Crash

by David Wright

  “Oh,” she says standing and hugging me like we’re long-lost friends, “You came!”

  She pulls away and shivers. “Wow, you are cold!”

  I lie and say I was just outside.

  She turns to the women she’s with and says, “Ladies, this is Thomas Witt.”

  She says this without saying who I am or that I lost my daughter, which implies that they already know me or perhaps she’d already told them that she’d run into me at the pharmacy.

  “I’m so glad you made it,” she said. “Do you want to go up on stage and share?”

  “Um, no.” I look at the stage where a man in jeans and a white T-shirt is talking about his own loss.

  I tell Kathy, “I don’t think I’m ready just yet. I just wanted to come and see … ” I trail off, not sure how to end that sentence.

  Sam says, “Tell her,” whispering as if other people can suddenly hear him.

  The women introduce themselves as Sheryl and Tanya, offering their hands. I shake them, and then there’s an awkward silence.

  “Tell her,” Sam says again.

  But I can’t possibly tell her here, in front of her friends.

  I lean into Kathy and ask, “Can I talk to you alone for a second?”

  “Sure,” she says, smiling. Kathy turns to her friends and tells them she’ll be right back.

  I lead her back a few rows, giving us just enough distance to keep us from being overheard. I look into her eyes, still red from crying on stage, and I wonder how the hell do I tell her what Sam wants me to? There’s no way this will go over well. No way she won’t think I’m messing with her, or being cruel. No way this won’t turn into an ugly scene.

  “Tell her,” Sam urges beside us.

  I look at him, then back to her.

  She looks at me concerned, “What is it?”

  I swallow, trying to summon the courage.

  “I just wanted to say thank you for inviting me.”

  “Oh, you’re welcome,” she says with her big sweet smile.

  I so don’t want to hurt her. She seems so nice.

  “Tell her,” Sam repeats, this time, louder, like he’s realizing that I’ve lost my nerve.

  “Listen,” I say to Kathy, “something’s come up, but I just wanted to thank you personally, and let you know I’ll be back.”

  “Oh, OK, thank you. Here,” she says, reaching into her purse and pulling out a card that says, Kathy Prescott Candles on it, and hands it to me.

  “Candles?”

  “No, that’s just a side business I run, I just wanted to give you my number in case you, or your wife, ever need someone to talk to.”

  “Oh.” I look at the card as Sam pleads with me to tell her. “Thank you.”

  “Have a good night, Mr. Witt.” She hugs me again.

  “Goodnight.”

  Sam screams, “Tell her!”

  I ignore him and walk toward the closest exit as fast as I can.

  He follows, crying out, “Why didn’t you tell her?”

  “Wait,” I say under my breath, “until we’re outside.”

  I push my through the exit and into the school’s main hallway, heading toward the eight doorways leading to the parking lot. I stop short of going outside when I see some teenagers hanging around. I can’t talk to a ghost out there, so we’ll have to stay here and hope that no one comes in.

  “There’s people out there,” I say, turning to Sam who is red-faced and crying.

  “Why didn’t you tell her?” he yells.

  “I couldn’t just tell her right there,” I explain. “There’s no way she would’ve believed me. I would’ve only upset her more.”

  “No, I need you to tell her. Please,” he begs.

  Behind us, back near the auditorium, a set of doors pops open, and a man and woman start walking toward the exit, and us.

  I turn my back to them and pretend to be admiring the row of art projects to our right — paintings and drawings — hanging on the wall.

  Sam keeps yelling, “Please, mister, go tell her. You’re the first person I’ve run into that can see me. Well, that isn’t a ghost, anyway. Please.”

  The couple stops a few paintings down from me, also admiring the art.

  Oh come on, just leave.

  Sam continues. “Please, go tell her. She needs to know that I wasn’t really trying to kill myself. Please!”

  I look at him, squint my eyes, then nod at the couple beside us, trying to tell him, without words, to cool down until they leave.

