Crash

by David Wright

  I pull the camera up, scanning the wreckage. I see the bus, on its side, the same line of dead children in front of it, but not the man in black. I look around, searching the crowd of emergency workers.

  Suddenly, I see someone looking at me — a big, mustached firefighter. He looks pissed as he barrels toward me.

  Shit.

  I turn around, pretending as if I’m not responding to him. I feel like you feel when you’re backing away from a dog while trying not to show fear because that fear is the one thing which will trigger the dog’s instincts to hunt you down.

  Keep calm, just walk away slowly. Maybe he won’t chase me.

  “Hey, asshole!” the man shouts.

  I want to keep walking, but I can hear him coming up fast. Ignoring the fireman might make him angrier. Better to turn toward him and play dumb.

  I turn.

  He’s on me before I have a chance to say anything. His large yellow-gloved hands seize my camera, yanking it from me, strap and all, before I can try wresting it back.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he asks, not looking at me, but instead at my camera, trying to figure out the buttons so he can review the pictures, not that he could push anything with those thick giant gloves.

  I can’t let him see the photos. He pulls one of his gloves off, and his fingers start working the buttons. His eyes are widening at the images of dead children before I can think of anything to stop him.

  He looks up from the camera’s display and at me, his eyes red and watering. Responding to emergency calls with dead children is hard on even the most calloused veterans. I feel as if he’s looking for someone to take out his anger on. I’m the perfect target — an asshole taking pictures of dead kids.

  “What the hell is wrong with you? These are people’s children!” His eyes are locked on mine, as if eager to take out a world of pain on me. He shoves me. As I fall back, barely able to stay on my feet, he is still advancing.

  There’s no way in hell I want to get into a fistfight with a firefighter. For one, he’s huge and will knock my teeth down my throat. And I’ve grown rather fond of keeping my teeth where they belong. For two, I completely understand his anger, and don’t want him to do something he’ll regret and lose his job over. But mostly, I don’t want this to turn ugly, though it seems that ship has already drifted from the dock.

  I can see my name all over the papers, magazines, on the fucking gossip blogs.

  No way this story ends well.

  I’m trying to figure out how to retrieve my camera and escape without getting into a fight.

  “Listen,” I say, trying to explain, “I lost a child—”

  He’s so fast, I barely register the movement until his fist finds my jaw. Pain erupts through the right side of my face, and sends me to the ground.

  “You sick fuck!” he’s screaming as he kicks me in the ribs.

  I realize just how out of hand this could get. No longer am I worried about how this will play out in the press and blogs. The fireman might kill me. Right here, all because of a misunderstanding.

  I roll out of the way, and scramble to my feet. I’m not sure if I’ll hit him back or run. I scream, “Wait!”

  Suddenly, I’m not alone in my screams. A woman calls out, “Frank! Frank!”

  I see Officer Julie Ruiz, my closest friend among the cops I’ve come to know since my accident.

  “What the hell is going on here?” she asks, her voice sharp and cutting through the firefighter’s anger. Immediately, I see his face changing. Still pissed, but now, at least, he’s thinking.

  “I caught this jerk taking photos.”

  “It’s OK, Frank. He’s doing a book.”

  Before Frank can protest, she continues. “He lost his daughter last year in an accident. He’s Thomas Witt, the horror writer. A good guy.”

  Frank looks me up and down, as if trying to reconcile what she said I am versus what he thinks I am. He then shakes his head and shoves the camera into her hands, not mine, and walks away mumbling something about bullshit.

  I wonder if she’ll look at the pictures.

  Julie knows me, and that I won’t post these photos on some blog or sell them to newspapers or TV stations. She, unlike even my wife, seems to understand why I do what I have to. We’ve had a few conversations at some of the crash scenes. The closest thing to a friend I’ve made since moving here, really.

  She hands me the camera. “Are you OK?”

  The way my jaw feels, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to eat for a week, but I don’t say that. I just want to get away without further incident.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’ll live.”

  “Do you want to press charges?” she asks, though clearly I can see she’s hoping I don’t.

  “No, no. I understand. He thought, well, I don’t know what he thought, but I understand.”

  “Yeah, these scenes are tough, no matter how long you’ve been on the job. Frank's a bit of a hot head, but a great guy. He’s been a hero so many times that things like this, where he’s not even given a chance to help, they haunt him.”

  “No problem,” I say. “Can I go? Or am I in trouble?”

  “You can go. Probably best that you do since there’s some people over there taking video right now with their phones, and I’m sure the press is on their way.”

  I look along the sidewalk and see that sure enough, the lookie-loos have turned their cameras on me. I’m not sure how many know who I am, but if someone does, there’s no way that this won’t end up on the news. Then reporters will be calling me for comment, and dredging up my accident and Kayla … again. It was one thing to make the news as a failed Next Big Thing selling out, but another altogether to get the phony interviewers trying to elicit tears by asking my wife and me how it feels to lose our daughter.

  Parasites.

  I don’t want to leave, though, not with the man in black so close. But now there’s no way I can stay.

