08- Accidently

It was winter, the air was freezing, and the cold was making my bones ache. In the darkness, I could see nothing but the silhouettes of trees.

Actually, I had brought this situation upon myself. Lately, I had been acting impulsively and spending sleepless nights. When I didn’t get a response from my lover, I’d jump into the car and go to their place, causing a scene. I was moving entirely in the orbit of my heart, my feelings had taken control, silencing my mind. This night was once again the result of that uncontrollable anger.

I had learned from Facebook that he had gone to Como without informing me. My hands were trembling with anger as I hurriedly packed a small bag and jumped into the car. I set off south at midnight, taking the turn toward Saint Bernardino. Why had I taken this route when the Saint Gotthard Tunnel was the most practical and widely used route to Italy? Maybe it was because we had taken this road together on our last trip. But the Saint Bernardino pass was closed, and the signs directed me toward the Splügen Pass. I had only passed through there once in my life. Even in summer, this was one of the most desolate passes of the Alps. What was I doing here on this November night? I didn’t know.

When I opened my eyes, I was trapped between the airbags. I didn’t even attempt to get out of the car. Even if I tried, it seemed certain I wouldn’t be able to. I was sure I was bleeding somewhere due to the warm, sticky wetness I didn’t know where it came from. I was astonished that I was still alive. But I thought to myself that by morning no one would find me, and I would be dead.

I tried to gather the last memories I could, tapping into my fading memory. While climbing toward the Splügen Pass, I had turned the music up all the way and sung songs like crazy. Just before I reached the pass, I noticed the café we had visited with my brother and his family was closed. I tried the door, but when I couldn’t get in, I returned to the car and continued on my way. The descent from the mountain pass was now in Italian territory, and the sharp turns were numbered, reducing from 50 to 1. As I read the numbers illuminated by my headlights, I felt relief as the numbers dropped... 36, 35, 34... I don’t remember the last number I saw, but the treeless, grassy scenery above had changed, and as I descended, the coniferous vegetation began.

It was probably due to the heavy rain, but my summer tires couldn’t grip the road. My car lost control, swerved off the road into the forest, and crashed into a tree, coming to a stop. I couldn’t see any lights except for the headlights of my car. Now, the wolves and birds would eat me here. If someone saw me, would they feel sorry for me? Would they blame me for this mess? If I die here, maybe then they would feel guilty. But I didn’t want to die just for them to feel guilt. Thoughts were flying through my head.

Our story with him was more of a chase and escape tale than a love story. I didn’t even know why I had become so obsessed with this man. While he was spending his free time with me, I was being dragged along behind him. It had been a year and a half, yet neither of us had each other's house keys. We had planned no vacations, nor had we invited a mutual friend or family member to dinner. Our relationship was like an elastic band, he would pull away, and I would follow. It couldn’t be called an equal relationship.

Now, he was probably sleeping soundly. Even if I reached Como, how would I find him? The feeling of how foolish it was to go on this journey struck me like a knife. I couldn’t move from the place where I was stuck. I couldn’t even find my phone. I was cold. I tried to reach my coat in the backseat, but a sharp pain shot through my ribs, and I had to pull my arm back without even touching it.

Tears streaming from my eyes mixed with the blood on my face, leaving a salty taste on my lips. I didn’t know if I would make it through the night. Then, a faint light appeared on the left. A flashlight was moving, flickering back and forth. I should shout, let them know I was alive, that I was here. But all that came out of my mouth was a weak groan, barely reaching my ears. At that moment, the light fell on the car, and it blinded me. A silhouette holding the light appeared.

The stranger, rubbing his hands together to warm them, approached the car. With an indescribable joy inside me, I couldn’t stay still. He tried to open the driver’s door but couldn’t. After a brief hesitation, he walked away, returned with a tool in his hand, and opened the passenger and back doors. While reclining the passenger seat, he asked, “Come sta?”

Instinctively, I responded, “Bene!” as if I could be fine in this situation. Then, embarrassed by the idea of pretending I knew Italian, I muttered something resembling a groan: “Non parlo italiano, parlo tedesco o inglese…”

Meanwhile, he had reached back and managed to open the driver’s door from the inside. In a hurry, like an impatient child, I stuck my legs out. Just as he was about to say “Kıpırdama!”, I had already jumped up. Then, I collapsed to the ground.

