by David Wright
“They’re great,” I say.
“Thanks.” Meg takes a sip of her coffee. An empty plate, aside from crumbs, shows that she started without me.
Gus sits at my feet whining, either wanting me to take him for a walk or to give him a muffin.
“Not now,” I say.
“Gus already had one, didn’t you? No more, or the vet’ll put you on that yucky diet dog food again,” Meg says, looking down at him.
He tucks his tail between his legs and slinks off into the living room.
She returns her attention to her laptop screen and is quiet for just long enough to make me wonder if she’s focusing on her writing or now giving me the silent treatment. I assume the latter. A new way to drive the guilt in deeper — do something nice, then remind me what a jerk I am by withholding attention.
I love Meg more than anyone I’ve ever been with, but despite eleven years of marriage, it seems like it’s impossible for her to ever just come out and say what’s on her mind.
She’d rather stew in her emotions, letting them bubble and froth until they’re about to boil over. I can’t be too harsh. Given her dysfunctional family, it’s amazing that she has her shit together at all, let alone most of the time. We’re all products of our broken pasts, it seems, trying to get along the best we can with what we have.
“So,” I say, trying to break the ice, or determine the temperature of her mood, “how’s it going?”
“OK,” she says, still typing, “had a breakthrough on my short story this morning.”
“Which one?”
“Friends Like These, I finally figured out what is missing — conflict that meant something.”
“Awesome,” I say, thinking maybe she’s not being cold after all. “Want to tell me what you did or do you want to surprise me?”
“Surprise,” she says, eyes on the screen, but smiling.
“OK.” I take another bite, finishing off the first muffin. I decide I ought to at least recognize my missed appointment last night, even if it might shatter the midday calm. I’m kind of stupid like that, when it comes to clearing the air. I don’t know when to leave well enough alone. Part of it is past relationships — my own baggage — and part of it is hating to leave things unsettled. Rather than allowing things to build and build until the big explosion, I’d rather douse the small fires as they happen, and not just because I hate arguing, but also because holding onto shit for too long just makes you sick, and bitter.
“I’m sorry I missed last night,” I say, watching her eyes for a sign of what’s stirring beneath their placid blue.
Bad sign, her not looking at me.“It’s OK. I’ve decided not to pressure you into this. It’s clear you don’t want to have another child. I just have to accept that and move on.”
“It’s not that I don’t want another child,” I say, “I do. I just … forgot.”
The excuse feels weak as it rolls off my tongue. Accelerant on the fire. She finally looks at me, and then I see the anger she’s been holding in.
“Please, don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I ask.
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not lying,” my voice way more defensive than I intend. “I’ve just … ”
“What?” she asks, sensing me fumbling for the right excuse. She’s not great at communicating day-to-day, but when we finally do get into arguments, she has a laser-guided missile system that cuts right through my bullshit, and suddenly, I’m the one left floundering, searching for the right words.
“I’ve been busy,” I say — the first words to find my stupid lips.
“Busy? Doing what? Chasing accidents to take pictures of dead people? Because I can’t remember the last time you’ve actually written anything.”
Ah, there it is — the real reason for her anger. This isn’t about having another child. Not this time, anyway. She’s mad because I’m not writing the next book in our Dark Family series.
“I’m trying.”
“You’ve been trying for six months. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here trying to keep the mortgage paid. You don’t even know how bad it is, do you?”
“Yeah I do,” I lie.
“Really? Do you know that we’re two months behind on our utilities? Or that our credit cards are maxed out?”
“We’ve got money coming in,” I say.
“Not quickly enough,” she counters.
“How is that even possible? We’ve had the number one book for nearly a year running. Hollywood is banging on our door for a movie deal. And we were on the cover of Entertainment Weekly a few months ago. How can we not have money?”
“You only ask because you’re not paying attention. We’ve gone over this plenty. Between the hospital bills and rehab, we’re wiped.”
“Yeah, but we still have royalties coming.”
“It’s not enough. Plus, there’s some bullshit about ‘late reporting’ or something that Marty’s trying to work out with the publisher. We need to deliver the next book if we want the advance. It’s that simple.”
“Marty will get it straightened out,” I say. Our agent’s a pit bull when shit gets thick.
“Marty agrees with me. He says we need to get the book done. We’re pushing the publisher’s patience, and we could screw this up big time.”
I’m surprised. “Really?”
“Yes.” Meg's eyes are serious, but I also see their compassion. She doesn’t want to fight any more than I do.
She continues, “We need to deliver this book. But to do that, I need you to get serious. I need the old you. The you from before the accident.”
“That me is dead.” I’m not quick enough to mask the truth before it escapes my lips.
At this, she stares, as if uncertain what to say. Her eyes are watering. She swallows, thinking, as if cycling through the words that might bring me back from wherever the hell I’ve gone off to.
