Crash

by David Wright

  She can buy some small accessories, or save another six dollars or so and get the doll she really wants. Saving will mean another three weeks of waiting, assuming she does all her chores.

  “Daddy, can I please get it now?”

  I tell her no, that she has to wait.

  “But it won’t be here if I wait, there’s only one left!” she whines. “Can’t you just let me borrow some money? I promise I’ll pay you back. You can have my allowance for the next three weeks. Please, please!”

  She drags this last please out a full five seconds longer than necessary.

  I want to give in and get it for her, but hear Meg’s voice chiding me in a memory from one of our many arguments. “We have to stop buying her so much. She needs to earn it. I don’t want to raise a spoiled brat. You need to be tougher with her, Tom. Every time she flashes those big blue eyes, you cave.”

  She’s right. I do. But it’s not like Kayla is spoiled, or anywhere near as bratty as most kids we see.

  Kayla squeezes my hand, and looks up at me with such a sad but hopeful look, almost whimpers, “Pleeeease, Daddy.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “We’ll have to wait until you have enough.”

  She starts crying, a last-ditch attempt to get her way.

  “Stop crying, or you’ll have to wait four weeks.”

  “You’re mean!” she shouts louder than she’s ever yelled at me.

  Now I’m pissed, but trying not to show it. I keep my voice calm, “I know you’re angry right now, but you’ll appreciate this some day.”

  Trying to reason with a six-year-old is next to impossible, so I decide to let her stew with her arms crossed in anger, lower lip jutting out, eyes refusing to meet mine. It’ll pass by the time we get home, and I’ll have shown Meg that I can, in fact, stand up to our daughter.

  I flash to three weeks later.

  Kayla is clutching her purse, smiling as we get out of the car, eager to get the Violetta doll. I hold her hand as we go into the store, looking down at her, feeling some joy in the happiness she’ll feel from working and saving up for something. Yes, she had to wait another three weeks, but won’t that make her appreciate the doll that much more?

  We get to the aisle, and …

  … the doll isn’t there.

  There are tons of others, ones she already has, and others she has no interest in, but no Violetta. Her happiness crumbles, and Kayla starts to cry.

  I expect her to melt down or say that she hates me, but to her credit, she doesn’t.

  All she says is, “She’s not here.”

  And I’m crushed.

  I would’ve almost preferred that she yell at me, blame me, ask me why I didn’t go to the store and get it for her, then hold onto the doll until she’d earned enough for it — as she’d requested several times. Instead, she’s just sad, staring at the shelves as I feel like the world’s worst father.

  My name on the intercom snaps me back to the present.

  “Your order is ready, Mr. Witt, please come to the pharmacy.”

  And as I look at the Violetta dolls, rows now fully in stock, I’m crying right there in the middle of Greene’s.

  I wipe my eyes, gather myself, grab a doll off the metal rod, and bring it to the pharmacy. I know it’s stupid, but I look forward to bringing the doll back to our house, putting it in Kayla’s room as if her spirit will somehow know and appreciate the gesture.

  It’s hard to explain, but there are times that I feel like Kayla is still here with us, in some form. I’ve never been very spiritual, nor do I believe in ghosts, but still, at times, I still feel like she’s with us in some way. Perhaps it’s just me not wanting to let go. But just in case, if there is still some part of her here, then I want to give her the doll, even if she can’t play with it.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 5

  I’m anxious and can’t write.

  It’s 5:15 p.m., and Ruiz hasn’t called or come by. I’m wondering if she’s changed her mind, or, more likely, doesn’t want to be bothered with the ramblings of a depressed writer.

  I have to say, that since the accident, she’s been one of the most supportive people I’ve known. Ruiz was the officer who arrived on the scene, pulled us out of the car, and started my heart after I’d died.

  She was also the one who tried, but couldn’t, save Kayla.

  We have a shared bond over that grief, different from the one I share with Meg. I think Ruiz has as tough a time getting over the accident, too. That’s probably why she humors me, and why she’s cool with my showing up at one car accident after another, so long as I keep my distance with the camera and let the cops and paramedics do their jobs. She also asked that I never sell my photos, though she said she couldn’t stop me. I explained that I never would, though I am using photos without bodies as part of a photo essay book I’ll try to get published once I stitch the pieces of my memory back together. A tough sell: How many people want a coffee table book full of depressing crash photos on display in their living rooms?

  Hey, kids, life is fleeting! I’ve got the pics to prove it!

  Ruiz has been the only person to show the photo book any interest. I’m not sure if it’s because she’s humoring me, or because maybe the photos help her deal with shit, too. It must be tough carrying the burden of so many lives on your shoulders. Too much second-guessing. What if I’d arrived on the scene a few minutes earlier?

  I’ve played those depressing what-if’s a million times over. What if we’d stayed home instead of going to the play? What if I’d not been in such a rush, to get home to work? Maybe we would’ve missed the drunk driver’s path by a minute or so.

  While I don’t remember being in a rush, nor anything from that night, I can tell from her comments that Meg’s thought the same thing — that she holds me at least partially responsible for the accident. No, I wasn’t technically speeding, but I was in a rush, driving faster than I should have on a wet road.

