dark eyes but not into them. Can't stop focusing on the blood spidering on her head, now on her hand. She's regaining, a little, but she can't tell me shit about shit. She looks homeless, or mentally ill. Most likely both. Goddamn it, what do I do? She's getting up.

"Miss, please stay down. We're getting help."

"No, I'm fine. I have to go home."

"No, miss, please, don't move. You fell hard. Just stay down."

She's up and walking jerkily. I don't want to touch her but, she's not supposed to move. Can't force her down. She's by the planter where she got struck, then moving on down the plaza. She's about to leave all our lives. Just down the brick path and gone. No. She fell hard. She doesn't know anything. She's got nowhere to go. I can't just leave her like that. So I follow.

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I'm walking down some street trying to talk to some woman who's old, decrepit, and got blood on her face. What does that look like? Everyone walking toward us spots her a good block beforehand and they're already partin' waves. There's some kind of tandem marathon or citywide scavenger hunt or something going on 'cause there's couples dressed the same in running gear with racing numbers on them popping up at random times going to random places. And I'm talkin' to the woman the whole time tryin' to get her to listen.
"Miss, please stop. You hit your head real hard. You're bleeding. Just sit down for a bit."
"No no no I'm fine. I just have to get home."
A lady comes out of a doorway. She's carrying a small package of Wet-Ones. I ask her for one for this woman so she can wipe her face. She looks at me like I'm a foreigner but the sweet lady hands me one, insuring me her hands are clean. I catch up to the woman with the Wet-One, telling her she can wipe the blood off. She thanks me, takes it, and keeps on walking. Nothing but walking. It's been blocks now and I have no idea what to do. I can't do this by myself. Who do I call? Fuck! Does 911 work in Canada? Seriously! Do they have other numbers to dial? I have no fuckin' clue! Oh shit! If I call someone, some emergency number, they'll trace the call. They'll totally trace it. Is that smart? They can totally check me out. They'll know I'm American. Who knows what else they'll know? Do I want that? Fuckin' PATRIOT Act! And I fuckin' hate phones! Shit, I have no clue. What do I do? What do I do?

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I don't care.
"9-1-1 Emergency."
"I'm in... Regina... Saskatchewan. Can you help me?"
"What is your problem, sir?"
I give 911 the full rundown, as best I can: Woman fell, looks old, blood on forehead, not oriented, walking, blah blah blah. I'm looking at street signs to give them an idea where I'm at. I can hear the lady on the other side speak the words as she types them in. The woman drops a blanket. I pick it up and rush up to her to give it back. 911 transfers me over to Regina emergency. I'm waitin' at stoplights and crossin' streets, phone stuck to my ear, following this woman. We're coming up to a Fire Station.
"So you're approaching Halifax, right?"
"I can't tell... Um... Yes... We're coming up to Halifax right now."
Across the street are a taco stand, a second-hand shop, and a bench at a bus stop. We pass some people outside perusing furniture, two guys talking to each other from their bikes. She sits down on the bench. I kneel next to her, holding the phone out.
"Miss, I have emergency on the phone. Do you want someone to come help you?
"No, I'm okay. I'm only 2, 3 houses down. I'm fine. Thank you. Thank you."
"Sounds like she's refusing help," comes from the phone.
"Are you sure, miss?"
"I'm fine, I'm fine. Thank you."
I stand up. "Yeah, sounds like she's refusing help."
The phone conversation pretty much ends there.
I can't really move. Or I don't want to. That's it? But what about... No. I can't just leave her. She's carrying three blankets, she's got nowhere to go. But what do I do now? It's done. She refused help. No one's comin' for her. We're across the street from a Fire Station and no one's comin' for her. She fell real hard and no one's comin' for her. That's it. I offer to get her some water and she refuses and thanks me. And I walk off.

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That's it. Nothing happened. All that sound and fury, signifying nothing. Goddamnit. I didn't do it. I failed. And the phone call. What was I thinking? What if they think I was fooling? Do they often get calls like this? Am I keeping them from more important calls? Will they check up on me, on the trace? Shit, what if they call Mom and Dad? I don't feel good. I feel like crap. I turn a corner, walk across the street and sit down in a parking lot behind a Vietnamese restaurant. I light a cigarette and call my parents. Oh my God, I feel horrible. They're not home so I spill everything out onto the answering machine, one syllable away from breaking down. I tell them I'm calling them before the authorities should try to contact them, but damn does it feel good to tell someone everything. And I'm done. And I'm so not hungry. And I'm nauseous enough to turn my stomach inside-out. I smoke two cigarettes before I start walking again. Wandering, walking back in the general direction I came from. The Farmer's Market evaporated as instantly as it erupted. I turn back through the plaza. I see the planter and exactly where everything took place. And I keep walking. I cross the street and enter a mall, loads of people everywhere. I take a lap around and find the Food Court on the second floor, buzzing, crowded. I get some teriyaki and then an spring roll from the Chinese place. I pull out the magazine from the airplane yesterday and turn to the crossword puzzle in the back. I don't react to any of the high schoolers passing me by or the custodial staff cleaning around me. And I am finally alone.