Taking the Fall

 The truck door slammed with a metallic thud. I ripped my hand away with a curse; the tips of my fingers buzzed with pain. Ignoring it for the moment, I fumbled with my keys; my hand was shaking so badly that I had to steady it with my other hand, the fingers turning numb now. With another curse, I jammed the key into the ignition and fired up the engine. My pickup roared to life, sputtered, and then evened out.

I sat silently for a while and stared out into the night. The warm, late-spring breeze rustled the low-hanging branches of the willows that lined this block, but nothing else moved. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that my fingers were turning white. I drank in the pain. I wanted it. Bathed in it. With another screamed curse, muffled by the interior of my truck, I rammed the gear shift into drive with as much anger as I could muster and gunned it.

An-ear piercing screech cut through the silence of the night as my tires spun, desperately trying to gain traction. I grinned, feeling maniacal. Screw it. I let the crazy fully consume me and threw up a middle finger out of my window. I could see her there, in her upstairs bedroom. Her silhouette made a perfect outline against the backdrop of bedroom light, and I could tell from the position of it that she was mad as hell.

Good. On the scoreboard in my head, I scored a point for myself. You can rot in hell for all I care, Megan fucking Harper.

The tires found traction and my truck lurched forward. It was an old pickup, but it had some life in it, and by the time I blew through the stop sign two blocks ahead, the needle rested just above 60 on the speedometer. I didn't even know where I was going. All I knew was that I had to be somewhere as far away from her house as possible. The stop sign zipped past in a blurry red line as I imagined the things I would say about her tomorrow at work. Some of those things might have been over the line, but I was in no mood to leave any insult off the table.

Take some time apart? What the hell does that even mean? Images raced through my head faster than they were racing by outside my truck. Megan's tear-streaked face. Her old soccer trophy, thrown at me in a terrifying expression of rage. Me trying to keep my own face passive; I have always been unsure of the expressions I was supposed to show during times like this. Now, though, I laughed. A dark spilling of sound that had nothing to do with joy. More images burst into my mind like bolts of lightning, leaving their afterimages swimming through my vision. Megan screaming, “Why can't I be the center of your world? Why does she get so much of your attention?” Me, losing my temper for the first time that night, screaming that “she means more to me that you ever will!” The staccato burst of willow branches slapping against my windshield snapped me back to the present; they warned me I had drifted too close to the sidewalk. I corrected course and banished the images from my mind.

Something was missing now, though. The anger coursing through my body felt one-dimensional. Like a movie with no music. So, without thinking about the fact that I was racing through a residential neighborhood at nearly 70 miles per hour, I steered with my left hand while my right hand fumbled with the stereo. Moments later, my efforts were rewarded with the blinding guitar riffs and guttural screams of whatever metal album I currently had in my cd player.

It fed my anger like gasoline on a bonfire. My head nodded along with the snarling beat more and more vigorously. Then, my hands began beating against the steering wheel in a rough approximation of the drum line. My feet followed. The truck's throttle rose and fell as I used the gas pedal like a bass drum.

The song chugged along, getting faster, and louder, and more aggressive. It rose like a wave and dragged me back down with it into the ocean of our mutual anger. Nothing else mattered. Not the road, not the trees, definitely not Megan fucking Harper. The song rose still until it hit its peak crescendo, full of throaty screaming and squealing guitars and—

A loud thump and jolt shattered the night. My truck did a little hop and came back down hard on the front left tire, tearing me from my imagined concert. My first thought was that someone must have left their mailbox out in the middle of the road. As stupid as that sounded, in those first few moments of confusion, I was convinced that some damn idiot had moved his mailbox out into the middle of the street. The resulting impact made my cd start skipping. I pumped the brakes and punched the controls until both truck and music stopped.

I was in the middle of the intersection just past the collision point, maybe 100 feet away from where I had hit that damn mailbox. But for now, I couldn't move. All the anger had drained away with the impact, but my heart was still racing and there was a high-pitched ringing in my ears, drowning out any other sound there might have been. I sat perfectly still and waited until I thought I might be able to stand up without my legs giving out from under me, and then opened my door.

