"I've heard that it hurts," I said to the blue-gowned woman who held what resembled a very long Q-Tip.
"I wouldn't say it hurts," she said, through my open car window, beneath a white tent outside an abandoned Kmart, "but it is uncomfortable, for sure."
She jammed the swab up my nose. It was uncomfortable, for sure. She twisted the swab. A tear rolled down my cheek. If indeed I had the virus, I knew of only one possible exposure. Had I done the right thing on that dark country road? Or would my wife and children suffer for my awful mistake?
We'd been so careful the last six months. No travel, no hairstylists, no friends or relatives inside the house. If either of us ran an errand in a crowded place, we came home and went straight to the shower. My wife bought a gadget that disinfected our phones with ultraviolet light.
And then, in the space of a few seconds, I flung all that caution into the moonlit night.
It began on a Saturday in early September. At home in the pandemic I sometimes felt trapped, almost claustrophobic, deprived of variety and new experience. That afternoon I loaded our three older children into the minivan and drove about 80 miles from metro Atlanta to Yonah Mountain, a solitary peak near the end of the Blue Ridge.
The trail was stunningly beautiful, with sunlight filtering through the canopy and boulders crowned with deep green moss. It took us more than an hour to walk up to the summit, where we looked for an opening in the foliage so we could admire the view. A path led toward an overlook above the valley, but there were no guardrails, no warning signs. This was a wild mountain, not a tourist destination, and at the end of the path was a great and terrible void. It seemed that all of life was contained on that mountaintop: the dizzying freedom, the cold touch of fear, the sense that you could do almost anything, even something catastrophic, and you were the only one who could stop you.
We hurried down the mountain against the oncoming night. The western sky turned orange and then pale, almost white. Darkness followed, leaving us stumbling down the rocky trail, and we reached the end just after the sole of my sneaker broke apart. The children drank the last of the milk from the cooler. I felt exhausted, and also better than I'd felt in a long time.
It happened about 15 minutes later, on a winding two-lane road in the middle of nowhere. First I saw the smartphone, this white-blue rectangle waving in the dark. Then I heard a man calling for help.
Let me say this: I don't stop as much as I used to. Almost never, if I'm honest. I'll see a car on the roadside, think for a second, and then tell myself I don't want to put the children at risk. It's a convenient excuse, especially during the pandemic. Keep moving. Avoid strangers. Save yourself.
Somehow this felt different. Maybe it was the setting, the remoteness of it all, or maybe it was the sound of his voice. I stopped the van and opened my window and yelled. He appeared at the front passenger window. A young man in a white T-shirt, his mask dangling from one ear.
I rolled down the other window. What was I expecting? I don't know. Maybe a car wreck with severe injuries? Or someone having a stroke? This was nothing like that. He seemed a little drunk. He said he'd been in the car with his girlfriend, and they'd had a fight, and he'd gotten out, and now he needed a ride home.
I wished he would go away. No one outside our household had entered this vehicle in at least six months. And I had foolishly left our masks at home, believing we wouldn't need them.
I told the man we were being careful, what with the virus and all. Tried to say no without saying no. He said he was being careful too, and he had kids too, and could he please have a ride home? He kept standing in the window. Kept not going away.
It's easy to keep driving when you see a car on the shoulder. But there's something about the sight of a human face at close range. And there was no telling what misfortune might find him on a walk at night down a lonely road. I felt the heavy weight of the words of Jesus, the call to help a stranger in need.
"Okay," I said, and asked him to put on his mask. He did, and opened the door, and got in. I prayed a silent prayer and kept the windows open.
I asked him his name. He said it was Johnny. He said he turned 29 that day.
"Happy birthday," I said.
Johnny directed me to the nearest town. My hands gripped the wheel as I thought about contagion. Behind us, the children were remarkably quiet. He told me to go straight. I pointed out a sign that said DEAD END. He thought for a moment and told me to turn left. I complied, wondering where we were going.
Left, right, left. A strange town on a strange night. Johnny was mostly polite, but he did swear a lot, as some people do when they're drunk. He said he worked part-time at a restaurant and had two young children. He held up his phone and showed me a picture of his girlfriend. Then he got a call, apparently from the girlfriend. He said something angry and hung up. I kept following his directions. He said we were almost there.
Six days later, I got an email with an ominous subject line: Your COVID-19 Test Results. I'd felt sick and tired and guilty for much of the week, and my heart pounded as I clicked the link. Part of me wanted to be positive, to finally confront the monster that was stalking us all, to have the fight and survive it and just stop being afraid. I entered my date of birth and pressed the button.
Negative, it said, to my surprise, relief and confusion. Was it a false negative? Apparently not. Days passed, and my symptoms disappeared. The children seemed a little tired that week, but no one got very sick. Later in September, I took another test. Negative again. I don't know what caused my symptoms. Maybe I never will.
This I do know: The world is full of risk and wonder. It's easy to keep driving, to leave the doors closed and the windows up. I've done it again and again. This is not an invitation to pick up strangers in a deadly pandemic. But if I hadn't stopped on that lonely road, I would have missed this singular moment outside Johnny's run-down apartment complex.
"Thank you," he said just before departing. "Love you."
I hesitated for an instant, more from surprise than anything else. Men do not say these things lightly. But it was that kind of night. We were past the guardrails.
"Love you too," I said, and drove off with the wind rushing through the open windows.
"help" - Google News
October 23, 2020 at 07:34PM
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On a dark road in Georgia, a stranger cried for help - CNN
"help" - Google News
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