  I’m not sure that Sam gets the hint. He keeps on, getting louder and angrier.

  “Please, mister, I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again. You need to tell her now.”

  I say nothing, staring at the painting in front of me — a serene lake and a small boat with a father and son fishing — as Sam gets angrier to my left.

  “I know you can hear me! Stop ignoring me!”

  Lights flicker, almost as if in response to his anger.

  “Pleeeeeeease!” Sam screams so loud that I have to cover my ears.

  The lights flicker again, then go off.

  The woman beside me says to her mate, “What happened?”

  Farther down near the auditorium, and outside in the parking lot, lights are still bright.

  “I dunno,” the man says as he leads her outside.

  I hear her comment on something “weird” in the air as they step through the doors.

  Now that we’re alone, I turn to Sam, but he is suddenly stone silent. His eyes are wide as he stares at something behind me, down the hall near the auditorium.

  He swallows and stammers, trying to speak.

  I start to turn around, but he reaches out, and I feel his cold hands touch my shoulders, stopping me. “Don’t turn.”

  “What is it?” I ask, wondering what the hell could have him so frightened.

  “I have to go,” he says. “Whatever you do, don’t look them in the eyes.”

  He turns and flees, racing right through the glass doors and out into the night.

  My heart pounding like a jackhammer in my chest, I turn to see what had spooked him.

  Just down the hall I see them — six tall, skinny, shadowy things, drifting toward me. Skeletal forms wrapped in swirling darkness, with something almost solid like tattered ribbons floating around them. But it’s their eyes that stand out most — large, cavernous bright-white holes in their faces, staring straight toward me.

  I remember Sam’s warning: Whatever you do, don’t look them in the eyes.

  I turn, heart in my throat, and walk as fast as I can, pretending I never saw them. Knowing somehow that if I run they will descend on me.

  Keep walking. Keep walking.

  I pick up my pace, fighting the urge to turn back and look.

  Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.

  The doors are now twenty yards away, but feel like a hundred.

  Behind me, I hear a disturbing sound — like paper rubbing together — dry and wrinkled, rubbing faster and faster like some sick whisper, or worse, a laugh,

  Don’t turn around.

  Don’t turn around.

  The doors are just ten feet away.

  The sound behind me grows louder, as if trying to get my attention. Trying to get me to turn around. It’s so loud, I’m certain that if I turn they will be right there, with those empty, bright eyes.

  Don’t turn around.

  Just keep moving.

  I fight the urge to propel myself forward and through the doors.

  Just keep moving.

  I hit the metal bar, which sends the door open, and then I’m out into the night air.

  I run.

  Past the teenagers looking at me.

  Past the couple who’d left just prior to me.

  I fumble for my car keys, not daring to look back.

  I can no longer hear the sound, but I know if I turn I’ll see those things.

  I find the keys, open the car door, and hop insid
e.

  I slide the key into the ignition, start it up.

  Don’t look, just go.

  I put one hand on the steering wheel — somehow hot to the touch, as if it were sitting in the sweltering summer heat all day.

  I ignore the pain, put the car into reverse, pull out of the parking lot, then race as fast as I can back to my home, never looking once in the rearview mirror.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 8

  After fleeing the school like a madman, I finally pull over in front of a Rite Aid and breathe in and out, nice and slow, trying to calm myself.

  If I go home like this, Meg will think I’ve lost my mind. Now, some distance from the school, what I saw feels less real to me. Like I’d somehow imagined it. Just like the man in black, perhaps?

  Early on in my rehab, the doctor warned me of possible hallucinations. And I did have a few, but they were nothing like this. Sometimes, I’d think I saw something, like a person in the room or a dog that wasn’t there. I suppose the man in black could be a hallucination, as I’ve only seen him a few times, and then he was gone — like a hallucination. But tonight was a prolonged encounter with a ghost and whatever those things were. If that’s a hallucination, it’s on a whole other level.

