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Gratitude and Relief

Adelaida Avila

I was stopped at the light, anxious to go, I had 20 minutes to get from Little Ferry to Rutherford or I was going to be late back from lunch. She knocked on my window. Where did she come from this tall, slender, older, white woman with auburn hair? She had on a light pink top, tissue in her hand and a bib around her neck. She’s saying something. I can’t understand her. She’s pressing on her neck. She doesn’t have a voice box. The more she strains, the more foam she creates. Oddly I’m not disgusted. Cars are going around us - this isn’t safe. “Do you want me to give you a ride somewhere Miss?” She nods yes. “Ok, come” and I motion for her to get in my car. Quickly I reach in my purse and say a little prayer: “Please God, I want to help her. Please help me understand what she‘s saying.” I give her a pen and paper. “Write on here where you want me to take you.” Barely able to hold the pen, she scribbles “JTL”. That’s easy - our town pharmacy. I put the car in drive, look at the time and think - I can do this, I can drop her off and get back to work on time. Yea right, whatever!
She motions for me to pull over but we’re not at the pharmacy, we’re in front of a restaurant. With her index finger in the air she mouths the words “one minute”. I nod and say “Ok, one minute. I’ll wait for you.” I’m counting the minutes. 1, 2, 3 finally she’s back. She has money with her. She puts it on her lap. She’s trying to tell me something with her hands. Ten? “You need $10?” “Yes” she says. I take out a $10 bill and give it to her. Now we’re in front of JTL. Again with her index finger she tells me “one minute”. I nod and say “Ok, I’ll wait.” Shit! I’m going to be late! Again I’m counting the minutes 1, 2, 3, 4. She’s back in my car. “Home” she says. “Ok, where do you live?” “Liberty Street” she says. That’s my street. From the corner of my eye I see she puts the visor down and checks herself. She smells pretty, like soap and scented lotion. She asks me for tissue and wipes the foam around her nose and mouth. I look away. Tears sting my eyes. I feel her hand on my shoulder. I look at her - she’s thanking me. Her palms together, like she‘s praying. “You’re welcome Miss”. I’m trying harder not to cry. We’re in front of her house, I reach in my purse, take out all the cash I have and give it to her (it’s not a lot, who carries cash anymore?) She thanks me again and I watch her walk away. I don’t have to hold them anymore - I release them and the tears just flow and flow. I’m overwhelmed with gratitude and relief. Grateful for the opportunity to help my neighbor and relieved that he answered my prayer. She was able to communicate to me what she needed even though she couldn’t write or speak.

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