The Ghosts of a Desperate Good Deed
by Patrick Malka
Stepping out of the hospital at 4am, the nauseating smell of antiseptic chemicals swarmed Liam’s head like gnats, invading his mouth, brewing in his saliva, and killing what was left of his hunger. The sub zero February temperatures would weigh down the cloying odor in time.
No one should step out of a hospital at 4 am without at least a story to tell and in Liam’s case, there just wasn't much to tell anymore. Any story worth telling he had just relinquished the rights to by leaving for the last time.
So the sound of wheels spinning in icy cups of their own making, cutting through an otherwise batting stuffed quiet came as a relief.
Liam spotted the Corolla at the end of the block spinning its wheels in reverse for what must have been the twentieth time based on the amount of blackened ice under the tires and the smell of warm rubber transported on the frigid air. The driver was a young man in scrubs, clearly exhausted, frustrated, wanting desperately for this one thing to be resolved. He wanted to be let out of the two feet of wiggle room he was allotted at that moment.
Liam signaled to the driver that he could help. The driver lowered his window, his voice cracking and his eyes watering from the cold air and something else. He probably had a pretty good story to tell.
Liam placed himself behind the car and explained to the driver that as the car reversed, it ever so slightly climbed out of the indent the spinning wheels had created. Not enough to get out but enough to exploit. He told the driver to reverse as much as possible then quickly switch to drive and gun it, at which point he would put his weight down on the car to try to get some traction and push as hard as he could. The driver shouted that he got it and would try.
The first attempt was good, but the driver wasn't quick enough to take advantage of the car's pendulum swing back onto ice. It took a few more tries to get the rhythm down. Once it looked like the driver would get it, Liam went to the front and kicked at whatever snow and ice might get in the way of this next attempt being the one. He returned to his position behind the car. He had worked up a sweat. He had forgotten his gloves in his dad's room and couldn't handle the idea of going back to get them. He could hear his father laughing, “serves you right for giving a shit.” Without thinking, Liam wiped his brow with the palm of his hand and placed it on the cold metal of the car.
The driver shouted to see if he was ready for one more try. He looked down at his right hand, pulling gently to confirm that the skin was thoroughly stuck. It felt so good to be treated like the one who might be able to help. Liam didn't hesitate to tell the driver to go for it.
They executed the move perfectly.
The corolla slid out with a slight fish tail the driver was able to recover.
The driver leaned out of his window and gave a quick, appreciative nod, asked if this kind stranger needed a lift.
Unable to speak and finally on the verge of screaming the scream he had been holding in for months, Liam nodded back and waved him off with his good hand. Whatever the driver’s night had been, it was now for the most part resolved and should remain that way. The driver thanked him again and started down the street, not noticing the blood staining the snow at Liam’s feet.
Watching the car go, Liam’s handprint was still visible, appearing in thick, glistening relief every time the car passed a streetlamp.
Patrick Malka (he/him) is a high school science teacher from Montreal, Quebec, where he lives with his partner and two kids. His flash fiction can be found in Five South's the weekly, Nocturne magazine, The Raven Review, Sky Island Journal, and Coffin Bell Journal. He can be found online on Twitter @PatrickMalka and Instagram @malkapatrick.