  “Hey, do you know this guy? Hangs around the accidents, dressed all in black … ” I try to describe him since I missed getting his picture just before, but the words won’t come. My memory of his face seems to lack definition. I swallow, feeling stupid, and repeat myself like an idiot, “ … he dresses all in black. Do you know who I’m talking about?”

  “No,” she says looking around. “What about him?”

  “It can wait. It’ll take some time to explain.”

  “Can I meet you later? Want me to come by your house after I get off?”

  “If you can,” I say. “Thanks.”

  “Yeah, shift ends at five, though I might be doing OT with this mess. I’ll let you know if I’m running late. Still at the same number?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Thank you … for saving me from getting my ass kicked.”

  She smiles. “Yeah, maybe next time bring a longer zoom.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that.”

  I leave, avoiding eye contact as I head back to my car.

  On the way, I hear a woman say, “Is that him?”

  A guy says, “I think so.”

  Someone, maybe the same guy, calls out, “Hey, Mr. Witt!” as I cut through the parking lot, eager to get the hell out of here.

  I ignore the man, pretending I don’t hear him.

  I walk faster.

  I want to turn, see if one of these bastards is shooting video of me right now. But I know if I do, I might go full-on firefighter.

  Fortunately, nobody chases me. I make it to my car, and get inside. The interior is surprisingly hot for an autumn afternoon.

  I key the ignition and flip on the air.

  **

  Suddenly, I’m in the parking lot of Greene’s Groceries, car idling in a parking spot, without remembering the drive that brought me here.

  No, not again.

  I turn off the car and grab the keys, glad to have made it here without crashing into someone.

  It’s been six months since I’ve had one of these missing-time incidents. I thoug
ht I was beyond this. For a few months after the accident, I would have missing moments — sometimes only a few minutes, other times an entire an hour — gone, just like that. As if I’d sleepwalked my way through with no memory at all. Until now, they’d all been home-based, as I didn’t dare drive on my own while suffering from them.

  Doctors said it was because of my brain injury, that I was having some short-term memory issues, and that it was likely only temporary.

  But now, after all this time, to have it happen again?

  What does it mean?

  There’s so much that science still doesn’t understand about the brain. Much of my rehab felt like shots in the dark and “we don’t know why this works, but it does” kind of therapy. I’d gotten through the worst of it. I’d learned to walk again, and while the months prior to my accident are lost, I feel mostly better.

  Is this some sort of regression?

  I thought this part of the recovery was behind me.

  I can’t think about this now. And I certainly can’t tell Meg, or the doctor. If I do, they’ll likely put an end to my daily drives and photo sessions.

  They can’t take that from me, not when I’m so close to remembering.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 4

  I’m inside Greene’s Groceries, coffee in hand as I stand in line at the pharmacy to get a refill on my nearly depleted pain pills.

  Ever since the accident, I’ve had crippling bouts of back pain three to four days of each week. One doctor suggested surgery, but it’s a risky procedure that I can’t afford, nor do I want to spend months rehabbing from. I’ve spent more than enough months, and money, in rehab re-learning to walk, talk, and function again after my brain injury.

  As I wait in line, I avoid stares from a woman behind me. She clearly knows who I am and wants to engage me. But I’m not in the mood. I pull out my phone, tap the book app, find a Dennis Lehane novel, and click on the cover, pretending to read. That usually keeps people from talking to me.

  Usually.

  “Excuse me,” the woman says.

  Here we go.

  I turn and put on my best fake smile. “Yes?”

  She’s a heavyset woman in her early forties, with thick curly red hair and dark-framed glasses. She’s wearing a solid dark-blue dress and comfortable dress shoes. I peg her for a clerical job of some sort. I always try and figure out what people do by looking at them. If I actually talked to more people, I might even know how often I guess correctly. But small talk is tiresome. Thankfully, Meg is much more sociable, or dealing with attention would be harder to bear.

  “Aren’t you that writer guy … um?”

  Yeah, I’m that writer guy. Big fan, eh?

  The weird thing about my celebrity, if you can call it that, is that a lot of people know who I am simply for the work my wife and I have done, but aren’t necessarily fans of our books. When you’re an actor or singer, people are more likely to be at least passingly familiar with your work. They’ve probably seen or heard something you’ve done. With writers, though, there’s a good chance that most people you meet don’t read books, let alone yours. But when you reach a certain level of fame in a small town like Warrenville, they still know you by face or name. This makes for awkward conversations when people want to engage with your fame, but not because of anything you’ve done to resonate with them personally.

  It always leaves me so uncomfortable.

  “Thomas Witt, right?”

  “Yes,” I say. Maybe she has read our books.

  “I’m so sorry about your little girl.”

  Or perhaps she just knows our story.

  I nod and thank her politely, eager to return to my “reading.”

  “I lost my son, too.”

  Shit. I can’t ignore her now, or I’ll look like an asshole.

  I hate talking about Kayla, especially with strangers. I usually try to let people read my discomfort, and they’re usually respectful. But this woman doesn’t want to talk about my loss. She wants to talk about hers, and I have to oblige, even if it makes me think about Kayla.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “How long has it been?”

  “Two months ago, his name was Sam.”