  What if I’d not been rushing back home to get back to work? What if I’d slowed down to enjoy a few moments with my family instead of been so eager to get on to the next thing?

  The what-if game is the worst game of all, because you can’t ever win.

  The doorbell rings, thankfully offering a respite from what-ifs.

  I go downstairs and see Ruiz through the decorative glass in the front door.

  “Hey, thanks for coming.” I unlock and open the door and invite her inside.

  “No problem,” she says as she enters, looking around, probably wondering where my wife is. Ruiz is short, has long dark hair in a ponytail, and reminds me of an inquisitive mouse the way she looks at people. She’s pretty, though you can tell by looking at her that she’s uncomfortable with her looks and the attention her appearances get from creeps. And in her line of work, I’m guessing she deals with more than her share of creeps and their crude comments.

  Ruiz has been to our house a couple of times since the accident, as a consultant for our book, which I’m supposed to be writing. Basic police procedure-type stuff so we look like we know what we’re talking about.

  “Where’s Meg?”

  “At her sister’s. Mallory had a girl not too long ago, and Meg goes to help out every now and then since Mal’s jerk boyfriend up and left.”

  “Ah, nice.”

  It occurs to me that I have no idea if Ruiz has a kid, is married, or is even dating someone, or if she’s into guys or women. While we’ve talked at great length about our jobs, she’s never offered much about her personal life. Despite not knowing much about her, she feels like a family friend. I feel guilty for not knowing more about her. But at the same time, if she’s not offered info, I don’t want to pry.

  She asks, “So, whatcha got for me?”

  I go to the dining room, grab the folder of printed photos with the man in black, and hand them to her. “This.”

  She opens them, and starts thumbing through the pictures, her face confused.

  “What am I looking f
or?”

  “The man in black,” I lean closer to see which photo she’s looking at.

  “Which man?” she asks, handing me the photo.

  I look closer, focusing on the background, just behind the crushed red sports car where I could swear he’d been standing when I was looking at the photo on the computer, and again after I’d printed it out.

  I grab the rest of the pictures from Ruiz and start flipping through the stack, tossing them on the floor in rapid succession as each proves to be absent my man in black.

  My heart is racing. Cold sweat beads down my chest and back. What happened to the pictures?

  “What the hell? There was a man in black in the photos, in every one of the pictures, night, day, no matter the accident, just standing there, staring.”

  “Maybe you printed the wrong photos?”

  “You got a minute?” I ask, leading her upstairs to my office.

  On the computer, I pull up the folders with my guy, and start sorting through photos, my heart beating faster still.

  How can it be?

  He’s not in any of them!

  I back out of the folders, then pull up the original files I’d downloaded from my camera, working as fast as I can, feeling Ruiz’s gaze on me the entire time. If she didn’t think I was crazy before, going from one crash site to another, she must be wondering now if I’d just lost the last of my marbles.

  I pull up one photo after another, blowing them up on screen, adjusting the brightness, but still — nothing. It’s as if he were never in them.

  But that’s impossible.

  “I don’t know what happened,” I say. “He was in them. A lot of them.”

  I can feel her gaze heavy on my skull.

  I eventually turn and face her. And her eyes scare me. She’s looking at me like you would look at a crazy person, whom you must speak to only with caution, to keep him calm.

  My heart is pounding. I feel as if someone has doused me in cold water.

  And then … darkness.

  **

  I hear sounds, people speaking as if underwater, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. I’m dizzy, unable to move or open my eyes.

  … I wake up in a hospital bed, wires running from my body to beeping machines. My eyes are blurry, but I recognize the shape sitting in a chair to my right: Meg.

  “Are you OK?” She puts my right hand in hers.

  “What happened?”

  “Officer Ruiz said you passed out at the house, and weren’t responding. She brought you here.”

  I think of how much this might cost, and my pulse races as I feel sick to my stomach. I try to sit up.

  “We can’t afford this.” I call out for a doctor.

  “What are you doing?” Meg puts a hand hard on my chest. “You just passed out!”

  “We can’t afford more hospital bills.”

  “We need to make sure nothing’s wrong. We’ll pay the bills, don’t worry.”

  I wonder if she’d be so confident if she realized exactly how little I wrote while she was at her sister’s. A doctor arrives to ask me some questions. Her tag reads, Dr. Linda Jenkins. She asks what medicine I’m taking, and how much. I lie and say two to four pain pills a day, even though I’d run out. I don’t want them thinking I’m an addict. Worse, I don’t want them to cut my meds.

  Her piercing gold eyes seem almost unnaturally bright in contrast with her dark skin, and I feel as if she can somehow see straight through my lies.

  She asks if I’ve ever experienced anything like this. I tell her about everything post-crash, leaving out the part about my losing time earlier today.

  I don’t want to be in the hospital any longer than I need to be. Just tell me if anything’s seriously wrong, and if not, let me go.

  She asks about what happened right before I fainted. I’m not sure what Ruiz told the doctors or Meg, so I tread carefully.

