Strange Developments

The man came out of nowhere. Bridget swerved to avoid him, horns blaring as she swept into the next lane, and the car behind her slammed her Mazda into the median. Bridget's head bounced against the steering wheel, and the air bag punched her in the face, hot wires of pain shooting up her neck as the seat belt did its vicious work. Bridget groaned, dazed, as horns sounded a hellish chorus all around her, and there was urgent knocking on her cracked windshield. Looking up, Bridget saw the man's worried face before her vision swam away.

* * *

Waking up in the hospital, Bridget was stuck staring at the squiggles in the cheap tile ceiling. Her neck was in a brace, her silver hair half in, half out of the pinching plastic. Willing herself to sit up, Bridget only had the core strength to identify her sister, Mary, asleep in a chair, then it was back to counting squiggles on the ceiling. After a moment, the squeaking shoes of a nurse approached her, and a smiling face peeked into Bridget's view.

"Ms. Roinan?" the nurse chirped. "Hi. You've been in a car accident. Do you remember what happened?"

Unable to nod, Bridget said, "Some. My neck..."

"You've sustained some injuries to your neck and face," the nurse said. "But your scans look good, nothing broken, and we should have you discharged in no time. We just want to hold you for observation."

Bridget could hear the sounds of her sister stirring, and knew she'd be getting a second opinion as soon as the nurse left the room. Struggling to speak, Bridget's throat was like sand paper, and the nurse busied herself beyond that limited field of vision before something bright green appeared next to Bridget's face. "Can you sip this?"

The straw was small, and difficult to grasp between Bridget's parched lips, but the cool water felt good against her sore throat. "The..." Bridget tried. "The man in the road..."

The nurse shrugged. "You were the only one taken here from the accident, that's all I know. Can you give me your pain level on a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst pain you ever felt in your life?"

Ten, Bridget thought to herself, but she suspected that wasn't the type of pain the nurse was talking about. "Four."

"Okay." There was the sound of a pen scratching on a clipboard, and Bridget felt a friendly squeeze on her foot. "Try to rest, and if you need anything, this button right here will bring one of us in to check on you."

The squeaky shoes departed, and Mary's worried face hovered at the edge of Bridget's vision. "Hi, Bridge."

Bridget groaned. "You look awful."

"Back at you, cow." Her sister breathed a joyless laugh. "Had me worried, there. Can't be doing your high octane stunts on the road."

It hurt to smile, so Bridget stopped. "Did you hear what happened to the man? The one who went out in the street?"

"I know you didn't do a manslaughter," Mary told her. "There was already a cop here, knows you weren't drinking, said he'd be back later for the insurance report. Didn't say a thing about a man." Mary sniffed. "Tell you one thing: you smashed the shite out of your camera."

Another stab of unscalable pain went through Bridget, and she fell back into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

When Bridget woke up again, Mary was gone, but she left a note saying she'd be back that evening. It was easier for Bridget to sit up, now, either because she was healing, or on phenomenal drugs. There was daylight coming through the hospital blinds, and to Bridget's amazement, she was hungry. There were three bouquets of flowers in her room, two that looked like they were from people who knew her quite well, and one from somebody who did not know her taste at all.

A nurse came in to wish her good morning, and record Bridget's pain level at a two. She did promise to get Bridget some food, but it would have to be practically puree, and it would take longer to accommodate Bridget's vegetarian diet. The nurse also brought another cup with a straw, and collected the cards from the three bouquets, so that Bridget could read them. When Bridget asked if she could go home that day, she received a noncommittal response.

"To Ma, Get Well," read one of the cards, and Bridget guessed it was from her son, Ed. That'd be the ghastly pink affair he sent in lieu of himself, demonstrating all the elements of being a dutiful son without actually seeing his mother.

"Bet these die before you do," was from Mary, and Bridget guessed it went with the inexpensive but tasteful carnations, in reds and blues Mary knew Bridget liked.

