The Crashers

by Cubed, Magen

  “Okay.”

  After a moment, Hannah reached up to pluck Norah’s crown from her head and swapped it for the new one. “This one’s prettier. You look like a princess.”

  “Thanks.”

  Norah smiled despite the tears creeping into her eyes. She wiped them away before Hannah could see. It was simpler to leave it at that, she decided, and she pulled her daughter into her arms under the soft-blue sky.

  IV.

  Bridger Levi got up before his alarm clock went off that Monday morning and didn’t feel sick. He didn’t feel sick as he kissed Caitlin Connor until she finally pushed him away and, chuckling, told him to make himself useful. The cancer telling his cells to kill themselves remained quiet as he showered, dressed, and made coffee. He avoided his reflection in every mirror and polished surface in their Camden townhouse. The cancer slept as he ate Caitlin’s eggs Benedict, hash browns, biscuits and apricot jam—even as it made pulp of his lungs with every breath. He was supposed to die of a brain aneurysm at sixty-one, not waste away of Stage 3B cancer at forty-five.

  That was how his father, Harold, died a decade earlier. He’d dropped dead two days after Bridger’s thirty-fifth birthday. Twenty years before that, his grandfather, Stanley, died the same way. Weak arterial walls ran in the family, and Bridger knew their statistics and variables like the back of his hand. He could expect another ten or twenty comfortable years by his best estimations. Then, one morning, he was going to wake up, get dressed for work, and a blood vessel in his brain was going to burst. There was a strange comfort in knowing when and how he could expect to die. It made planning for the future very simple and kept his life with Caitlin meaningful.

  Caitlin tried not to look as though anything had changed between them. For that, Bridger was grateful. She wore her satin dressing gown and cradled her favorite Tiffany’s coffee cup between her fingers as she read the day’s e-mails on her tablet. Her red hair was already halfway done, held up by the soft, white rollers that maintained its wave. She didn’t dream of letting Bridger’s disease manifest itself, just as he couldn’t bear to tell her the truth. Not yet, he had long since decided. There was still so much up in the air regarding his estate, his will, and the minutiae of life insurance policies and stocks. He didn’t tell her about his last appointment with Dr. Kumar. He didn’t tell her how the results from his last scan were already in and how he was running out of time. There were other measures that needed taking.

  Instead of going to the office, Bridger got on the L Line train bound for Harper & Lowe to speak to his lawyer. The latest draft of his revised will was back, and he had to approve it and go over the changes in his estate. Now everything would be left to Caitlin whether she liked it or not. His investments would pay out in an annuity to supplement her income for the rest her life. It was a pale compromise in the face of things. However, at 9:17, Bridger realized he would never make it to Harper & Lowe. As the train jumped the tracks and went into a spin, he figured it was just better to die this way. A quick and ugly death was more comforting than the prospect of waiting for his body to betray him in a final act of stupid, random cruelty. At least this way Caitlin wouldn’t have to stand by a hospital bed and watch him disappear one day at a time.

  Then, inexplicably, Bridger Levi didn’t die. Nearly five hundred people died, but he woke up in a hospital bed with Caitlin tucked around him, her tears drying on his paper gown. Everything about it seemed empty and wrong. When he got out of the hospital, he notified his secretary Andrea. She sent memos and e-mails to remind his peers at Baxter & Sans to invest in sappy greeting cards. Friends offered prayers in phone calls to the house, and tasteful table bouquets with well wishes pinned into them soon crowded his room. Caitlin smiled calmly and indulged the pageantry to maintain good face. These people were corporate predators of a similar stock; they might as well have been cousins to her.

  The car ride home was silent. The air-conditioning gusted from the vents of Caitlin’s Mercedes. It made Bridger’s lungs hurt. Since waking up in the hospital, everything from the trivial routines of eating and drinking to holding Caitlin’s long body close to his hurt. A quiet ache filled each joint and digit, sighing in every moment. He said nothing of it as they climbed the steps to their townhouse and locked the world outside their front door. Caitlin toed off her black heels at the sofa. She plucked off her chandelier earrings and left them on the coffee table with her clutch. Standing before the mirror beside the corner coat rack, Bridger avoided his own eyes. He pulled free his tie and opened his collar. He listened for Caitlin’s return from the kitchen. She brought back two glasses and a bottle of red wine, and he hated himself more than he’d thought possible.

