Sunday morning, the middle of a heat wave. I was lying in a cold bath lost in reverie when the phone rang. Normally I wouldn’t bother getting out but the ring had a sense of urgency. It was Dan, his voice so calm it sounded false: Dad’s hurt. He fell off the roof.

I got dressed, stuffed an overnight bag with essentials and headed out to the car. Turning onto the Don Valley, I remembered the newspaper. Without a vacation stop it would  pile up and signal nobody’s home. Had I even locked the door? Too late to go back. I fished a pen out of my purse and scribbled a note on my hand.

            On a good day, the drive from Cabbagetown to Prince Edward County takes just over two hours. I usually stop mid-way for coffee and a few honey cruller Timbits, counting on a  blast of sugar and caffeine to keep alert, but I was frantic to reach the farm. My mind was racing. How could an 82-year-old man fall off the roof of a three-storey house? More to the point, what was he doing on the roof? How did he even get up there? Beethoven’s Pastoral came on the car radio, a beautiful rolling symphony. I cranked up the volume, opened the windows, had to lean in, grip the steering wheel just to keep my eyes focused. In the forefront of my mind crowding out all else was the image of a tiny grey-haired man, arms spread wide, floating to the ground like a feather. Surely he would have landed on a bush. He’s in a coma, he’ll wake up and give us a perfectly good explanation. The Wooler Road exit sign popped up out of nowhere. One foot barely touched the brake, but a transport had been edging up behind and bumped the fender, sending my little Morris Cooper into a gravel spin. I closed my eyes, held on tight as we flew into the air and landed with a thud. The music stopped.

My first thought was, the gas tank’s going to explode. The door handle was stuck. I slid over to the passenger seat, climbed through the window, stumbled into a field of wildflowers. Queen Anne’s lace, black eyed Susans, Goldenrod, Blue Devil. An unnatural quiet bore down, broken only by the faint buzz of bees. My head was throbbing. For a moment I thought I’d gone deaf. The heat was intense. I reached down to pick a daisy, noticed red drops. Touched my burning lip, triggering a gush of blood. The sky dipped, turned dark.

            The next thing I knew, two muscular medics were lifting me onto a stretcher. A young policewoman was holding my hand, telling me to stay awake. I tried to say, call Dan or Edie, they live in the County. The number’s in my wallet. My tongue was swollen, I could hardly get the words out. She said, don’t worry, he’s on his way. Such lovely blue eyes, thick dark hair pulled off her face, a sweet mouth. What would draw a girl like that to the awkward cut of a police uniform? I wanted to ask, but she kept talking. 

            You’re the writer Amelia Cameron, aren’t you? Sorry, I had to look in your purse for ID. I really enjoyed your novel. We took it in English lit. You know, it’s one of the few books I hang onto. Too bad I don’t have it here. I’d like to get your autograph. Mercifully, her phone rang and she wandered off to take the call.

            Strapped into a horizontal position on the gurney, neck held firmly in a brace, there was nothing to do but stare up at the sky and watch cumulus clouds float by. Erosion. Lord, that was decades ago, her age when I wrote it. Five novels since, another in the works. Only as they lifted the stretcher into an ambulance did I catch a glimpse of the scene. Police cars, fire trucks, stranded motorists milling around behind a fence of yellow tape. The transport, beached like a comatose whale, blocked the highway. Traffic backed up to the horizon. An awful wave of dread. What if people were badly hurt or dead? I dearly hoped not, for their sake, and for Harold’s. At a time like this, he surely deserved our undivided attention.

            Dan pulled into the parking lot just as the ambulance was about to drive off. He insisted on riding with me while one of the junior police officers followed with his Mercedes. My elder brother by a year, Dan Cameron has a knack for getting people to step in line, do what he wants. Handed the task of keeping me awake, he embraced the opportunity to lecture: Thousands of dollars of damage back there. Thank God nobody’s hurt, or worse. That’s all I can say. Could have been a tragedy.

            No, Dan. A tragedy is a dramatic or prose work of –

            Don’t make light of things, Milly. Not at a time like this.

            I assured him I wasn’t making light, I was in pain. Every bone in my body ached. Might even have whiplash. And what about Mini? Was my poor little car badly damaged?

            Total write-off.

            How he enjoyed announcing the news.

Dan’s network of contacts extended to the hospital in Picton. I was seen by a doctor right away, poked, x-rayed, tested and sent off with a prescription for pain pills and instructions on how to treat a swollen lip. Only when we were safely locked into the air-conditioned comfort of his beloved Merc did I register the full meaning of my trip to the County.

            He’s dead, isn’t he?

            Yes, he is. Buckle up your seatbelt.

            Why didn’t you tell me on the phone?

            I was afraid you’d be hysterical and crash your car.