  Usually, at this point, people tend to tell me how their loved one died. She doesn’t, which makes me think that perhaps she lost him in a violent or particularly tragic manner that she doesn’t want to talk about. Before I can censor myself: “How did he die?”

  I want to apologize immediately after the words fly from my mouth, but she’s quick to respond. “He killed himself. He was only thirteen.”

  “Oh, Jesus. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s OK,” she says. “I don’t mind talking about it.”

  Well, this woman is a hell of a lot stronger than I am. It’s been only two months, after a suicide no less, and she’s still functioning, let alone going about her day-to-day, maybe even back to work, judging from her attire.

  I feel almost silly, not being able to write — a job that requires me to do nothing more than sit at a desk and draw stories from my mind. It’s not like I have to go out and interact with co-workers or customers, pretend that things are fine even as life crumbles around me. All I need is to sit in a room by myself and write, yet I can’t manage that. I feel pitiful being around someone so brave with their grief. Suddenly, I’m compelled to hug this strong, incredible woman.

  Somehow, I’m able to control myself.

  I’ve been so much more emotional since the accident, I try to recognize the feelings before they overwhelm me.

  I can tell by her eyes that she recognizes my raw feelings. She looks at me not like Tom the writer, but like a compatriot in some horrible war.

  “He was bullied in school. I didn’t see it in time. I mean, I knew he was going through things, but I just chalked it up to the normal middle-school awkwardness. If I’d paid more attention, I might have seen the signs. But we don’t get second chances, do we, Mr. Witt?”

  “No,” I say. “No we don’t.”

  “I’m Kathy.” She offers her hand.

  I shake it, and say, “Tom,” even though she knows my name.

  I’m so fucking awkward with people sometimes.

  She reaches into her purse, and starts rummaging through a mess of papers, devices, and God knows what else. She hands me a business card, pink, with the words:

  “MEETING FOR THE LOST

  Have you lost someone? Are you waiting for the pain to ease?

  Wait no more.

  Move forward and live again at Together Through Grief.

  Join us every Wednesday night, 7 p.m., at Academy Middle School.

  Call 716-555-8568 for more information.”

  “It’s a weekly group for survivors who have lost loved ones. A mother started it around five years ago when her son got into a car accident and was in a coma. Since then it’s grown a lot and has helped me a lot.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Meetings aren’t really my thing. Plus, I wouldn’t want to distract people by showing up.”

  My message comes off a bit cockier than I intend, like: Whoa, Mr. Fancy Pants Writer is in the room, everyone stop what you’re doing and bow.

  Kathy, either not sensing my unintentional arrogance, or perhaps being polite enough to ignore it, says, “Don’t worry, no one will harass you there. We’re all the same, just trying to heal.”

  “Thank you,” I say, putting the card in my pocket.

  “Next,” the pharmacy cashier says.

  I look and see that she’s waiting on me. I turn back to Kathy. “Thanks again. It was nice meeting you.”

  “You, too. And give the meetings a try.”

  “I’ll do that,” I say even though I have no intention of ever attending a meeting. Just what I need, to be surrounded by more miserable people. I’ve got misery handled on my own, thank you very much.

  I ask the cashier if my painkillers have been filled. She looks in the W bin and says there’s nothing
there.

  “When did you call them in?”

  “I didn’t. They should be auto-refilled.”

  She looks on the computer.

  “They aren’t up for refill for another week.”

  “I’m out now, though,” I say, thinking that surely I couldn’t have gone through 120 pills before the month is over. Am I really taking more than four pills a day? I thought I was taking less than prescribed, especially since my back doesn’t hurt every day.

  Maybe I’ve been taking more, forgetting, doubling doses or something.

  She tells me to hold on as she goes to talk to Rajit, the pharmacist on duty. I can feel the line behind me stretching, people’s eyes on me, wondering what’s taking so long. He looks at her, then at me, as if judging whether I’m some junkie looking to score. I’ve had a few conversations with Rajit, mostly small talk, and nothing that indicates that he knows I’m a writer.

  I wave, hoping he recognizes me. He says something to the cashier that I can’t hear, and the girl returns to the counter.

  “I can give you enough for tonight and tomorrow, but you’ll have to call your doctor’s office in the morning and get them to increase your dose if you need more. OK?”

  I thank her, then nod at Rajit and smile. He looks at me oddly, and I wonder if he thinks I’m an addict. Weird. I’ve never done drugs, or even drunk much in my life, and yet I feel guilty like I’m trying to get away with something.

  The cashier tells me it will be around twenty minutes or so and to please come back.

  I thank her, then decide to kill some time browsing rather than standing around waiting, or talking with Kathy, who is next in line.

  Before I know it, I’ve found my way into the toy aisle, and am flashing back to sometime prior to the accident.

  Kayla is six years old, and she’s walking next to me, clutching her little purple purse with her six saved dollars, which to her is a fortune, but now, as we’re standing there in the aisle of these goth-looking dolls that seem to be all the momentary rage, she’s realizing that six dollars won’t buy much. It certainly won’t buy her the Violetta doll she’s had her eye on for a month.