Purple Car

Gilbert, coming back from the creek. Frida, coming back from visiting her aunt. Both don't know each other, but they're still connected, and their connection is unearthed from one chance encounter.

The boy walked slowly, calculating every step. His shoulders were sagged, and his shoes squished and left moist imprints on the asphalt. His name was Gilbert and he had just come back from the creek behind the general store. A chipmunk darted out from behind a very large tree root; Gilbert stopped to watch it. He remembered when his brother had brought home a squirrel three weeks ago his mother had thrown a fit and wouldn’t have it in the house. Smiling to himself, Gilbert checked for cars and started across the street, keeping to the zebra strip.

In a purple car, Frida hummed along to the radio. She didn’t know the song and it wasn’t her car, she had borrowed it from a friend to visit her aunt Caroline in St. Paul. Although Frida’s aunt was very old and annoying, she had raised Frida from a young age ever since her mother died and her father ran off to Canada with some blonde chick. Frida felt obliged, therefore, to visit her sagging aunt every few weeks or so. The purple car rattled on the road, and Frida looked out the window briefly, enjoying the Minnesotan air in the summer. She failed to see a little boy, socks and pants damp from creek water, cross the street as she rounded the corner.

Gilbert noticed an ugly purple car speeding towards him, not stopping. He quickly bolted to one side, while the lady in the car swerved to miss him, brown eyes wide. Gilbert watched as the purple car hit the tree with large roots by the side of the road.

Gilbert was okay, Frida had a concussion but was otherwise unhurt, and the chipmunk was dead instantaneously.

 

 

Frida woke up and all she saw was white. For a brief, fleeting moment, she felt panic, but it soon settled down into wonder, and finally annoyance as her memory replayed what had caused her hospital stay.

A movement to the left of her cot roused Frida from her thoughts, and she turned her head with some difficulty (it was a bit sore from the impact, she supposed), and her eyes met a little boy’s, staring at her anxiously from a hard plastic chair by her bed.

“Gosh, miss, you finally woke up!” The boy stood up and shuffled closer to the woman.

“Oh, it’s you. What the heck were you doing in the street, kid?” Gilbert looked at his (dry) shoes.

“I think it was you who was going a bit fast, ma’am.” A sudden commotion from outside of the room made the duo look at the door in surprise as a family of seven people and an equal number of splashy bouquets burst into the room. A blonde-haired woman, not young anymore but still startlingly pretty, and three other children, all in their teens, rushed over to Frida’s bed and deposited many sprays of pungent flowers on the slightly dazed woman’s lap.

“Umm, who are all you people?” Frida asked, looking from left to right at the multitude of friendly, freckled faces. A tiny girl tugged on Frida’s hospital sleeve and looked up at her with round, pleading eyes and a “poor-starving-orphan” expression on her face.

“Thank you SO much for not smushing my big brother on the road, ma’am,” The little girl lisped. “Please don’t sue us.” She added in a smaller voice.

Frida patted the girl’s yellow curls and lay back on her pillow as the whole hospitable family expressed their sorrow and embarrassment toward their troublemaking little son, who just stood there and looked at his shoes.

Finally, a graying, middle-aged man stepped over and took Frida’s hand in his. Frida looked up at the man, and something clicked in her mind.

“Miss, if there’s anything the Johnson family can do, just say the word and we’ll do anything to show our debt. We’re so sorry about our Gilbert and the accident he caused.”

Frida nodded, but the actual words didn’t register in her mind. She focused on the man’s voice. It was the same voice, albeit older and less love-filled, that greeted her after school and called her my little princess, my pumpkin, Daddy’ll love you forever, you betcha…

Frida dropped her hand from Mr. Johnson’s grip and stared up into the same blue eyes that lit up as bedtime stories were read, and looked at Frida with pride at her first-grade Christmas pageant, even though she did screw up her only line as the Frankincense-bearing king.

“Dad.” She murmured, as a million strong feelings rushed through her blood, and Mr. Johnson’s body stiffened. After a moment of cloudy-eyed scrutiny, the man relaxed, gave a sigh, and ran his stubby fingers through his oldest daughter’s mousy hair.

“Frida.” As the reunited parent and child stiffly acknowledged each other once again, the new Johnson family looked on in slight discomfort and really didn’t know what to make of this whole situation.

Author's Note

I wrote this as an assigment for my 9th grade english class last year. I meant it to end at the dead chipmunk bit, however my teacher liked it a lot but said it felt unfinished so I thought some more and developed the story a little further. Critique is encouraged, but there's a fine line between critique and insult!
Oh, and just for the record, I am a high-school girl, but I'm not the kind who'll whine and complain about people being unfair with comments. So have no fear of hurting my feelings, I won't hold it against you.