The last bouquet was also red and blue, and far more decadent, a burgundy iris anchoring a flight of azure daisies and scarlet coxcombs, a spray of delicate baby's breath tucked into a sky blue ribbon. The card, held in Bridget's trembling fingers, read, "I wish we could have met another way, but I could not stand not meeting you at all."

There was a name. There was a phone number. There was an alarm going off as Bridget's heart rate spiked, and a nurse hurried in to find out why she was crying. There was no way to articulate the pain.

* * *

Mary was kind enough to bring a fruit smoothie with her when she returned. "The nurses say you can go home with me tomorrow," said Mary, putting the treat in easy reach. "Once we get you out of that rig, you great croquet hoop. You're gonna wear a cone of shame like a mutt with stitches on its arse, and I'll squirt you with a spray bottle if you start scratching."

The smoothie was thick and sweet, and it hurt a bit when Bridget swallowed, but it was so much better than the saline drip. "Mary," Bridget said. "Where's my camera?"

"Oh, it was smashed to pieces," Mary dismissed. "The lens was shattered; do you know how expensive it is to repair that antique? I bought you that nice digital one some years back, you never use it--"

"Lay off, Mary," Bridget sighed. "Can you not see I'm a cripple, here?"

"You look like the queen of shuttlecocks," Mary decided. "Don't get your knickers in a twist, I saved the hunk of junk before they took your car away. You should know the back opened, so don't blame me if the film's gone."

Bridget released the breath she'd been holding. "Well, that's something."

Shuffling some papers beyond Bridget's field of vision, Mary asked, "What, you have a secret admirer, now?"

Unable to shake her head, Bridget said, "That's from the man I almost killed. Wants to exchange information, most like."

"Well, don't," Mary advised. "You know these yanks'll sue the pants off you for eating a sundae on a Friday. Nice flowers, though. What is he, a silver fox type?"

Bridget painfully chuckled. "No foxes in my hen house, you know that."

"You don't fool me, Bridget Roinan," Mary said, accompanied by the flicking pages of a trashy magazine. "You're Jane Austen in dungarees, and you always have been. Just hoping the right fella will pass in front of your lens."

"My broken lens," sighed Bridget, and Mary had nothing to say to that.

* * *

The plastic brace was replaced by a padded one, Velcro-ed snugly in place as Bridget signed the paperwork required to set her free. Her car was still impounded, so Mary volunteered to drive Bridget home, the two of them carrying the three bouquets, and the shopping bag of medications and care instructions. Mary had to dig through her enormous purse in order to locate her car keys, and Bridget allowed her mind to drift, looking out at all the cars across the miles of parking lot. So many cars in the world, and that man had to run in front of hers.

"Excuse me? Miss?"

Bridget turned, and the vase of flowers in her hands smashed against the pavement.

There was the man, with his coarse Timberwolf hair, and his sea glass eyes. Bridget had seen him for years, when his hair was chestnut brown, his silver stubble anything from a lumberjack beard to a dandy's waxed mustache. He'd been in a suit, in overalls, adorably pot-bellied for a time, and with a fake front tooth replacing the one he'd lost at someone's bachelor party. Bridget had seen him on ski slopes, in South American jungles, miserably slogging through offices, and at home with a book, and a series of cats. Bridget had seen him, even though they'd never met, because her camera, no matter where she aimed it, only took pictures of him.

The old SLR had been bought at a second-hand shop, and Bridget thought the developers had given her the wrong film, at first. But roll after roll over the years had shown that even though Bridget was miles from this man, this stranger, she was somehow capturing images of his life. It was never clear to her if he could see her, too, but here he was. Staring at her. Recognizing her. With an antique camera in his hand.

"Can we help you?" Mary asked him.

The man took a step forward, and opened his mouth to speak, but Bridget shrank away from him. "No, please!" she cried. "I don't want you to see me like this!" Mary put a protective arm around her sister, but knew enough to keep her mouth shut.

The man took a step back. He took a messenger bag from his shoulder, laid it down on the pavement, and placed his camera on top. Straightening up again, he said, "I'm sorry." He turned to walk away, then told her, "You look beautiful. You always do."

There were fifty years of photographs between them.