Once my feet were on the ground, I found that I didn't want to turn around and see what I had hit. There was no reason for it. No reason at all for me to be scared of seeing a mangled mailbox. But, at that point, logic was starting to win back control of my mind. I was nowhere near the sidewalk. It wasn't a mailbox. So I just stayed there, one hand in my hair, one hand holding onto my open truck door as the cool night air began to draw fog up from the asphalt. My heart was beating fast and I was having trouble keeping my breath.

Maybe I would have stayed like that the entire night. Just standing there with...with whatever I had hit lying behind me as the sun peeked its face over the horizon, shedding light on what I had done. Maybe I would have stayed frozen to that spot if the other car hadn't showed up.

The ringing in my ears began to subside and I heard the high revving of an engine and the ghostly, far-away sound of music coming from somewhere behind me, back up the road. Then a familiar thump and the screeching of brakes. Then, complete silence once again.

Control over my thoughts came rushing back to me and for one second, I thought about getting back into my car and leaving. I could keep driving until I came to the ocean. There was nothing left for me here, anyway. Except her. She needs you. More than you ever needed Megan Harper.

My second thought was more logical. I finally turned around to examine the scene up the road. The fog rising from the ground refracted the new car's headlights, bathing the scene in opaque light. The smoke from hot rubber on asphalt obscured the scene even more, but I could see the driver's side door open and a middle-aged woman in a pastel pink sweater climb out frantically. She tottered when her feet touched the road and had to reach out to steady herself with her car. I began walking toward her, and as I got closer, I could hear the disbelieving sounds she was making.

“No, no, no, no, no, noooooo!” she cried, and fell to her knees. I still couldn't see what was in front of her, but I could see she was hunched over something. Her hands were outstretched in front of her, hovering over something, moving back and forth without any hint of a pattern. As I got closer, my legs got wobbly and everything began spinning.

Sticking out to the right side of the woman in the pink sweater were a pair of white tennis shoes, blindingly sharp against the black asphalt. One of them was perfectly white while the other was splashed with red blood. I rounded the car and saw the scene in its entirety.

A young girl, probably 14 or 15 years old lie face up in the road, her limbs at unnatural angles. The bottom half of her body was shrouded in shadow, but the street lamp above illuminated her form the waist up. Her wispy blonde hair was matted and black with blood and it fell in stringy clumps across her forehead. One of her eyes was closed, but the other...god, the other bright blue eye was wide open, rolling around wildly. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see the odd angle her body formed. At first, I thought she was lying on her back, but now I could see I was wrong. The top half of her body was, indeed, lying back first. But the bottom half lie twisted and at a sharp angle to the top half, as though my car had snapped her spine cleanly in half.

Everything began growing brighter around me. So bright that I thought someone else must have showed up to the scene, but then I realized I was hyperventilating and mere seconds from passing out. I fought to control my breathing and the scene slowly regained clarity. The middle-aged woman was now sobbing hysterically on her hands and knees, her body draped over the young girl's, as though protecting it from further damage. Beneath her, the girl's body twitched and she made strangled, bubbly noises.

And then, both the twitching and the noises stopped and the girl lay still beneath the heaving body of the woman in the pastel pink sweater.

She looked up me, eyes swollen and red. “I killed her! Oh my god, I killed her!” Her voice was weak and didn't carry far.

I was amazed how quickly I accepted that. This woman had just killed a girl with her car. I felt a piece of my mind separate and surround itself with justification. I retreated as far as I could into that tiny piece of my mind. This piece of me that was so eager to believe the lie.

I opened my mouth to comfort her. To correct her. I was clearly the one who had done this. Right? I looked around stupidly for a second, thinking I might still find the shattered remains of a mailbox. There were none. And then the tiny piece of my mind took over.

“There was nothing you could have done,” I heard myself say. “It was dark. She was in the middle of the road.” What am I doing?

The middle-aged woman tried to speak, but broke into scattered sobbing again. “I was drinking,” she said quietly.

I have to. I have to do this. I took a couple steps closer and knelt down beside the woman. She was about the same age as my mother. My mother, who was even now lying in bed, wondering when I would be home to make sure she took her medicine. My mother, lying in bed, shivering and sweating at the same time, trying to control her chemo-ravaged body. She needs me.