When I opened my eyes, he was carrying me. In a doctor-like tone, he said, “What did you do? Maybe moving wasn’t the right thing.” Then, he added, “Anyway, it’s really cold. Maybe staying in the car wouldn’t have been a good idea.”

He was right. If my spine were broken, I shouldn’t have gotten up. But it was too late. I left my concerns about my spine to the gods, and while being carried, I tried to guess the scent of his perfume coming from his neck. What perfume was he using, I wondered. Interestingly, I wasn’t feeling any pain. Maybe I was dead. Perhaps I had moved on to another life in a parallel universe. Otherwise, there was no way I should have made it out of this crash like this.

As soon as I entered, he laid me down on the sofa and ran to the phone. While pressing the buttons according to the electronic commands, he was also trying to comfort me. "You're fine, you're fine. Look, you remembered all the languages you speak." I wanted to complain, "What do you mean by all languages? Do you know how many languages I speak?" but my chest was tightening when I breathed and spoke. I just smiled. My fear had long passed, and I was examining the old chandelier hanging from the wooden ceiling. In the fireplace opposite me, the logs were burning brightly. This place must have been a chalet passed down from grandparents. The cushion under my head had embroidery on it. Almost everything was made of wood. The curtains matched the red-and-white checked tablecloth. These seemed like they belonged to his grandmother, not the man in his forties. The only thing from this era was the gigantic graphic on one of the walls. I was sure it was the dome of St. Peter's Basilica in Rome. I love Renaissance masterpieces, especially the domes. But it had been transformed into an architectural poster with watercolor. I would have liked to ask, but the pain in my ribs made me give up.

There was no trace of the fear I had felt in the car. My savior's warm and reassuring voice was still speaking on the phone. Holding the phone in one hand, he was trying to free himself from the coat and big boots he had put on when stepping outside. From the conversation, I gathered that he had contacted the hospital. He was talking about the accident, was he saying I fell into his garden? I heard him say "Mio giardino"—was he talking about the damage I caused to his garden? Could he be thinking about this while I was in this state? From the fragmented words like “La donna, incidente, ospedale” I could barely understand, I realized he was more concerned about my health than his garden, and I felt relieved. He hung up the phone, turned to me, and said, “The ambulance will be here in fifteen minutes,” and added, “A helicopter will come, don’t be afraid, okay? It would take at least an hour for a normal ambulance to reach here, and I told them you were in very bad condition so they should hurry. You know, this is Italy,” he said with a mischievous laugh.

Without that laugh, I might have panicked at the thought of the helicopter coming. But I felt calm. I was already sad that I would leave here in ten or fifteen minutes. I was observing my savior, who had freed himself from his discomfort. He turned to the desk, rolling up the sleeves of his blue linen shirt towards his elbows. He pulled the wooden chair under him, sat down, and started writing something. "Let’s inform your family. They’ll be worried." he said. "No," I replied, "they’ll be even more anxious," but still, I gave him the number of my closest friend in Zurich. He looked cool in his blue shirt, beige Chino pants, and neatly trimmed wavy hair. It was clear he didn’t farm in this mountain village. His way of speaking and how he expressed himself in both German and English showed he was an educated man. He was handsome too. He smiled, showing his pearly teeth through his short reddish beard. He must be married, I thought. Don’t we always say that good men are either married or gay? And we’re left behind... Then the man who had caused me to set out on this journey came to mind, ugh. I involuntarily wrinkled my face. Although he didn’t know the reason, my savior noticed my discomfort and said, “You’ll be fine, don’t worry!” I snapped out of my thoughts, but still, with the pain in my ribs, I tried to make short sentences, pointing to the blood on my face with my finger, and said, “I’m so scared” before I started crying. He stood in front of me like a doctor, looked deeply into my eyes with his green ones, and calmly said, “It’s just a small cut on your eyebrow," then took a wet paper from the bathroom and wiped my face. "There are no other wounds, look, all the blood is from here,” he said as he handed me a round bathroom mirror. Then, with a playful attitude, he said, "When I was a kid, I fell a lot, they would stitch up my eyebrow. Look!" and showed me the straight, hairless line that went through his eyebrow. Then, as if we were about to shake hands, he extended his hand and said, "I'm Lorenzo." Embarrassed by my fears, I said in a low voice, "I’m Laura. Thank you." Then I repeated, “Grazia mille” in Italian and started crying again. As I hiccupped, my chest hurt, but I couldn’t stop crying. He pulled his chair beside the sofa I was lying on and said, "Don’t be afraid, look, the ambulance is coming. I’m also in shock, but I wasn’t sleeping. I was working on a project. The car crash almost echoed in the room. I thought lightning had struck. When I went outside, I saw the car’s headlights. I still can’t believe you’re alive, and even in such good condition,” he said. When he saw I had calmed down, he pulled his hand away from my head and leaned back.

