This Man

I am Eve Mason Jackson.

In the small city of Sauk City, Wisconsin, over fifty inches of snow fell each year. Eventually, you came to know almost everyone in town. Life wasn't expensive here—especially medications and doctor visits.

Wisconsin was nothing like New York. Still, I loved everything about this place. It was pretty, uncrowded, and as far as I could tell, my mom seemed to enjoy living here. At least, that was what I believed. She never said so, and I had no plans to ask.

"Mama, I'm leaving for work. Please take your medicine on time," I told her. She was lying on the sofa, as usual, watching her favorite show, a deep-colored blanket covering half her body.

As expected, she didn't speak—only gave a slight nod.

A loud bang on the television startled me.

"Oh my gosh!" My heart began to pound.

I had been so lost in thought that I hadn't realized my mom was still rewatching a Star Trek series—the very reason for all the commotion.

I never understood why anyone would spend money on shows or movies. To me, it was ridiculous. If I were my mom, I wouldn't spend a penny on entertainment. I loved books, especially romance novels, but movies and series were never my thing.

In my nineteen years, television had never caught my interest. I had seen a few movies—one of them was The Wizard of Oz—but I found it more unrealistic than engaging. Clearly, it had been made for children. I was never the kind to dream of fairy tales; I had always been mature for my age.

I went to the kitchen and grabbed my phone from the charging station, impatiently waiting for my mom to say goodbye. Another silence made my eyes water. I quickly wiped the tears with my right hand, pretending I had something on my face—not that my mom would have cared.

I picked up my tiny purse from the dining table and glanced at her one last time.

Our two-bedroom apartment was always quiet, except for the thin walls through which neighbors' noises seeped. Sometimes I thought of it as a library: the voices of TV actors, the weekly phone call from my mom's nurse, and the doctor's biweekly visits. Otherwise, there was no conversation between mother and daughter.

My mom didn't care if a storm raged outside. Silence was her way. She could speak, but she had simply stopped after that terrible incident.

"Mom, don't forget to take your medicine," I reminded her again.

Her expression hadn't changed in years. She was older now, sicker with each passing day, but she always tried to look beautiful.

"I am so dumb," I muttered as I walked to the door.

I hadn't heard my mom's voice in a long time. I had grown used to her silence, but it still hurt. When you were the only family left, it stung when no one seemed to care about your efforts.

"Goodbye, Mama. Have a nice day," I said, my voice shaky as I stepped outside.

The cold air brushed through my wavy hair, and my heartbeat quickened as the chilly wind touched my bare arms.

"Ugh, I hate winter. I can't afford a jacket," I thought, walking to my car.

I wore a thin half-sleeve top and jeans I had bought from Goodwill two years ago. My old jackets no longer fit. I hadn't gained any weight, but my height had changed—I had grown four inches in the last year. Now, I stood at about five feet eight.

I glanced at the cloudy sky as I got into my 2005 Honda Accord.

“Why does winter have to be so gloomy? I love snow, but I hate cloudy skies."

Our apartment was near the lakeside. Rent was cheap, and the view was spectacular. There was nothing like waking up to a sunrise over the water, sipping coffee on the balcony.

I worked in a different city. The drive downtown took thirty minutes at 65 MPH—not terrible, but not ideal. I couldn't afford rent in a metropolitan area. Besides, my mom's hospital and therapist were nearby, and the shopping center was just a mile away. The neighborhood was also very safe. I had made the right choice; even if my car broke down, neighbors would help with hospital trips or groceries. People here were friendly.

It was going to be a long day. I worked at a café downtown and wouldn't get home until midnight. I turned on my favorite station, listening to the news and music, singing along despite the headache of morning traffic.

"I'm going to get in so much trouble today," I muttered.

I considered calling my manager to let her know I might be late. I had forty-four minutes before my shift started and needed to take the next exit toward downtown.

"I hope this traffic clears up, or else trouble will find me, as always," I thought.

Trouble had a way of knocking on my door—like I was an easy target for pain, suffering, and loneliness.

There had been an accident near the freeway exit by City Hall. Traffic was heavy, as expected.

From a short distance, I could see what had happened. Metropolitan police had blocked two lanes, and there were ambulances, a fire truck, seven police cars, and several reporter vans.

Four officers were escorting a man in a suit whose face was partially covered. I guessed he was trying to hide from the reporters, who already had their cameras trained on him.

Two cars were involved: a burgundy Ferrari and a white Ram truck. The Ferrari's back bumper was badly damaged—it looked terrible. The truck, on the other hand, looked almost new. In front of it stood an old man nervously talking on the phone. I assumed the truck belonged to him; he didn't look like the type who could afford a Ferrari. He seemed ordinary, unlike the man in the suit.

Since moving to Wisconsin, I hadn't seen many expensive cars. That man had to be very rich to drive a Ferrari in the Midwest.

After a few minutes, the police let some cars pass in the other lanes, then blocked all four, creating a large space. Suddenly, people began screaming. Looking out, I saw drivers stepping out of their cars to take pictures of the man in the suit.

"That's him!" someone shouted.

In the middle of the freeway, they acted as though they had spotted a celebrity or billionaire.

Now I could see his face clearly. He wasn't the most handsome man I had ever seen, but there was something striking about him. His blue eyes shimmered in the morning sun. His jawline was sharp, his skin glowing with a rosy tone, and the fitted black suit emphasized every inch of him.

Still, I had trouble recognizing him.

"He couldn't be a model... models can't afford Ferraris unless they're rich," I muttered to myself.

Even though no one could hear my awkwardness, I still felt foolish for wondering about him. I wasn't socially active; I wouldn't recognize even the most famous American superstar. I didn't even know the names of many celebrities. He wasn't the president or the president's son—the president was older and had no sons.

"How would I recognize such a strange face?" I thought.

There was no time to search my phone or figure out who he was.

"How long do we have to wait?" I muttered impatiently. Honestly, I would have rather dealt with complaining customers than be stuck on a freeway. Escape was impossible; I couldn't leave my car behind, and walking or jumping from the bridge was out of the question.

A few minutes later, I heard a helicopter approaching. In seconds, it landed beside the police cars in the cleared space. For a moment, it felt like a movie being filmed—completely unreal.

Two well-suited men stepped out and waited while the man in the suit spoke with a police officer. Then they escorted him to the helicopter. I assumed they were bodyguards, dressed in black and wearing sunglasses.

Within a minute, the helicopter lifted off. Whoever he was, he had to be incredibly powerful and wealthy—no one else could block morning traffic like that.

It took a few more minutes for the police to clear the road. The old man was still standing at the side, held by an officer. If he was at fault, I really hope his insurance cover the Ferrari's repair costs. I wouldn't even want to think about how much it would cost to repair.

"Thank goodness I made it to work on time. What a relief," I muttered as I parked in the nearly full lot.