It isn’t raining or terrible or anything bad. It’s just a typical sunny December day in Arizona when I first answer the phone. It’s 4:30 on Friday afternoon, and my wife Anu is calling from work to make sure I’m ready for her company Christmas party tonight. I have no idea this is the last normal conversation I’ll have with my wife. I have no idea about the next phone call I’ll answer.

Anu says she’s finishing some things at her work station. She’ll be home by 5:30. Can I have the babysitter come early?

My 34-year-old wife Anu is shorter than most countertops. We live in an ordinary house, grew up in average-size families, and attended large public schools. We had both dated taller people before meeting, ten years ago. In fact, neither of us had ever dated someone so close to our height. I am two inches taller than Anu, and often remind her of that fact.

“Can you have Priya ready so I can play with her before we leave?” Anu asks. Priya is our 15-month-old daughter.

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll be ready, and Priya can’t wait to see you.”

Priya is 17 inches tall. She inherited our unique form of dwarfism, meaning her facial features and mind will be unaffected, but her body will never stand much taller than three feet.

Anu enjoys her work, and I enjoy the flexibility of being a stay-at-home dad. When I’m not busy entertaining Priya, I work as a freelance actor for local TV gigs and ABC’s version of Snow White.

“I love you,” Anu says. This is habitual after seven years together. We do not always think about the significance of those words, though we do mean them. Anu hangs up the phone and turns to her computer, her feet hanging just a few inches below the seat of her office chair.

We have the perfect home. Some little people, like my friend Matt Roloff, whose family is featured on the TV show Little People, Big World, change the heights of light switches, shelves and countertops. Remodeling hasn’t been a top priority for us, and so we compensate.

Need to use the kitchen sink? No problem; we push a step stool over.

The fridge? We have a side-by-side and use only the lower shelves.

The microwave? It sits on a table two feet off the ground.

The kitchen cabinets? We only use the lower ones.

We have great jobs, nice cars, and a beautiful family. Minus three feet of height, we are the American dream. Anu and I have both survived our own surgeries, teasings and stairways to get here. Anu literally came from the other side of the world, India.

Her journey as a bright and courageous daughter of traditional Indian parents is a story in itself. By the time Anu adjusted to life in America, I had undergone 15 surgeries to correct my bone structure.

Anu and I survived countless tauntings, hundreds of staircases, and a lifetime of other obstacles to eventually meet and build our life together. Now we each have a best friend, a life partner, and a daughter. We have someone to fall asleep with. Someone to wake up with. Someone we can see eye to eye, nose to nose, lips to lips. I didn’t believe in soul mates until I met Anu.

It’s 5:40 now, and I’m starting to worry. Anu is only ten minutes late, but she’s usually very prompt. With our legs, a stroll across a parking lot can be a 15-minute hike. At gas stations we can’t reach the credit card slot at the pump. The nozzle itself is at our eye level.

I call Anu’s cell phone.

No answer.

I call her desk at work. No answer there either.

6:30 p.m.

I still haven’t heard from Anu, and now I’m really worried. I call two local hospitals. Don’t ask me why. Did they have anyone from a car accident, anyone really short? I call the Scottsdale Police Department and give them her license plate number. No accidents involving that license plate.

6:48 p.m.

I have just hung up the phone from calling another area hospital, the Mayo Clinic. I’m wondering who to call next when the phone rings. It is not Anu’s voice on the other end. The call is from John C. Lincoln Hospital, a trauma center. He’s a social worker, and tells me Anu was in a car accident. She was evacuated by helicopter to their hospital.

With her unusual size, maybe they’re more likely to air-evac her for minor injuries, as a precaution. I should call the babysitter. Have to get over there. She probably just broke her arm, maybe some shattered glass, stitches. I should…

“Can you tell me, is she okay?” I ask.
“I just think you should get down here right away, Mr. Trombino.”

It doesn’t occur to me that I am less than emotionally capable of driving. I only know that I need to see my wife, to know she is okay.

The moment after I turn left out of our subdivision, I think I should have turned right.

Yes, right would be faster.

I cannot make a U-turn though, so I plan an alternate route.

I will bring her home tonight. I will wake up tomorrow. We will enjoy Christmas as usual, and three weeks from now we will forget about this accident.

The sun has set and I’m mapping streets in my mind when I see a swarming sea of red and blue lights ahead. Police tape is roping off the intersection, less than a mile from our house.

This is it. This is where it happened.

It’s dark, and they’re not letting any cars through. I can’t see beyond the yellow police tape.

Too dark.

Finally I find an officer. “Was there an accident here? Was it a silver Mazda Protégé?”

Yes and yes.