  “Cait.”

  “What?”

  She didn’t look up as she set the glasses on the table. He came to the sofa and placed his hands on its back to ground himself. She refused to face him.

  “Look at me.”

  After a moment, she yielded. “What is it?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why are you sorry?”

  “I can’t do this anymore,” he said. “I just can’t.”

  “We’re not doing anything. I’m having a glass of wine with my husband. Then we’re going to go upstairs and go to bed, because we’re not having this conversation.”

  “I’m not going to pretend like nothing’s changed, Cait. I know that’s what you want, but I can’t give it. I’m dying.”

  She sneered. “You’re not dying.”

  “I am dying. I’ve seen the doctor. Look, we all spin the wheel, and this is where it landed. It’s over.”

  “You’re going to fight this.”

  “I’m not fighting anything.” He licked his lips and stalled for time. “I shouldn’t even be standing here. I think we both know that.”

  “You lived through the crash, Bridger. Hundreds of people are dead and you walked out of it. I don’t believe in miracles, but that means something. That makes a difference to me.”

  “Hundreds of people are dead so I can go back to the office tomorrow, sit at a desk, and wait for my lungs to rot out of my chest? That’s it? Because if it is, I’d trade places with any one of those people in a second.”

  “Do not talk like that.” Anger propelled Caitlin around the sofa to face Bridger, invading his space. “Not to me. I didn’t get you back just to lose you again, so stop pitying yourself.”

  “This isn’t pity, Cait. I’m dead on my feet. This is it for me. No radiation, no pills.”

  “No.”

  His gut dropped out, tight and empty. “This is what I want.”

  “I don’t care what you want.”

  “You have to let me do this.”

  “You’re telling me you want me to just sit by for the next year while you guilt yourself to death over this crash?”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”

  The look on his face stopped her short. She stepped away. “You’re leaving me.”

  “No, I’m sparing you.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “Maybe. But that’s my decision to make.”

  “This isn’t a decision. This is cowardice.”

  “This is what I need to do.”

  “The man I married would never do something like this. You’re a fighter, Bridger. You’ve fought for everything you’ve ever had.”

  “And I’m not the man you married.” He shrugged. “I get that now. I changed because this shit – this disease? It’s fucking terrifying, and it’s got its hooks in me in ways I can’t wrap my head around yet. But that’s no reason to stay here and punish you for being the same person you were before this happened to us.”

  Tears tracked down her face, leaving black smudges in their wake. Stepping forward to close the gap between them, he took her by the hands. Then Bridger Levi kissed Caitlin Connor for the last time, just as he had the first time when he was nineteen and she was twenty. Letting her go, he retrieved his jacket from the corner rack and left. He locked th
e door behind him. Left behind, she dried her eyes and didn’t cry again.

  V.

  There were only two messages in Kyle’s voicemail when he checked his phone, and they were both from Helene of Kyrios Securities. Helene had a soft, breathy voice and the probability of a considerable smoking habit. The first message was a confirmation call about the details of his interview that Monday morning. The second, dated that night, was an offer of condolences.

  “We’re very sorry to hear about your recent accident, Mr. Jeong, and would like to extend our deepest sympathies. Our office is eager to reschedule your interview at your earliest convenience. Please call back at this number and ask for Helene. Thank you, and thank you for your interest in Kyrios Securities.”

  On Saturday morning, Kyle listened to the message one last time and dialed it back. The first time he called, he received an automated message and hung up before the telltale click of the voicemail. The following Monday, while reading through the week’s sad procession of job listings, he sighed and dialed it again. This time, when Helene answered serenely, he thought better of it and pressed the END CALL button. The entire situation made him so uneasy that he didn’t answer when Helene immediately called him back. How did they know about the accident? How had the news of his survival reached Helene’s superiors? To leave such a message seemed invasive now, even though he had no scars to show from the accident.