I could smell the alcohol now. She wasn't lying. This is what has to happen. I can't go to jail. My mom...she needs me. This woman, though...driving around a neighborhood bum-drunk? Maybe behind bars is where she belongs. If not for this, then surely for something else that has happened. Or will happen. “I—I have to call the police,” I said.

She began sobbing again. “I know,” she replied through the slobbering tears.

What kind of a person would do this? But, I knew I would do it. Even if it made me feel sick. Even if I hated myself for the rest of my life, I was going to let this woman take blame for taking a life.

The rest of the evening went by in a blur. The police came. They took my name and statement. There was a stretch of sheer panic when I realized that even a cursory inspection of my truck would show a dent at the very least. There were paramedics, a fire engine, and 3 local cops. Any one of them could have wandered up the road to my truck, shined a flashlight against the front, passenger side headlight, and found that this woman's story and my own didn't quite add up.

But none of them did. One of them started to. He shined his flashlight up the road, bathing my pickup in soft light. He muttered something to his partner, said something into the radio on his shoulder, and started toward my truck. I had a fleeting urge to tackle him, but I didn't need to. His phone rang at that moment. He looked at the screen, answered the phone, barked a laugh, and promptly forgot about my truck.

This woman—Annie Farley is the name she gave to the police—Annie was so distraught she was veritably begging to be arrested. Which she was, of course. The paramedic pronounced the girl DOA and called the coroner to come collect the corpse. Two of the police left the scene, one of them with Annie Farley in the back seat. I watched as they left. She wasn't crying any longer. Her face was white and completely blank. This woman was as dead as the girl she had hit.

The last of the local police, Officer Holmgren, shook my hand and thanked me for my statement. There was another tense moment when he looked up the street and pointed at my truck. “That your truck?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Why? Is there a problem?” My heart began to beat wildly.

“No. Just making sure there weren't any other witnesses. Are you okay to drive yourself home? I can call in a tow and have it take to your home address, if you'd like,” he said, and pulled out his cell phone.

“No!” I said quickly. “No. I'll be okay to drive. Thank you, though. I need to get going soon. My mom—she has cancer. I'm late getting home to give her her meds.”

He nodded and walked back toward his squad car. Before he crawled into the driver's seat, he called out, “Oh, look forward to hearing from us in the next few days. We'll most likely need you to testify and give your statement before a judge. I wouldn't be surprised if they pushed for a murder charge instead of manslaughter. They're tough on drunk driving in this county.” And then he was gone and I was alone.

I swiveled my head around to look at my truck, still parked at an odd angle, the back end sticking halfway out into the street, but I didn't go back to it yet. I squeezed my eyes shut. “This is a nightmare,” I whispered. “I didn't just hit and ki—,” but the word stuck in my throat. It was so sudden and physical that I gagged around it. My stomach felt hot and my mouth began to fill with warm saliva. I swallowed, but it filled back up instantly. The third time I tried to swallow, my body reacted violently. My stomach clenched painfully just as my knees lost any semblance of strength; I fell to the ground on all fours and vomited. A lot. I hadn't eaten anything for a few hours, so the majority of what was ejected from me was yellow stomach bile that tasted bitter. So bitter, that the taste of it caused me to vomit even more.

At the end, I was out of even bile to throw up and I sat dry heaving, my face hovering wetly above the vomit-covered asphalt. I have no idea how many times I threw up; I just knew the blessed relief when the heaving and clenching finally stopped. My throat was ragged, but I breathed in large, bellowing breaths of air. Wiping my mouth with the long sleeve of my shirt, I rolled over onto my back and stared up into the branches of a great willow tree.

I stayed like that for a while, but the night grew cold and I began shivering. My knees cracked as I got to my feet. On the way back to my truck, I pulled out my phone and made a call.

“Hey mom. Sorry I'm late. I'm on my way home right now. It—it's been a rough night. I'll explain when I get home. Don't worry, I'll hurry. I'll take care of you, Mom.”

We said our goodbyes as I climbed back into my truck, shutting the door gently this time.