THE MIRACLE MATTRESS

 

My friend Mary mentioned she needed a new mattress. It just so happened I was getting rid of mine. “It’s too hard,” I told her. “Take it.”  Ten days later Mary borrowed a truck and drove 350 miles to the Bay Area to pick it up.”

Looking like a gigantic piece of spongy tofu wrapped in a triple ply plastic, the 200-pound mattress leaned against the dusty wall of our garage. It was the kind of bedding meant to endure the thrash of environmental threats, and my spine could never get used to its stubborn resistance. It took two women and two men to lift the Cal King onto a GMC 4×4, a truck twice the size of my husband’s 22 -year old 150 Harley Ford. “His truck is a baby next to this one,” Mary said hoisting herself into the driver’s seat.

The mattress now roped to the insides of the truck bed seems secure. “Stay safe,” I say, and wave as she heads down the gravel driveway, a six, maybe eight- hour drive ahead of her, back to Los Angeles, depending upon the density of interstate clog.

 

Two hours later I get the call.

“Where are you?” is my worried greeting.

“I’m in Livermore on the 580. The mattress flew off the truck. It took air and I didn’t even know it.”

It’s clear she’s panicked. I try to imagine the mattress as a surfboard, skateboard, or, snowboard. It’s tough. “Where is it?”

“It’s back there, somewhere. I don’t know.”

“What’s your plan?” I ask, calculating the possibilities in my head. The mattress is mangled by now, hit and pummeled and shredded. Or it is charging at a Mini Cooper like a wall that’s come undone. No matter how I weigh it, the mattress trade-off isn’t going as planned. The whole deal is turning into a nightmare.

“I’m going back,” she says, “I have to try to get it. God forbid it’s causing wreckage.”

You go, girl, I want to say, but she’s already hung up. I begin to text.“When you get there, don’t call the police, call roadside service. Triple-A.”   I wait for a response but there’s nothing. Good, I think, she is focused. And in my mind’s eye, I see Mary exiting the southbound 580, whipping around in her 4×4 to get onto the northbound.

Six minutes later she calls.

“I’m here with the mattress,” she shrieks above the cacophony of cars whizzing by in the background. “You’ll never believe this,” she’s still shrieking. “Two girls are getting back in their car—they just pulled the mattress to the shoulder side of the fast lane.”

“What?” I imagine two slight, female forms emerging from a Prius, fleece wings tumbling from their delicate shoulders to their waists, and in one motion swooping down to lift the spongy mass and effortlessly delivering it to the side of the interstate. “Mary,” I tell her in my loudest confessional voice. “I can’t believe people are really that nice.”  But she doesn’t hear me.

“They’re waving at me now,” she continues, “ … now they’re driving away! That’s it! They’re gone. And the mattress is here, still in the bag. The plastic is intact!”

Now she’s balling into the phone and elephant tears coming from nowhere run down my cheeks. I can’t get my head around this. Whatever, we don’t have time to get philosophical.

“Oh my gosh,” she screams. “A cop. A cop is pulling over. I’ll text you.”  I tremble at the thought. Would she be in trouble, or would he help? The phone vibrates three minutes later.

“Hello,” I try to sound calm but I notice my greeting sounds more like a bark.

“He helped me put it back on the truck and we strapped it down. He wasn’t mad but just said, ‘have to get this off the highway’ and then he split. I can’t believe I did this…”

“Mary!” Now I am sure I am barking. “This is a miracle! The cop, the girls.”

“It is?” She blows her nose into the phone while I’m wiping my face on my sleeve.

“Those girls were amazing. I don’t know what I would have done…”

I don’t either, but I am grateful and feel relief.

“Text me when you get home,” I tell her.

“Okay,” she says, sounding more together. “Okay, here I go. Again. Okay, wish me luck.”

I do, but I hope she doesn’t need it, or if this was all a bunch of luck, it hasn’t run out.

 

Seven hours later I get the text.

“A neighbor helped me get it into my apartment. Believe me, I’m ready for bed.”

Thank goodness I think, and consider texting her to review the day’s events. Instead I emoji a happy face with a kiss, and trust that she is already fast asleep, having a darned good dream.