  He didn’t answer the phone any time Helene called later that week. By the time his phone rang on Thursday night, he answered it brusquely and found Ben on the other end. Relieved, he accepted Ben’s offer of a round of beers.

  Connolly’s was exactly how Kyle remembered it being three years ago: a shady hole on Lovell and Price where old cops and fat security guards drank over war stories. The drinks were cheap and everybody knew everybody else, which made up for the greasy carpet and smoke-damaged ceiling that leaked when it rained. Ben only drank at Connolly’s because he was nothing if not a reliable cliché. Kyle was all right with that. The bar was sticky and his glass was cloudy, but Kyle still smiled at the bartender every time she brought him a new, long-necked bottle. Behind the bar, two flat screen televisions usually ran sports highlights. Tonight their screens were glued to the local news. Images of chaos and rubble streaked by, cut between clips of witnesses recounting the accident via phone or webcam chat. The sight of names and photos trotting out every twenty minutes left Kyle cold and numb to the human cost. He took another drink of his beer and waited for the weather.

  “How are you holding up?” Ben asked after the sports segment, trying to come up with something useful to say. “You know, all things considered.”

  “Okay. I don’t know.” Kyle shrugged and felt ill-equipped for the topic. “I just don’t feel anything—like I’m watching all of this on slow play.”

  “Yeah,” Ben offered with a nod. “I bet, man. What you’ve been through? I can’t even imagine.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “Have you seen what’s been going around online? People think it’s terrorists.”

  Kyle almost laughed. “It’s not terrorists.”

  “I dunno, man. That’s what they say.” With that, Ben took another drink and swallowed loudly. “You talk to Amanda yet?”

  Another shrug. “Saw her. Didn’t really talk to her. There’s not much to talk about these days.”

  “She wanted to see you. She told me so.”

  “I know.”

  “You can’t be too hard on her, Kyle. You going to prison like that, it fucked with her. It fucked with all of us.”

  “I know.”

  After a moment, it was Ben’s turn to shrug. Kyle finished his beer in one long pull, got up, and fished a twenty out of his wallet to leave on the counter.

  “Thanks for the beers, Ben, but it’s past my bedtime. I’ll see you around.”

  “Yeah. Good to see you.” Ben smiled weakly and patted Kyle on the shoulder. “Be safe out there, man.”

  “Yeah.” Kyle didn’t bother promising anything. “You, too.”

  Outside, the air was cold in his smoker’s lungs. He coughed and pulled his jacket tighter around himself, puffing at the cigarette between his teeth. Two blocks into his walk home, his pocket beeped. He pulled out his phone and saw Amanda’s message:

  “If you ever need to talk, you know where to find me.”

  It beeped again.

  “You can hate me all you want, but I mean that.”

  He could imagine Amanda at home alone, sitting at the foot of her bed, likely a few beers ahead of him. That was why she was staring into the comforting glow of her phone and tapping a long, bare foot on the floor as she carefully prepared a response to whatever he might say. He knew from experience she would take his silence as its own answer and decided to ignore his natural impulse to leave such things alone. Instead, he carefully thumbed his acceptance.

  “Thank you. I appreciate that. Now go to bed.”

  Whether or not Kyle would heed his own advice wasn’t important to him as he walked home and lied on cold sheets and thought of gravity. Across town, Amanda would sleep. He took comfort enough in that and closed his eyes.

  Chapter Three

  I.

  The meeting was rescheduled for Wednesday morning at 11:00. That gave Clara more days to rehearse her prepared answers, backup answers, and talking points. She recited them aloud in the shower, at the gym, and while she walked to class, ignoring the looks she received along the way. By then, the initial shock of the accident had dulled into a quiet, constant ache in her ribcage. The throb of it put her on edge, keeping her far away from crowded streets and public transportation. People never made Clara nervous before, but the way they breathed and moved made it hard to think now.

