Christmas.
That’s what we’d been doing three months ago. Christmas shopping. The mall busy, the shoppers cranky, we’d left later than we expected, past dark. Cars were still streaming into the lot, circling for spots. A woman saw me putting bags in our trunk. She asked if we were leaving and I said we were. When I got in the car, Amy was still standing by the open rear door, trying to cheer up Clara, fussing, her nap missed.
Hon, there’s a lady waiting for our spot.
Whoops. Sorry.
She fastened Clara’s chair and climbed into the passenger seat. I started backing out.
Wait! I need to double-check the—She glanced back at the car waiting for our spot.Never mind. I’m sure it’s fine.
“You restoring it?” the salesman’s voice jerks me from the memory and I glower at him. I don’t mean to. But for a second, I’d heard Amy’s voice, clearly heard it. Now it was gone.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m restoring it.”
“Huh.”
He struggles for a way to prolong the conversation. I bend and continue tinkering with the light. He stands there a moment. Then the silence becomes too much and he leaves.
Aweek later, the car is roadworthy. Barely. But it will make it where I want to go, all the bits and pieces intact, no chance of being pulled over.
The roadside.
I pull to the shoulder. It’s dark here, just outside the city. An empty snow-laced cornfield to my right, a bare strip of two-lane highway to my left. In front of the car, a crooked cross covered in dead flowers. More dead flowers stuck in a toppled tin can. I didn’t put them there. I don’t know who did. Strangers, I suppose. Heard of the tragedy and wanted to mark the place. I’d rather they hadn’t.
I didn’t need that wretched memorial to remind me where it happened. I would know the exact spot without any marker, the image burned into my memory.
Coming back from Christmas shopping. Dark country road. The car quiet. A good silence. A peaceful silence. Clara asleep, Amy and me being careful not to wake her. Snow falling. First snow. Amy smiling as she watches the flakes dance past.
A pickup ahead of us. A renovation company. Boards and poles and a ladder piled haphazardly in the back.
Oh,Amy said.That doesn’t look safe. Could you…?
My foot was already off the gas, our car falling behind the truck until all we could see was its rear lights through the swirling snow.
She smiled.Thanks.
I know the drill.
She reached over to squeeze my leg, then settled back to snow-watching silence.
Another mile. I’d crept up on the truck, but was still far enough back, and she said nothing. Then I saw it. A figure walking down the other side of the road. A woman in a long, red jacket.
I looked over. Ghost, I told myself, and I was quite certain it was, but I’d hate to be wrong and leave someone stranded. I squinted through the side window as we passed and?—
Watch—!
That was all she said. My head whipped forward. I saw the ladder fly at us. I swerved to avoid it. The car slid, the road wet with snow. An oncoming car. I saw the lights. I heard the crunch of impact. Then…silence.
Now, three months later, I sit by the side of the road and I hear her voice.
Always dreaming. Always distracted. One of these days, you’re going to hurt yourself.
Yes, I hurt myself. More than I could have ever imagined possible.
I get out of the car. The tube is in the trunk. I fit it over the exhaust pipe, and run it through the passenger window. Then I get inside and start the engine.
Does it take long? I don’t know. I’m lost in the silence. There’s a momentary break as a car slows beside me. The driver peers in, thinks I’m dozing, revs the engine, keeps going. The silence returns. Then I begin to drift…
