The Call For Help

And Then The (Slightly More Polite) Call of “Please Help”

“Let us remember that, as much has been given us, much will be expected from us, and that true homage comes from the heart as well as from the lips, and shows itself in deeds.” — Theodore Roosevelt

“Why are all of them here?” — Vicky

Enjoying the Thanksgiving holiday at my grandparents’ house is an annual week seeped in comfortable tradition. Their wooden home sits underneath the shade of oak and pine trees but atop Georgia’s Blue Ridge Mountains, and each year members of my dad’s side of the family flock to fill every room.

I say comfortable tradition because the parts of the week that seem timeless to me (not repetitive because I believe I could enjoy them forever) don’t belong to any strict routine or set place at the table. When I think about the 20-something November weeks I’ve spent there, the first memories that pop into my mind are staying up way too late (and probably being way too loud) playing games and talking with my siblings and cousins, or waking up and immediately walking upstairs to sit on the stone hearth and enjoy easy conversation with parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles as the fire warms my back and the coffee wakes me up. I think about the creaking sound of the chains that suspend the porch swing as it moves back and forth, providing a rhythm that could lull you to sleep or keep the conversation pulsing, depending on what you allow. I don’t think I could confidently tell you where anything belongs in the kitchen, but I bet I can physically taste the warm ham biscuits that my grandad Thos makes for each breakfast just by thinking about them.

Thanksgiving is an easy holiday to take for granted, though. We survive the stress of cooking a beautiful and carb-ridden meal in order to sit around the table and share familiar stories (or, in my case, we survive the stress of watching people cook a beautiful and carb-ridden meal). We attempt to come up with an idea of what we’re thankful for so that, when we share it, it might sound more thoughtful or profund than whichever family member shared theirs before us. Eventually, I’m too full of dressing, casseroles and turkey to allow room for genuine reflection about anything, and after my nap it seems like the holiday is already over. It’s a comfortable holiday, but comfort can put the mind to rest if you aren’t careful.

This year, as I watched the ambulance make its way up the long gravel driveway of a woman I don’t know, I finally had the time for that genuine reflection.

I don’t think we would have even considered eating outside if it weren’t for the pandemic. For as long as I can remember, we’ve squished tables and chairs together and crammed around the long table for the meal, no matter how uncomfortable it was. Sometimes, those not fortunate enough to sit on the desirable side of the table were stuck with their backs pushed almost against the wall and sliding glass door behind them. If one of these unfortunate souls wanted seconds (and at Thanksgiving, who doesn’t want seconds?) they might have to exhale completely just to fit between the wall and the other guests. We always admired the view of the distant mountains outside through the glass sliding door right beside the table, but we never thought about going outside until the feast was over.

Even though we disobeyed all medical guidelines by congregating at the house again this year despite COVID-19 cases rising around the country, we did reach the conclusion that moving lunch onto the deck was better than eating and breathing right next to each other inside. Luckily, it was a beautiful day.

When the carousel of casseroles going in and out of the oven was finished and the various tables were pushed together and decorated for the holiday, we all stood on the deck for a prayer before we ate. I stood in between my cousins Jackson and Patrick, and we all held hands as Thos expressed our collective thanks. About halfway through my grandfather’s prayer, I heard a distant noise coming from the woods over my shoulder.

At first I thought it was a yelp, and I opened my eyes to see if anyone else was reacting to it, as well. No one was, and suddenly I realized that while I excitedly tried to make eye contact with someone, everyone else was focusing on things like “genuine thankfulness” and “reverence to God.” I closed my eyes again and tried to focus. After a few seconds I heard another one, and this time, I realized that not only was it a yelp but it sounded like someone or something was actually saying the word yelp. I couldn’t believe it. When Thos ended the prayer and the crowd began to move toward the serving table, I turned to Patrick.

“Was someone yelling ‘Help?’” I asked. I remember laughing a bit as I asked it, figuring it was just a bird that I misheard or something.

“Yeah I heard it, too,” he said. “That was weird — I don’t know what that was.”

We funnelled inside and stood near the back of the line for food, allowing conversation to focus instead on the familar favorites and new additions to our Thanksgiving meal. I remember sharing with my uncle Dave that I had made a mistake in fixing my drink before fixing my plate, because now I had to set my drink down at every dish as I got my food. I also remember coming to the realization that, even though my plate was full, I had completely misjudged the size of the portions I was getting so that I only had room for one scoop of dressing. I made the rookie mistake of getting way too much turkey, as if I needed to appease some Thanksgiving stereotype instead of following my heart. I kept that to myself, though.