I’m not sure what will happen next. Will she give up? Will she grow further frustrated with me, grab her keys and head off to visit her sister upstate? Her sister, Mallory, just had a child, so she’s been visiting her more frequently in recent months, helping her out after her jerk of a boyfriend left her the moment he realized the party was over and he’d need to be a man and actually support a family.
Meg approaches, opens her arms, and hugs me.
I feel the pain as she holds me.
“Tell Marty we’ll do the movie deal,” I say.
She pulls away and looks at me surprised, as I suspected she would.
“But you said you didn’t want to make a movie.”
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” I say with a laugh.
She shakes her head, “No, I don’t want you doing this for me.”
“You say we’re broke, so it’s stupid if I don’t do it. I mean, shit, I already sold out in the eyes of the fucking literati and the critics, so who cares? Fuck ‘em; we need to make money.”
She laughs, “This is soooo not the Old Thomas Witt.”
“Screw that pretentious asshole.” I smile as I lean in to kiss her.
Things feel better as our lips press together.
“Seriously,” I say, meaning it. “Call Marty. See what kind of deals we can get. Meanwhile, I promise, I’ll get back to work.”
“Are you sure?”
I nod and kiss her again.
“Thank you.” She wraps her arms around me and holds me tight. I can feel the built-up pressure slowly releasing.
I did the right thing.
It’s a shame I took so long to finally agree. Whatever was left of my literary ambitions was lost long ago when I agreed to write genre fiction with Meg. Many of the same critics who praised me as some kind of ‘wunderkind’ at nineteen when I wrote my debut novel, Shade of Things to Come, immediately called me everything from a one-hit-wonder to a has-been, to a phony never-was hack when I decided to follow up a decade later with not another stab at the Great American Novel, but a book about a family of vampires, the first in t
he Dark Family series.
I’d traded existentialistic hand wringing for something fun, something I wanted to write with my wife. You would’ve thought I’d written a book singing Hitler’s praises the way the critics responded. Of course, I did myself no favors. When interviewers asked why I’d turned my back on literature, I responded, more than once, by getting up and stalking off from the interview. Suddenly, I wasn’t just a sellout, but an asshole sellout, as if money had changed me.
God forbid an author attempts to make money by writing something they love.
And while I had planned to return and write a proper follow-up to Shade, it was hard not to get pissed at the critics and the elitists among my fans who felt entitled to tell me what I should write. Worse were the people blaming Meg, as if she’d somehow influenced me to write “trashy pulp novels.” Between the two of us, she’s far better read and the one more likely to write real literature. It just so happens that we came up with this great idea that we really wanted to write together — a fun, dark series about vampires. I make no apologies for our work, fuck anyone who doesn’t get it.
I don’t need literary snobs to get it.
It’s been a while since I’ve thought about all of this. Since I remembered the anger. Been a while since I felt much of anything, really. I need to channel this anger into the story when I get back to the computer.
Use the haters as fuel.
* * * *
CHAPTER 3
I wake up at 9:30 to an empty house, save for Gus in his bed, and a note from Meg.
“Forgot to tell you, I’m going to Mal’s today. Might stay overnight.
Will call you later and let you know.
I took Gus for a walk at 7.
Love you,
—M”
Good.
I can use the alone time to put my ass in the chair.
Writing is a lot like exercise. It’s a habit. The more regularly you do it, the easier it is. Grow lazy, and it gets harder and harder to get back into it, more so the longer you stay away. Eventually, it gets to a point where everything is easier to do than the thing you should be doing.
I sit at the computer, wipe the sleep from my eyes, and look at the file, Dark Family-Working Draft, which contains all of our books in the series to date, including the current one.
Last opened more than two months ago.
Shit.
It doesn’t feel like two months. No wonder Meg is pissed at me. I feel like the world’s worst husband. Dark Family is our creation in the truest collaborative sense, but I’m the story’s lead architect. It’s a complicated mess of a narrative, something that’s grown more tangled than we planned.
While Meg is a great writer, a better one than me if I’m being honest, she needs me to continue this story. I’m the only one who knows what happens next, and the elaborate backstories of each character that occurred before the series began. While it would probably make sense to create some sort of bible for the series — something she can use to go on without me if I’m stuck in a rut — that’s not how my brain works.
I have so much in my head, but there’s a lot that I haven’t quite figured out yet. That happens during the rough draft — the birthing of the story.
And as I sit down and look at the notes, which are all I have of Book Three, I realize I’m more lost than I thought. There’s practically nothing here. So much still in my head, and even more to untangle. To make matters worse, I know there’s elements of the third book that I’d planned prior to the accident — missing with my memories. I’m more or less starting from scratch.
Shit. Shit.
Remember the anger! Use it.
But now I’m not feeling the anger. I’m feeling anxious.
I get up, pace, and figure I’m going to need coffee if I expect to sort this shit out.
I go to the kitchen. We’re out.
Damn it.
