Sea Glass Summer by Dorothy Cannell Page A

someone stopped him from taking the car? No time to be judgmental. She remembered the resistance put up by her maternal grandfather, when faced with a family intervention to persuade him to give up driving. ‘I’ll take you inside to my house.’
    â€˜No! No!’ The man’s voice rose to a shout.
    â€˜Then we won’t do that. You’ll tell me where you live and I’ll get you home.’ She was trying to turn him sideways, without success; she’d have to lift his legs. It didn’t occur to her that perhaps she ought not to move him. All she could think of was getting him out of the chill night air. The blank look was back, and he was unable to offer any cooperation. She straightened up and looked around, hoping to see someone coming to their assistance, but the road was empty. It was a Friday evening, a night people tended to go out or be entertaining in their homes. In addition, Nellie Armitage had said several of the houses were seasonal ones, not yet opened for the summer.
    Sarah hesitated. It would only take moments for her to run next door in hope of help, but ought she to risk abandoning the driver even for that short time? What if he panicked? Her attention was jarred back to him when he shouted out angrily, his voice so distorted she couldn’t make out the words.
    Anger wasn’t the right word. Rage now blazed at her from eyes previously lacking any emotion. The transformation was startling, but maybe that was how shock worked. Something told her not to attempt to lean toward this man, let alone touch his shoulder.
    â€˜What are you trying to tell me?’ she asked gently.
    â€˜I want,’ his glare approached frenzy, ‘I want my mother.’
    â€˜Sure you do,’ she placated. Had he hit his head? Here she was wasting time, when she should have gotten her cell and phoned for an ambulance immediately. She’d race inside now and get it, but before she could move on this intent he started to cry, the slow, devastating tears of a terrified child.
    â€˜Where did she go? Find her, make her come.’
    â€˜I will.’
    â€˜I want her now.’
    â€˜I’ll find her.’
    The right approach; he was moving, first groping a veined hand toward the car door. Once found, it provided him with sufficient traction to extend his left leg, which dangled limply before making contact with the ground. Slowly the rest of him followed. Sarah had backed off from the urge to assist, but stood ready to provide support. When he straightened up, swaying slightly, he revealed a height only slightly above average, although the drooped shoulders might subtract an inch or two. Out in the open his eyes gained blueness that contrasted with the pallid face and general grayness of his appearance, hair, sweater and slacks. She took this as a hopeful sign. He stood looking around, but giving no indication of interest in the missing section of picket fence or the rear of the jutting Cadillac.
    â€˜I know why she’s not here,’ he said in a male timbre that startled Sarah. ‘She won’t leave the dog. Do you know,’ he turned towards her confidingly and in doing so, shed several years, ‘she loves that dog more than me. I want her to get rid of it. You can understand that, can’t you?’
    No jacket, only that sweater, and it was getting colder, but he looked better physically. If she could manage to get him to tell her where he lived she could drive him home. ‘Do you mean your wife?’ There couldn’t be a mother.
    â€˜She’s dead. Sometimes I can’t remember her name. That frightens me. Do you think it should?’ He asked it in a mildly puzzled way, as if inquiring why it had rained so much lately.
    â€˜No, there are lots of things I can’t remember.’
    The perplexity faded; he seemed finally to bring Sarah’s face into focus, staring at her as if a tiny flame of happiness had been lighted behind those