Death Valley

I almost died in Death Valley.

The day was warm but not as warm as would be expected; the desert isn't only cold at night. He drove wearing a red baseball cap and green army jacket that had been given to him. He was handsome in the sunlight, so devastating I thought I never wanted to see another face, not ever again.

His hand was on my leg and I hoped it'd always stay there.

There are several ghost towns near Death Valley. They are haunting; you can feel the disappointment, the no hope, the having no choice but to leave and never return. Cutting your losses is about the saddest thing in the wide world if you ask me.

But I'm drawn to the desolate and the deserted. Ghost towns are beautiful, too, because history hangs in the air. Time is stopped. Cars that don't drive anymore, magazines from the eighties, colourful signs advertising businesses that are no longer in fashion. I admire the buildings that remain without owners. They're rebels.

We stopped in Yermo, California. It's the kind of place with a volunteer fire department and three active churches; two Baptist, one non-denominational. There were six houses and three stores and I couldn't help but think of faces, children and families, of lives now gone.

We left after after trying to use a taco shop's restroom.

"Who eats here? Ghosts?"

...

Two minutes later, he saved my life, like a knight, like a cowboy, like a hero, mythic, masculine and strong.

A man and wife with two children tried to overtake, driving the wrong way in our lane on the two-lane highway. We came over the rise and he saw us too late.

We swerved to the shoulder, and then, so did he. We swerved back to the road. Two seconds later, two seconds different and we'd be dead. Instead, we felt the gravel spray.

"Son of a bitch," was the only thing he said, taking off his red cap, pulling over.

Things are never how you think they are. First, I lunged towards him and held him, laughing. He laughed. I thought of how hard it must have been for him. I didn't feel like it happened to me. I felt along for the ride, I watched like I wasn't part of it.

He lit a cigarette, shaking like a leaf.

I've never seen him shake before.

"I've never come that close to dying," he told me.

We got back on the road. The CD continued to play but sounded wrong and different, so I turned it off.

...

Shock coming to an end is like ice melting. Physical states change. It's gradual, and though you can watch it happen, you're confused when you're left with just warm water.

An hour later, we stopped at an I-Hop for coffee. We drink so much coffee it's a sin.

When he pulled in, we became attached, our empty coffee cups resting in holders, sticking into my side.

"Thank you. Thank you," I told him.

We walked into the diner and when I was in the restroom, looking at my reflection, he told an older woman with a kind face what had happened.

"Get there and God bless," she said

We talk about God a lot. Maybe he hears us and that's why we were blessed that day.

"We're just so lucky." Once I started crying I couldn't stop.

Thirty minutes later he told me it was the best coffee he'd ever tasted.