  “I was showing Officer Ruiz some photos, and started to feel my heart racing, and a cold sweat.”

  “What kind of photos?”

  Shit. I can’t lie, not without asking Ruiz to cover for me, and if I do that, it will make our working relationship weirder than it already is.

  “Photos from the crash sites.” I leave out the part about the man in black.

  Meg sighs.

  Dr. Jenkins asks, “What photos?”

  Meg answers, “He’s been taking photos of crash sites for the past six months.”

  “It’s for a book,” I say, quickly before the doc can ask why.

  Meg isn’t looking at me. I wonder if Ruiz told her about the photos I was showing her. I’m guessing not, or she’d be acting even more pissed than she seems.

  Meg says, “Doc, he’s become obsessed with taking photos ever since our accident. He seems to think it will help him remember the parts of his memory that are still fuzzy. Can you please tell him that that’s not the way these things work?”

  Dr. Jenkins says, “Well, I’m not a specialist in traumatic brain injury; that’s something you’ll want to ask Dr. Merrill.”

  The doc then tells me that they’re going to take some X-rays of my head to rule out a stroke or anything serious.

  An hour and a half later, and God knows how much money more in debt, I’m told that the X-rays showed nothing abnormal. That, along with the other tests they’d already taken, leaves Dr. Jenkins with the conclusion that I likely fainted from stress.

  She advises me to take it easy.

  Meg says, “No more driving all night, taking pictures of crash sites, right, Doctor?”

  Dr. Jenkins smiles, “You might want to slow it down a bit, and get some sleep, Mr. Witt. And please schedule a follow-up with Dr. Merrill, as he can better advise you.”

  “Thank you,” I say to the doctor, unable to shake the feeling that she can somehow see through my lies. She looks at me as if she knows about the pain pills, and the missing time, even though it seems impossible. I wonder if the blood tests they did when I was admitted showed an increase of pills in my system. If so, I imagine she would have said something.

  **

  Meg’s driving us home and hasn’t said a word in the twenty minutes since we left the hospital. I lean my face against the cold passenger window, staring out at the passing lights in the darkness because it’s easier than breaking the silence.

  We finally pull into the driveway. Meg kills the engine, and turns to me.

  “Why were you showing crash photos to Ruiz?”

  “What?” I’m surprised by the question, and trying to buy time so I can find the right words.

  “You passed out while showing Ruiz crash photos. What was in the photos?”

  “They were just crash photos.”

  “No,” Meg says, “there’s something I’m not being told. I saw it when Ruiz first told me, but didn’t think to ask more because I was worried about you. But then, when you were telling the doctor, I saw it in your eyes, too. What’s going on, Tom?”

  I sigh, trying to buy myself more time, as if she’ll give up. We both know better.

  I decide to tell her. “I saw something in the photos. At least I thought I did. But Ruiz didn’t see it.”

  “What did you see?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I was wrong.”

  She’s quiet for a moment, and then asks again. “Tell me what you think you saw.”

  “A man I didn’t recognize. I saw him in a lot of the photos, but he’s not with the police or emergency crews. I don’t know who he is. He’s just there. But then when I went to show Ruiz, to see if maybe she knew who he was, he was gone. Maybe I printed the wrong photos,” I say, trying not to appear as baffled as I am.

  She reaches out for my hand, takes it in hers, and then starts crying.

  I pull her close, hugging her, trying to offer some comfort.

  “When I got the call that you were in the hospital, I flashed back on the accident again.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I can’t lose you, Tom. You ca
n’t leave me alone.”

  “I won’t,” I say, reaching out and touching her cheek, wiping a tear with my thumb. “I’m not going anywhere. I swear.”

  She looks up, meets my eyes, and suddenly we’re kissing, hands moving over one another with an urgency all their own in the cold dark of the SUV.

  She opens the door, gets out (eyes still on me) then opens the side door, and slides into the back of the SUV.

  I don’t bother with the door. I crawl over the console, pull the side door shut, and I’m on her in seconds, hands reaching up, cupping her warm breasts as my mouth finds her neck.

  I hear and feel her hot breath in my ear, somewhere between crying and passion as I slide my hand down the front of her pants and into her.

  “Oh God,” she says before finding my mouth with hers and kissing me harder, biting my lips. “I want you now.”

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 6

  I wake to the sound of my daughter’s whisper.

  “Daddy.”

  My eyes shoot open, and I gasp for air, woken from some nightmare that I can’t quite remember, save for the feeling that I’d seen Kayla again, and that she was talking to me. I’m in bed, cold, the room pitch black save for the alarm clock’s light-blue glow telling me it is 3:15 a.m.

  In the glow, I see that Meg is sleeping soundly beside me, snuggled in most of the blankets, which she’s somehow wrangled from me.

  It’s not the dreaming of Kayla that’s hard. Whether it be dream or nightmare, knowing she’s there sometimes when I close my eyes, that I can see her again — even if it’s an illusion — is something of a comfort. It’s all I’ll ever have again, so I’ll take it, pain be damned. It’s the waking part that’s hard.