When the ambulance arrived, he rushed back to the desk as if he had just remembered something, wrote something on two post-it notes, handed one to the ambulance staff, and folded the other, slipping it into my pants pocket. "This is my phone number. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call!" he said. At that moment, I was only thinking about how the stretcher I was lying on would be lifted by a rope to the helicopter spinning above and feeling uneasy about it.

After staying for two days at Alessandro Manzoni Hospital near Lenno, Italy, I was transferred to Zurich University Hospital on Monday by ambulance. When they handed me my pants in a small bag as I got into the ambulance, I remembered to save Lorenzo's number, which he had written on a piece of paper, into my phone. At that moment, I sent him a small thank-you message: "A million thanks, not just one. They are taking me to Zurich now. They could have put me on a train, but I think you have a very good healthcare system, so they sent an ambulance." Two minutes later, he replied: "I’m so happy to hear that. I tried calling your number, but your phone was off. I thought about that night a lot. I could’ve not been there. I live in Milan; this mountain house is from our grandfather, and there are two or three other houses around, but they’re all empty this season. My being there in November was very coincidental. I needed to think, and I decided last minute to spend the weekend here. Every time I think about how close you were to not making it, it shakes me." Hearing this shook me too, but now I was in safe hands.

 When I arrived in Zurich, my mother and all my friends rushed to the hospital as soon as they heard. I didn’t feel like calling the so-called lover who had led me to these roads. While he wasn’t even aware that I had gone to Como, the experiences I had and coming face to face with death had opened my mind. What good would it do if I told him what had happened? "I’d tell him if he called," I thought, "or maybe I wouldn’t." It had been exactly five days since the accident when he called me. That day, I had been discharged from the hospital and returned home by taxi. As usual, with an indifferent expression as if nothing had happened, as if I hadn’t gone to Como without him, he said, "Shall we meet tonight?" "No, I’m sick," I said. I had been expecting him to ask, "Shall I make you some soup?" Instead, he said, "Then take good care of yourself, rest please," and hung up the phone. A few days later, I was furious again. I wrote that I was angry at his indifference and that I was done. In response, he gave me a silly answer as if it was perfectly normal, "You’re always so negative, I can’t understand you." I didn’t feel like calling or writing more. Although thinking it was over made my heart ache, it was not greater pain than the endless disappointment he had caused me.

I didn’t call Lorenzo either. With Christmas and the New Year in between, I had gone to visit my family. I occasionally thought about my savior, but I hadn’t fully recovered from the shock of the accident, and with the fatigue from the ended relationship, I didn’t feel like doing anything during those months.

One sunny April morning, while I was getting ready to go to work after taking a shower, my phone rang. Lorenzo, embarrassed, said he had accidentally called me while his phone was in his back pocket. It was the first time I had heard his voice again. So, he had been fiddling with my number. He asked if I was planning to go to Milan. I told him that even though I needed to go to Ascona for work, I hadn’t been able to head south after the accident. I added that I would definitely call if I came. I told him I wanted to treat him to a meal, that I couldn’t repay the debt of life, but if I treated him to a meal, I would feel better. After this conversation, we started texting and sharing pictures from time to time. He was an architect. He sent me pictures of a school project they had done in Slovenia, and I sent him a few pictures from my trip to Los Angeles. This way, we got a chance to get to know each other again, like two old friends.

Exactly one year had passed since the accident, and November had arrived. During this time, I had explained the cause of the accident to Lorenzo, and he had told me that he had been dealing with relationship problems the day of the accident. Over the course of the year, we both slowly healed, and we had even started flirting a little over the phone. I was going to the office in Ascona for work again. We decided to have dinner at a restaurant on the terrace of the yacht club in Como, right between Milan and Ascona. I needed to overcome that Como trauma. Como was a city I loved, and I shouldn’t stay away from it because of one jerk. In Como, on a sparkling evening, we had dinner while watching the waves on the lake, and thus, the first steps of a new life were taken.