When my plate was full (albeit with almost as much meat as casserole), I grabbed my drink and stepped through the open sliding door and onto the deck. I figured it would be clear which seats were still open since I was one of the last to fix a plate and everyone else would probably be seated, but when I looked at the deck I saw that a few people were standing at the railing and looking out at the mountains. Then I heard the yelp again, which sent those standing into a frenzy.

“Is someone saying help?”

“I can’t tell.”

“It sounds like a cat”

“It sounds like ‘Help.’”

“What if someone’s stuck?”

“What if it’s a trap?”

We heard the yelp again, and this time my aunt Lynn yelled back.

“Hello! Are you OK?”

For a moment, I’m ashamed to report that I thought we all looked a little stupid. I mean, we’re all staring out at nothing and yelling back at something that I decided was almost certainly a bird. Maybe it was a wild turkey, weeping for its fallen relatives on what has to be in the top five of a turkey’s least favorite days. Or, if it was a human, maybe it was a couple of kids playing a little too deep in the woods behind their house. I put my plate down at an empty place and then looked up again, and I noticed that everyone’s eyes were still transfixed on the mountains as they waited to either hear the noise again or hear nothing at all. Then, with only one extra syllable, the sound reverbarated through the woods and the intent became unmistakable.

“Please help.”

When we heard this, it seemed like there was movement everywhere. Lynn turned back towards the house and muttered “Oh my God” as she walked inside. Kendall called out again to ask what happened. A chorus of “oh no’s” erupted along the table as it became obvious no one was prepared for such an event. Who is, though? I looked around and saw my uncle Chris go inside through the sliding door and Patrick disappear around a corner with Jackson not too far behind him, so not knowing what to do I started across the deck, weaving behind chairs as I went. I followed my cousins and Charlie, my cousin Walden’s boyfriend, as I descended the steps on the right side of the house and made my way back underneath the deck. The sound seemed to be coming from the woods to the left of the house, and as we stepped off the concrete patio in front of the basement and into the woods I saw Lynn come around the other corner, having gone through the house and around the lefthand side in order to better understand where the call for help was coming from. She stopped when she saw us, and someone called out again to ask the person what was wrong.

“Please…help” they said again.

I wove around trees as I hurriedly made my way deeper into the woods, careful not to slip on leaves as I followed others down a shallow revine and then up the other side. Soon the crop of trees hid Barba and Thos’ house from view as we continued on, and we paused every few seconds to listen for the voice again.

We each took slightly different paths, unsure of exactly where the voice was coming from. I could see Jackson to my right and Charlie a few feet in front of him, but Patrick must have run ahead of everyone and disappeared over the next hill. Soon I heard footsteps close behind me. I turned around to find Chris marching up to where we were, having caught up to us by taking long strides over the brush and weilding a two-pronged fire poker in his hands as his eyes scanned ahead. I remember thinking that at least now we had a fighting chance if we were walking into a situation where one might need a weapon, whereas before we had none. Then I wondered if I was even ready to be involved in any situation that neceassitated an iron fire poker used for defense. I quickly arrived at an emphatic “no,” but continued on nonetheless.

“Please help!” The voice called out again. “I fell and I’m all alone and I can’t get up.”

I made my way to back to my right as I realized that was the way Patrick had gone, and I watched Charlie and Jackson duck under some thorns and limbs before walking and sliding down another steep hill. I could see one sliver of gravel at the bottom of the hill as Chris and I reached the point where we had to decide whether or not we were going to duck under those thorns and branches and follow the others. I stopped to think about it. He stopped too, and I wondered if he was also thinking about how difficult it would be to weave through the obstacle and whether we could just hang out here for a second and catch our breath.

“Patrick’s already ahead,” he said. “Why don’t you and I hop in the car and see if we can find them? We might need to drive whoever it is to the hospital or at least give the boys a ride home.”

Oh I thought. You know, that makes much more sense than catching our breath right now.

I told him that I had my keys in my pocket and that I could drive us, so we turned around and made our way back toward the house. This escapade had taken us farther than I thought, and most of the way out had been downhill. The two of us hurried back up to the house, huffing and puffing as we dodged trees and made sure we didn’t trip on roots or step into hidden dips in the ground. As we walked uphill, he started plunging the fire poker into the ground like an ice climber using an ice pick. The house finally came back into view, and as we ran past the front porch we saw Walden standing by the front door waiting to see if we had any updates.

