Red lights swirl, still able to be seen from the front porch, but the house is too far in the distance to see much else. Darkness has fallen over the ranch in the last twenty minutes, but that doesn’t keep me from jumping off the porch and heading in that direction.
I imagine it’s just a cut, or someone has fallen, so I walk toward Zeke’s house, but as my mind works through about a million different scenarios, I realize that no one would call for an ambulance for minor things out here. The men in Utah are forged in steel and wrapped in masculinity. If they hurt themselves, they’d drive themselves to the hospital, and it would have to be a pretty serious injury even then.
My feet pick up the pace with the realization, and by the time I make it to the end of their driveway, I’ve sprinted halfway here. I’m panting and out of breath, sucking in ragged gulps of air. I’m small-framed, never having to worry about my weight, but I’m definitely out of shape. My breaths escape in huffs by the time I walk around the end of the ambulance to find two EMTs rolling a stretcher off the front porch.
They’re talking in medical terms to each other as they situate Mr. Benson in the back of the ambulance.
“Ma’am?” one of the EMTs prods as Mrs. Benson stands to the side with her hands clamped over her mouth. Tears streak her pretty face, and she looks seconds away from losing her mind.
“You can ride with him,” the EMT urges, crooking his fingers to try to help move her along, and Mrs. Benson finally moves to climb inside.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
The back of the ambulance closes up and drives away a second later, but I don’t pull my eyes away from the flashing lights until it’s cleared the driveway and headed back toward town.
“Go home, Frankie.”
Zeke pushes past me as he heads to his own truck.
“What happened?” I ask, but he’s already climbing inside and reversing out of the driveway.
I can’t get the image of the distraught look on Mrs. Benson’s face out of my mind, but I head down the driveway, just like Zeke instructed. We aren’t friends. He doesn’t need me to console him or get involved in his family issues. He’s made it very clear he doesn’t want anything to do with me other than use me as his verbal punching bag.
I look back at his house one last time before I make it to the road back to Nan’s, but the sight of the front door standing wide open stops me in my tracks. I should go home and not worry about it. I don’t owe him a thing. If anything, he owes me a million apologies for the way he’s treated me these last couple of weeks, but I’m not that person. I can’t just walk away when someone needs help, when there’s something I can do to make things easier for others.
So I tell myself that I’m helping Mr. and Mrs. Benson, not Zeke, as I walk back down the drive to close the front door. It’s all I was planning to do—climb the stairs and shut the door. Yet, as I near the door, I can’t help the curiosity that is begging me to take a peek. I have no business looking in the Benson’s house, but when I stick my head inside, making sure that no other part of my body crosses the threshold, I take in the mess on the floor.
A broken plate and food along with packages from the EMTs’ medical supplies litter the floor around the dining room table. Was it a fight? A heart attack?
I have no clue, but I don’t feel right making this family come back to the home in such disarray after dealing with a medical emergency.
Praying they don’t press criminal charges against me for invading their private space, I step inside and get to work, starting with sealing up the food on the table and putting it in the fridge. Next, I focus on the debris on the floor, not taking a break until the trash and food are gone, and the floor sparkles from being mopped.
I should go home, but I can’t seem to stop. The house isn’t dirty, but I’ve noticed while staying with Nan the last couple of weeks that there is one thing that can’t be avoided. Living on a dirt road means everything is constantly covered in dust. Even though I know dusting right now is futile, I can’t help but grab the rags and cleaner out from under the kitchen sink.
The dining room area doesn’t take long, only having to wipe down the table and chairs, but I take a little longer in the living room. A few family photos, ones of a smiling Zeke with his dad fishing and in a barn that isn’t my nan’s, sit in old frames on a small bookcase in the corner. I spend my time looking at the joyful boy in the pictures, wondering when everything changed for him, trying to figure out by looking into the images what could’ve happened to him to make him a spiteful menace.