“I’m Kate Wethers and we have a special exclusive interview for you tonight. We are in Balsam, Pennsylvania, with Brett Madden, Philadelphia Flyers captain and son of actress Meryl Price, and Catherine Wright, the heroic woman who saved his life by pulling him from a burning car . . .” Kate speaks smoothly and eloquently, and without error, as if she’s practiced her speech for days and could recite it in her sleep, her sharp green eyes—lined with crow’s-feet to suggest she’s older than the early forties that I first pegged her at—locked on the camera. She introduces the accident—in case there’s a single person in the U.S. who isn’t already aware—and the aftermath, ending with the dramatic revelation that the mysterious person who saved the two-hundred-and-twenty-pound Brett is, shockingly, a petite five-foot-four woman.
With that, she turns to face Brett and me. I feel the camera zooming in on my face, but I don’t look at it, keeping my eyes locked on Kate and trying not to bare my teeth like a feral animal when I force a smile. Brett, Meryl, and Simone promised that Kate is kind and classy, and wouldn’t try to twist my words or come in from left field and leave my mouth gaping open.
I just want this over with.
Brett and Kate share pleasantries, Kate expressing how happy she is that he is recovering, Brett congratulating her on a prestigious journalism award she recently won. Not a cord of tension pulses through him. I wish I could be that relaxed.
“And this is the lovely young lady the world has to thank for allowing us to continue enjoying Brett Madden’s smile, charm, and talent. Catherine Wright, how are you doing?”
Speak! Speak! Speak! “A little out of sorts, honestly.” I clear my throat several times, flashing a nervous smile at Brett, who nods encouragingly at me.
“So, Catherine. Or is it Cath? I’ve heard both in the brief time I’ve been here.”
“Either. Just not Cathy, please.”
She chuckles and then turns her attention back to Brett. “So, that fateful Friday night, you and Seth Grabner were on your way to celebrate clinching a spot in the Eastern Conference finals, were you not?”
“That’s right. Sid Durrand has a place up in the Poconos and he was hosting the team there.”
“And it was Seth’s car that you were in?”
Brett smiles. “He was dying to get his Corvette out on the road again after storing it all winter.” His smile falls off. “I meant . . . He really wanted to drive it.”
“And you’ve already been clear that there was no alcohol involved in the accident.”
“That’s right.”
She turns to me. “Cath, why don’t you tell us what everyone wants to hear in your own words: the night you saved Brett Madden’s life.”
“Well . . .” I remind myself to take a deep breath, just like Brett coached me. “I was on my way home from an unsuccessful blind date . . .”—even though Gord sold me out the way he did, and he deserves to have his ego taken down ten notches, I won’t be outright cruel—“. . . and I was taking Old Cannery Road. There was this red sports car. It was—” I bite back my words. I told the police that I thought the driver was speeding, but there’s no need to condemn him now. “It was foggy. Really foggy,” I say instead, which is not a lie. It’s surprising, how much I remember about that night, and with how much clarity I can recall it, right down to the panic and feeling of helplessness.
“So you found Seth Grabner first?”
I nod. “Yeah, he was . . . It wasn’t good.” I feel Brett tense beside me, and I quickly move on. “Then I found Brett in the passenger side. He was still breathing, but unconscious.”
“Was the car burning at this point?”
“No. I could smell something odd, but it didn’t catch fire until about twenty or so seconds later.” I shake my head. “Or, honestly, I don’t know how long after. Anyway, when it did, I knew I had to get him out of there. I had already unbuckled his seat belt, and I was trying to pull him out. I managed to get his right leg out of the car, but his left boot was stuck under something.”
“You tried to pull this two-hundred-and-twenty-pound man beside you out of the car.” She gestures at Brett right next to me, to emphasize his size, which I’m sure is already clear with me sitting so slight next to him.
Something about the way she says it makes me giggle. Maybe at the absurdity of me even trying in the first place. “Yeah, he’s as heavy as he looks.”
Next to me, Brett chuckles softly.
She leans in, her voice dropping a notch, as if she’s somehow more engaged in the story. It’s a subtle but clever move on her part. “So then what happened, Catherine?”
I avert my gaze from her and look into a camera lens, but then remember that they told me not to do that, so I drop my eyes to the coffee table, struggling to control my racing heart. “I kept shouting and screaming, but he wouldn’t respond, and it was so hot, I felt like my skin was going to melt off. So I started to back away. For just a few seconds, I gave up,” I finally admit in a shaky whisper. “Nothing I was doing was working.”
Silence fills the room.
“You were crying,” Brett suddenly says, almost to himself. “You kept saying that you were sorry, and you were crying.”
I turn to regard the frown zagging across his forehead. “You heard me?”
His blue eyes search my features. “I guess I did. I just didn’t remember it until now.”
For a few moments, Kate, the camera, the crew . . . they vanish.
Kate’s voice pulls me back quickly, though. “That must have been an absolutely terrifying and impossible decision for you.” Her brow furrows with sympathy. “You’re a twenty-four-year-old woman, a single mom with a five-year-old child waiting for you at home, you had already put yourself in harm’s way. And, by basic logic, a woman of your size can’t possibly have the strength to lift an unconscious man of Brett Madden’s size out of a bucket seat.” She waits a few beats, maybe to let those words sink in, before going on. “But you didn’t really give up, did you? Because otherwise he wouldn’t be sitting next to you.”
Relief swells inside me, and for the first time since she’s started talking, my smile feels genuine. “He coughed and lifted his head. I saw him do it, so I ran back and started screaming at him to pull his leg free, hoping he’d hear me. And somehow he did, and I had both of his legs out of the car, so I wrapped my arms around his waist and started pulling.”
Kate holds her hand up. “Let’s stop right there for a moment, because I want to make sure viewers understand this.” She turns to look at the camera. “Brett Madden was not in a pickup truck, or an SUV, or one of those vehicles you need to climb into. He was in a ’67 Corvette. Now, I don’t know about you guys, but the last time I was in a Corvette, I could barely haul myself out of it, it was so low to the ground.” She has a light comedic flair that makes her stand out from other prime-time newscasters, even when she’s reporting on difficult topics.
“My dad said something along those lines,” I agree with a giggle.
She turns back to me. “How on earth did you get him out?”
I shrug. “Honestly, I don’t know. One moment I was tugging on him, and the next we were tumbling backward into the ditch. I figure he came to and gathered some last-minute strength.”
Kate focuses on Brett. “Is that what happened? Can you explain it?”
“No, I can’t explain it. With my injuries, the likelihood that I suddenly lifted myself out is close to nil.”
“So, you’re saying . . .”