Blood Among The Oleanders

we waited

in air conditioned sedans,
suvs, beamers, and jags
bladders full, talk radio
blibbering on, people
by the thousand, delayed on I-80

we waited

braking for hours, guests
at our doors, dinners burning
babies getting tectchy, so inconvenienced,
so put out and self righteous
counting the minutes

we waited

delayed
by lives interrupted,
still miffed about our
own problems, despite
the blood among the oleanders

One April, when Chris and I were first engaged he decided to take me up the east mountain in Manti on one of his grandpa’s four wheelers. I had never ridden a four wheeler before and although it sounded fun, it was a bit intimidating. At the time, I had experienced less than a year of living in the mountains and so I wasn’t all that comfortable with those either, but I was with the man I loved and adventure called.

I was not dressed for the occasion. I had on flip flops, jeans and a t-shirt and, being a North Dakota prairie girl, didn’t really realize that in April it is still pretty chilly when you’re up a Utah mountain. At any rate we were off. I sat behind Chris with my arms around the old goofy looking black, white and red leather jacket that he insisted was very, very cool back when he bought it. He revved us up and we tore up that mountain side like bats out of hell, breaking the cool April stillness and quietude that makes the tiny town of Manti so charming. Chris whooped and I screamed in neurotic giddiness and we traveled upwards at an angle that made me feel as if I let go of Chris I would fall backward down the mountain side.

Now, we didn’t go too far up the mountain because Chris’ grandpa had specifically instructed us not to go too high. We did, however, get adventurous enough to disregard the main trail and explore a less worn path that Chris assured me led to a much nicer view of the two towns. Chris and I had slowed down to about five miles an hour and were turning a corner around a small pine tree covered in unspoilt white snow when the earth below the four wheeler dropped out below us as if it were brown sugar crumbling in God’s palm.

The four wheeler flipped over, threw Chris about five feet and then landed, all 700 pounds, squarely on my back. It forced the air out of my lungs and with everything that was left in me I looked at Chris and wheezed, “Get. It. Off.” Then there was no way to suck in any more air.

Chris looked terrified. He bent over and heaved the machine off of me in one swift movement, powered by fear borne adrenalin, I’m sure. The four wheeler flipped onto it’s handlebars and seat and Chris gingerly helped me get up. I was, amazingly, not seriously injured. My back hurt a lot and I was clearly going to have some impressive bruises, but I was ok.

The only trouble was that the four wheeler was upside down and we were stuck up the mountain with a several hour walk down, and then a slim chance of remembering where we had ditched the four wheeler when we had to come back up for it again. Not to mention that the idea of bringing another four wheeler up there, where the earth was so weak from the April rain and the melting snows, wasn’t exactly appealing. The only reasonable option was to ride it back down and the only way we were going to manage that (not to mention figure out if it still worked) was to flip it back over.

I was carefully stepping through the pine needles trying to retrieve my flip flops, both of which had flown off of my feet in the crash. Chris put his strength into turning the machine back over and gave a mighty push. The four wheeler suddenly flipped over, grabbed the skin on Chris’ wrist, lifted him into the air, and flung him with violent force ten feet into the mid section of a fifteen foot pine tree, which he hit hard, and then fell to the ground with a sickening thud and didn’t move.

Chris was very still. I was too far from where he had been flung to reach him immediately and I yelled his name trying to get some sort of a response. He just laid there motionless. My mind raced. He’s dead. My fiancé is dead. He’s dead and I’m trapped up a mountain and I don’t know where I am or how to drive that stupid four wheeler and I’m going to have to tell his grandparents that he’s dead. He’s DEAD. Oh no oh no oh no.

I was almost to him when I saw his eyes move. He’s not dead! I let out a huge sigh then yelled, “Why didn’t you answer me! I thought you were dead!” He explained that he was just laying there trying to figure out what was broken and if he dared move. He was very fortunate to have only bruises and cuts. The bad thing was that he knee had taken the full force of the tree (or did the tree take the full force of his knee?) and was pretty badly contused. It was swelling and bleeding and bruising and difficult to walk on. We couldn’t tell how badly hurt it was because he had long jeans on. It needed attention now and so I grabbed a handful of snow and told him to drop his pants.

Now, it must be known that I was a good girl. I was more than just a virgin on my wedding night. I wasn’t exactly naive, but I was pretty close. But he was hurt and it needed attention, so those pants were getting dropped even if I did see him in his skivvies prior to our wedding night. We both felt terribly awkward, but I iced his knee and we decided that although it hurt, there wasn’t any serious damage done.

We painfully got back onto the four wheeler and slowly, carefully rode down the mountain to his grandparent’s house where his grandmother slathered my back in Ben Gay and we used up their supply of band-Aids while Grandpa forbade us from any four wheeling until we were married. I didn’t need an order to stay off of that darned thing for the rest of my life, but Chris has ridden a few times, each time leaving me, nervous and worried, at the base of a mountain with lectures on caution ringing in his ears.