  I know I should tell the doctor.

  But I don’t want to go back on the pills I was on after the accident to combat some anxiety and anger I had as a result of my condition. They were supposed to help me get better, but all they seemed to do was make me feel listless and made my memory even foggier. I felt like a ghost, half in and half out of this world. If these hallucinations are indicative of some sort of mental problem, I don’t want to be put back on those pills and lose myself again.

  I can’t tell Meg or the doctor.

  Not yet. Not when I feel like these things might be happening for a reason. I can’t help but feel like they’re helping me get closer to my missing memories. Perhaps it’s my damaged brain’s way of piecing things together. If I can just ride them out a bit longer, I’ll remember everything, and perhaps finally have some peace.

  I reach into my pocket, fish out two pain pills, and swallow.

  I go inside the store, and pick up a bottle of water and a newspaper, figuring I’ll chill for a bit in the parking lot while waiting for the pills to do their magic.

  They do more than dim the pain; pills calm my manic thoughts, and promise a joy I don’t otherwise feel. When I was younger, I remember hearing about how the singer of Nirvana, Kurt Cobain, had killed himself. At the time, I couldn’t understand how someone with so much success could become addicted to heroin. Why would anyone choose to flush their life away like that? A few days into my pills, an opiate not close to as powerful as heroin, it suddenly made sense.

  I can now see why someone can get so easily hooked.

  I wonder if I’m a junkie for loving the pills so much, then figure if I’m wondering then I probably am. Yes, I have real pain, a holdover from my accident, but how often do I just take the pills to ease my mind or feel better? More than I’m willing to admit to anyone else.

  I return to my car, paper in hand, and flick on the lights just above the rearview mirror.

  I unfold the sports page and prepare to kill time while waiting for the happy feeling to kick in. About four stories in, I’m surprised to feel that familiar rush runs through me so soon.

  And with it, comes something else: a flash of memory.

  I’m in the car, driving. It’s still light outside, though the sun is setting. Meg is beside me. Kayla’s in the back seat, singing some song that’s playing on the CD player. The song, I suddenly remember, that she was practicing for her school play!

  This must be a memory from that night.

  Still in the memory, I look back at Kayla. She meets my eyes in the rearview. She feels so real that I want to reach back and hug her, but I know that if I move or open my eyes, the memory will pop like a bubble floating through the night.

  As I’m looking at her, I notice a blur beside her in the back seat. Bright, almost like a lens flare you’d see in a photograph. Something about it is bothering me like an itch just under my skin.

  What is that?

  Still in the memory, I reach up to adjust the mirror and get a better look.

  And as I do, the bubble pops. I’m back in the Rite Aid parking lot, crying.

  I feel closer than ever to remembering the accident.

  I look down at the pill bottle and connect the dots. I’m not sure how I know, or if it’s just an addict’s wishful thinking, but I realize that the pills may provide a shortcut to remembering that night.

  **

  As I pull up to my house and go through the gates, I notice an unfamiliar car in the driveway: a black Lexus.

  I look up to the house to see the dining room light on, and two shapes behind the curtains, moving. Why the hell didn’t Meg tell me we were having company tonight? I don’t have time for company. And I need to tell her what happened, not sit and play like nothing’s wrong for three hours while we entertain someone I don’t want to talk to.

  I sit in the car and try to calm my rising anxiety.

  I take one more pill, even though I just took two less than twenty minutes ago.

  I get out of the car, close my eyes, and breathe in the cool, fresh breeze. Leaves scrape across the semicircle cobblestone driveway as I look up the road for anything out of the ordinary — any sign of those things, whatever they were.

  We live on a cul de sac on a small hill overlooking the town. There are only four other houses on our quiet street, each of them also behind gates. The Sandersons, who live two doors down on the west side of the street, have their grandkids over, and there’s music wafting from their yard, but nothing out of the ordinary, and certainly no sign of ghosts.

