As an artist, I’m a keen observer—I always note the details that make each individual unique. But there’s one portrait I’ll never be able to paint.
Twenty-five years ago, my husband and I were hauling our trailer down from Omaha to Holiday Island, Arkansas, for vacation when the transmission blew on our ’87 Chevrolet Suburban. We pulled to the side of the interstate. “Let’s flag down a car,” my husband said.
I stood outside the car, nervous and scared. Almost immediately, a car pulled up next to us. “Get in,” a woman said, friendly as could be. “I’ll take you to the Chevrolet dealer. It’s not far.”
She had the kind of face I knew I could trust. My husband stayed with the Suburban, and I climbed in with the stranger. “Memorize the mile marker for the tow truck driver,” she said.
The woman stood behind me while I spoke to the mechanic at the dealership. “We’ll send a tow truck,” he said.
“You’ll be all right now,” I heard the woman say.
The mechanic thrust some paperwork into my hands. I glanced at it briefly and turned around. The woman was gone.
I have often thought about painting her, my mysterious rescuer. But when I sit down at a blank canvas, brush in hand and try to picture her, I can’t. Her features are blurred, like a figure from a dream.
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