She Lifted A Finger

He walks up to her, in dire need of medical attention. She, a young mother, is already feeling overwhelmed. But after she reaches out to this person in need, there is no turning back.

- Kim Porter

I SIT ON THE STOOP in front of my friend’s house. She lives at the top of a ridiculously steep hill. Halfway up, my four-year-old daughter, Colette, collapsed in mutiny, refusing to take another step, and I had to lug her the rest of the way on my back. And now my friend is late, and we’re stuck here waiting as the 4 p.m. San Francisco fog rolls in, kicking up gritty wind and making the temperature plummet.

My friend’s street is so traumatically narrow and steep that drivers, upon discovering it’s a dead end, have to back down the hill because there’s no place to turn around. I know because that happened to me once, which is why I walked here today.

I see a man approaching, and I think, Oh, great. Now what?

“Por favor. Call 911,” the man says. “Finger. Cut.” He holds up his blood streaked forearm. With his left hand, he is clenching a wad of handkerchiefs around his right pinkie.

“No. Have. Phone,” I say, as if English is also my second language.

“Have phone,” he says, and dips his chin toward his front pants pocket. I don’t want to stick my hand in there, but the blood does look real. In his pocket, I find a flip phone. I slip it out and step back out of arm’s reach, then call 911.

The operator answers, and after I give her the address, I say, “I’m here with this guy, and he says he cut his finger.” 

“Is it bad?” the operator asks. 

“Is it bad?” I ask him.

“Sí.” “It’s bad,” I tell her. “Did he cut it off?” Now, there’s a question I hadn’t thought of. “Did you cut it off?”

“Sí.” He sighs, relieved someone finally understands the gravity of his situation. 

“Yes. He cut it off.”