  She held her tongue about it. She held her breath in the hallway between classes, she kept her bedroom door shut, and she made the best of things whenever she could. She learned to keep her hours opposite of Padma’s whenever possible, and she resisted the urge to call her mother and Abuelita every night before bed. Staying indoors with the curtains drawn, she focused on her homework, equations, and well-practiced answers.

  At 11:00 on Wednesday, as she waited for her name to be called, Clara smoothed the imagined wrinkles from her blue button-down blouse and black pencil skirt. The cramped waiting room outside of Dr. Graham’s office was half full of stern faces. They eyed her like well-dressed threats, bombs in Mary-Jane flats and collared shirts. It made her sit up straight and assure herself it would all be over soon.

  Hearing her name, Clara turned to find Dr. Graham smiling gently from the doorway. She stepped inside his office and took the offered seat at the meeting table across from Graham, Miyazaki and Lassiter. They took turns making small talk and asked how she was doing with meek expressions and folded hands. Clara lied with a smile and a gentle nod, and tried not to listen to the empty feeling buzzing around her body.

  Dr. Graham cleared his throat and rolled up his sleeves. “Clara, I’m going to be honest with you. This isn’t about the internship.”

  Clara’s puffed chest deflated. “If this is about my absences, I’ve already cleared it with the department. I turned in all of my doctor’s notes and I’m caught up on my homework.”

  Miyazaki held up a slender finger. “It’s not that, Clara. Believe me, we know how hard you work. But the faculty have been discussing your candidacy, and we’ve made some decisions.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’ve been through a lot in the last few weeks—we know that. And it’s hardly fair to demand that you keep up your GPA in the middle of all this while still expecting you to fight for this internship.”

  “What are you talking about?” Clara’s palms started to sweat. Her fingers dug into the tops of her knees. Panic set in like bee stings, making every word drawn-out and empty. “I’ve kept my 4.0 every semester. I’m on the Dean’s List. If I don’t go to Bern, what am I going to do?”

  “You’re going to Bern
, Clara,” Dr. Graham said. “We knew that two months ago when you scheduled your interview.”

  “So why am I getting shelved?”

  “It’s not that. Look, the school has a grief policy when it comes to tragedies like this. It usually extends to the death of a roommate or a debilitating injury. A passing grade in all coursework regardless of prior GPA.”

  “I’m not debilitated. I’m fine.”

  “Clara, you were in an accident. You’ve already put all the work you can into this term, and your professors have assured me that you’re all but guaranteed to keep your GPA up anyway. We’re just trying to lessen the burden before you go to Bern this summer.”

  She dug her fingers into her skirt. “So, you’re saying that I’m getting a free pass?”

  “It’s not charity, Clara. It’s compassion.”

  Something between embarrassment and grief made her face flush. She thought of her mother, and Abuelita, and her dead father, and the volumes of accomplishments tucked in her mother’s leather-bound journal. “I’ve never had anything handed to me in my life. Not ever.”

  “We know,” Miyazaki told her softly. “So, take some time off, okay? Use it to your advantage. Take care of yourself, then worry about school.”

  Swallowing, Clara nodded, smiled, and tried not to cry. “Yes, of course. You’re right. Thank you. Thank you all so much. I really appreciate this.”

  There were handshakes and smiles all around. Then, Clara left with a hole in her stomach. She moved quickly out of the suffocating waiting room to the hallway, down the stairs to another, and through the automatic doors to the crowded plaza. The muscles in her chest clenched. Sweat trickled down her back as her rabbit-fast pulse decelerated to a dull, agonizing thump. Terror and disappointment came together to make an ugly knot of her insides where pride had once filled her. In the bustle of moving bodies, her steps across the plaza were soundless, carrying her from a walk to a jog and, finally, to a full run. Time slowed as she blinked, exhaled, took a breath. In her periphery, the world blurred. The grass and sky ran into the chewed sidewalk.