Did You See It Too?
by Amy Boyes
“Did you see it too, Mom?” Madeline whispers.
It’s bedtime. We’re cuddling under my duvet, the quiet moments at the end of the day quickly slipping by. How is it so late? —I always say. You should be asleep.
“Did I see what?” I ask, but I have a sinking feeling I know what she means.
“That man, dying on the sidewalk.”
I shut my eyes and grasp her tightly. “Yeah. I saw it too.”
It had been a beautiful afternoon, a heartening day in early spring. The trees were bare—not a leaf in sight—but soon, buds would burst. The streets would be swept cleaned and the boulevards would burst with dandelions.
We were on our way to Madeline’s choir practice just as the offices were closing for the day. While stopped at a red light, I saw a man collapsed on the sidewalk. His dark hair was matted. His gaunt frame was scarcely noticeable in the dirty runoff of melting snow.
A commuter crouched at the man’s head, his face tense with anxiety. He wore a backpack and a cheerful, red-checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He looked willing to help but only watched as two others applied treatment, a life-saving medication of some kind. Their goodness was evidenced in their willingness to try, to expose themselves to potentially dangerous substances. A fourth Samaritan stood with her phone pressed to her ear. Neck stretched, she scanned the street for help, but the ambulance that rolled towards the sad scene was in no hurry. No siren wailed. No traffic screeched to a stop.
I didn’t say anything at the time, hoping that if I kept quiet Madeline wouldn’t glance at the man prostrate on the pavement. But that was wishful thinking, I realize now. She saw everything and she understood what was happening.
“Was it drugs, Mom?”
“Most likely.”
“Fentanyl?”
“Probably. Saskatoon is going through a particularly bad stretch at the moment.”
Madeline nods. “It happens,” she says with wisdom that belies her years.
Her acceptance, her resignation, breaks my heart. At her age, I didn’t even know the names of drugs. My mom didn’t worry about pills at the park. Needles on the pavement. Unspeakable tragedies. Overdoses happened in the 90s, of course, but not in my line of vision. Not in broad daylight on the way to choir practice.
Madeline crawls out of my bed, heading for her own. “At least people tried to help, Mom.”
“There’s that,” I whisper, but it doesn’t feel like nearly enough.
BIO: Amy Boyes is a writer and music teacher from Warman, Saskatchewan. Her writing explores music, family, teaching, and the places they intersect. Her first book Micro Miracle was published by Signature Editions in 2019, and Yes, Miss Thompson by Now or Never Publishing in 2023.