I need to head into town and get some coffee.
A part of me knows I’m making excuses. I can write without coffee. Another part of me argues, No, no, I cannot write without coffee.
Just like writing is a habit, so are writing’s accoutrements. I’m almost as obsessive as a baseball player. My desk must be completely clear. I need to have exactly two lights on at a precise level of brightness. My music must be going. And, perhaps most importantly, I need my coffee.
While I could write without any of these things, it’s difficult to lose myself if I don’t have them. Working in less-than-ideal situations is like ignoring an itch. Agitation will nag me into surrender.
So I tell myself I’m not stalling, but rather being proactive by going into town and getting what I need, rather than wasting time beating my head against the wall.
Besides, it’s not like I don’t have the time. Meg will be gone all day, and maybe all night. I can get quite a lot of writing done before she returns — provided I have my coffee.
Yes, I decide. That's what I’ll do, I’ll walk Gus, take a shower, then head into town. I remind myself to grab my camera — just in case I see any accidents along the way.
Maybe I’ll also run into the man in black.
**
This one is bad.
I know it before I get there, as I see a half dozen police cars race past me, followed by a fire engine and a trio of ambulances.
In my rearview, I see another fire truck, and even more lights behind it.
They’re calling out the cavalry.
The intersection of Ash and Culver is blocked, traffic being rerouted by two cops in civilian clothes — they must’ve been off duty and closest to the scene when they got a call for help. I see the accident just beyond — a tipped SUV, rammed straight into the bottom of a school bus.
My stomach sinks.
I can’t tell how bad the situation is from so far away. I need to get closer. I turn as directed by the officer, head North on Ash, stuck in molasses traffic — too many people rerouted onto the smaller street.
I make my first right, turning into a neighborhood just off of Ash, hoping to find another way over to Culver, to get closer to the accident.
My heart is racing as I keep turning into dead ends. Do none of these fucking streets lead to Culver? I finally find one, and see that there’s a cop, in uniform this time, blocking access to the street — and the accident.
He’s not one of the cops I know, so I don’t try to approach him. I turn my car around, head up the street, and search for somewhere to park. I see a house with a foreclosed sign. Grass is high, and windows are boarded.
This will do.
I park, grab my camera, and head through the backyard and out onto Culver, a six-lane street lined with strip malls, small shops, gas stations, and a few car dealerships. In other words, one of Warrenville’s busier streets. I’m standing in a Gas-n-Go parking lot. Several employees and a few lookie-loos are lined up at the end of the lot, staring at the scene.
I walk to the sidewalk, behind the crowd, and pull out my camera.
I focus the lens and see a handful of bloodied, but not mortally wounded, children crying, attended by paramedics. There’s plenty of movement — medics and officers — as a few children are carried away on stretchers toward waiting ambulances. Another ambulance rushes off. Above, a helicopter is looking for a spot to land. Helicopters at crash sights are never a good sign.
I find a small boy, face scratched, eyes crying, as a female paramedic is checking him over. I snap a photo.
I scan to take in as much as I can in search for my next subject. My camera stops, frozen on the figures strewn across the ground.
Dead children. Four bodies, with paramedics standing over them.
My gut is swirling, my heart aching, and my eyes watering, I force myself to zoom in, to capture the horror of one child, a boy, dead eyes open and staring straight toward me, it feels, as if begging me to do something — begging someone to do anything.
But there’s nothing to be done.
I wonder when the boy’
s parents will find out, how they will find out. A phone call? A knock at the door? The nightly news? Social media? Nothing will have prepared them for the moment — I remember the doctor telling me about Kayla — that will murder their life as they know it.
I take more pictures, feeling like a vulture feeding on misery for reasons I can’t understand. Nothing about this feels good — taking photos of such horrible things. And yet I can’t not be here. Something about these scenes fills in a part of what’s missing within me, shines a light into my murky interior. I feel like I’m always one accident away from remembering my own, and maybe unlocking memories from the last six months of life before the accident.
I pull the camera from my eye, move my way around the crowd a bit. I’m glad none of the lookie-loos are taking notice of me. Because if anybody saw me shooting photos of dead children, they’d probably beat me to death. Even though they’re all snapping pics and video on their phones.
As I bring the camera back up, scanning the crash site, I see him — the man in black — standing on the side of the street, looking right at me!
The camera slips through my fingers and would fall if not for the strap around my neck.
I grab the camera and raise it, desperately searching for him.
Where are you?
I don’t see him.
I scan back and forth, but still nothing.
I need to find him. I run across the street, holding the camera to prevent it from bouncing up and down, searching for him.
He was standing on the sidewalk in front of a small business center, but now he’s gone. I search the parking lot, and see only onlookers staring.
I look up the street, closer to the accident’s source and see the back of someone in black — it might be him — approaching the wreckage. I start walking, fast, getting as close to the accident as I can without actually stepping onto the road.