  As I sit on my calm street, what happened at the school seems like another lifetime ago. Everything feels fine now, which reaffirms my decision to keep it all to myself.

  If I go in there and tell her the truth, she’ll probably call the doctor. Hell, she could even have me admitted to the psych ward.

  Even if she didn’t go that far, she certainly wouldn’t let me out alone again. She’ll start to worry about me — again — like some sort of child or invalid. And right now, she needs me to be strong. She needs me to finish this damned book so we can pay our bills and get back to trying to start a family.

  I remind myself to research hallucinations later, perhaps see if they’re among the side effects of the pain pills. If so, maybe the doc can prescribe something else. Though if these pills are in fact helping me to remember the accident, there’s no way in hell I’m going to give them up.

  I’ll take hallucinations all day every day if they help me put the pieces of my life back together.

  I look out the gate at the street again, hearing the sounds of children laughing and think of Kayla, then head inside to meet our guest.

  **

  I hear my name, or a familiar bastardization of it, as I swing open the door.

  “Tommy!”

  Only one person gets away with calling me “Tommy”: my agent, Marty.

  As I step into the dining room, he lifts his large frame out of the seat and comes over to give me a giant bear hug, big enough to almost swallow me. Marty, at six foot five, towers over me, and outweighs me by at least a buck fifty.

  “How’s it going, buddy? You look good, well, for a skinny bastard,” he says with a laugh as he lets me go, looking me up and down like he hasn’t seen me in forever. I suppose it has been forever, relatively speaking. Last time we spoke in person, I was in rehab following the coma, still bruised, putting one foot in front of another, re-learning how to walk.

  “Good, good,” I say, trying to figure out why he’s here.

  Then I remember that Meg and I had talked about having him get us a movie deal. Maybe he’s here with good news? Or perhaps just to see what we’re looking for? Either way, I welcome the distraction. Marty is one of the few people who ca
n make life seem normal again. And if somehow those ghost things are real and tried to come in our house, Marty would be the kind of guy I’d want by my side to send them right back to hell.

  Meg comes over and kisses me, then asks how the meeting went.

  “Fine,” I say, hoping she can’t sense the lie behind my lips.

  I inhale deeply, realizing that she’s made my favorite: linguine and meatballs with garlic bread.

  “Dinner’s almost done, you two sit down and catch up,” she says, heading back into the kitchen. Marty sits back down at the dinner table and takes a sip from his wine before he pours a glass for me from a bottle of Tignanello, which I assume he brought with him.

  “We celebrating something?” I ask as I take a seat opposite him, leaving a spot at the head of the table for Meg.

  “Might be,” he says with a sly grin. “I already told Meg, but I talked with a guy, Russell Thompson, ring a bell?”

  “Should it?” I ask.

  “He’s the new head over at Infinity Studios. They have deals with three networks, and he’s pretty sure he can make a Dark Family series a reality at either AMC or HBO, or hell, even ABC if you want to water it down.”

  “Really?” I say, taking a sip of the wine. Usually, I can’t tell the difference between the cheap stuff Meg sometimes gets and the ridiculous bottles that Marty brings over, but this one is good. Almost soft, pleasant to swallow. I take another sip.

  “Good shit, eh?” he says, noticing my second drink.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say. “I don’t even wanna know how much this one costs.”

  “Well, let’s just say we wouldn’t be drinking it if I didn’t have good news. Aw, who am I kidding, there’s always a reason to celebrate if you think hard enough.”

  “So,” I say, “what do I need to do to make this happen?”

  “Write out a proposal I can pitch to him. We talked briefly, and he knows who you both are and of your series, but doesn’t know dick about it save for the buzz. You write something up, and I’ll have Johnny K spiff it up.”

  Johnny K was one of the script doctors Marty worked with, brought in to punch up screenplays. Novels and scripts were different beasts. And while many writers can learn to write both, I have zero interest in learning scriptwriting when I’d rather focus on books.