Before she could ask anything specific, Chris yelled “Take the poker!” as he tossed it in front of the porch and continued up the hill to the top of the driveway — a move that I’m certain was more confusing to Walden than it was comforting or informative.

When I got to my car, I grabbed the clothes and shoes that I’d left in my backseat and threw them in the trunk. I started the car and turned the air conditioning on as high as it could go, because even in late November I was sweating from the trips down and then immediately back up the mountain. I also turned the radio all the way down, because driving around the mountains to hopefully give your cousins a ride home and possibly drive a stranger to the hospital is not exactly the time to listen to ELO’s “Mr. Blue Sky.”

After we slammed our doors shut, I took off around the cul-de-sac at the top of the hill and we bounced down the gravel road. My car alerted me that my tire pressure was low, but I decided I’d better deal with only one problem at a time. I stopped at the bottom of the hill, thinking we’d need to take a right since that was the direction we’d come from, but Chris said he thought we should go left because there was a long road within the neighborhood that he knew would wrap around the mountain. I went left without a second thought.

We turned onto the road that Chris was referring to and kept going as it wound around the mountain. After we’d driven long enough and we thought we’d be arriving at the woman’s house at any moment, we began examining each house for any signs of Patrick, Jackson and Charlie or at least signs of someone who may have fallen and definitely could not get back up. Chris had tried calling Jackson to no avail, and even though Walden was able to call without the threat of another fire poker being tossed in her direction, we still had nothing to report. As I drove past driveway after driveway, I realized the only things I knew about the house in question were that it is wooden and it sits atop a gravel driveway (characteristics that apply to 100% of houses in the area). We drove with no luck until we reached a house at a dead end, where Chris got out of the car and started walking around. He yelled for Jackson or Patrick, and when we heard no response he started walking back to the car.

“Is everything OK?”

I looked up, and the owner of the house was standing on their screen porch, which overlooked the driveway.

“Sorry, I’m just looking for my sons,” Chris said. “We heard someone calling for help, so we’re just trying to make sure they’re OK.”

“Well, I’m fine,” the owner said.

There was a brief silence as Chris got back in the car, and then we backed out of the driveway and drove back up the road. We elected to leave the neighborhood and drive along the main road that weaves through the mountains, and in coming to the intersection where we were to get on said road, I absentmindedly asked “left or right?” even though taking a right turn would lead us farther away from the area completely, and going left would obviously bring us to the area behind Barba and Thos’ house. We didn’t have time to dwell on my stupidity, though, so Chris just said “Left” and left we went.

As I wove carefully (but also a bit frantically) around the curves of the road, Chris got a call from Jackson. Apparently Patrick did arrive at the house first, and he gave the woman his phone to call an ambulance since she was even more hurt than I had guessed. As Jackson told us this, I arrived at a driveway that looked as though it might be exactly the one we were looking for. I came to a complete stop on the two-lane road as Chris asked Jackson to confirm the address, and when I realized the numbers Jackson reported matched those on the mailbox, I turned in.

The woman’s driveway was long, and it wove around in such a way that, from the top of the hill where the house sat, you could see a car approaching long before it arrived at the house. I pulled up as far as I could in order to leave enough room for an ambulance, and when we got out of the car we saw Jackson and Charlie standing between the edge of the driveway and the shed that stood near the back of the house. Patrick was closer to the shed, and sitting in the doorway of the shed was a teary-eyed woman grabbing at the lower right side of her body.

I later learned that the woman’s name was Vicky, although I never spoke to her directly. She had apparently been going to get something out of the refrigerator earlier that day when she slipped on her way back to her house and landed on her right side. She wasn’t able to move, much less stand up, and with her husband away from the house for the day and her phone still inside, she didn’t know what to do. She said she called for help for 30–40 minutes before Patrick, Jackson and Charlie arrived, and through tears she explained that she didn’t know what she would have done if they hadn’t shown up. She probably would’ve tried crawling or dragging herself back into the house. She (maybe) would have reached the stairs leading up to her porch though, and with the pain she appeared to be in I’m not sure she would have been able to pull herself up.

Patrick was quick to point out that all he did was show up and hand her his phone so she could call 911, which I suppose is technically true, but the importance of his (and Jackson, Charlie and Chris’) actions were clearly communicated through Vicky as she repeated one phrase over and over again while we waited for the ambulance to arrive:

“I’m just so thankful that you heard me. I’m so thankful that you found me.”