I jumped as the door opened.
Chapter 4
Vee
Robert Gordon, an older man, probably older than my dad or Uncle Darin, introduced himself as the crisis counselor. He had a deep, soothing voice, firm handshake, and odd aroma. His white hair was pulled tightly back into a low ponytail. The shirt and khaki pants beneath his white lab coat were wrinkled, and his dirty white tennis shoes seemed out of place.
A tense silence filled the air as Mr. Gordon took the third seat at the table. Laying an electronic tablet in the center of the table, he exhaled and spoke, “I’m very sorry for your loss…”
His words were kind and filled with practiced compassion, as if he was required to repeat them day after day. After some obligatory pleasantries, he showed us pictures and asked if we could identify them.
There was a picture of Dad’s car, a new-model silver Porsche 911 Turbo Cabriolet. My stomach lurched. “It’s his car,” I confirmed. The top was down and the airbags inflated. I stared in disbelief at the crushed metal, shattered glass, and mangled side.
“The police explained the accident?” Mr. Gordon asked.
Uncle Darin nodded.
I didn’t move, my focus on the picture.
Apparently, Mr. Gordon took my silence as permission to recount the report. “The police report states that at roughly 7:15 a.m. the accident occurred. The semi-truck driver claimed he didn’t see Mr. Hubbard’s car when he was forced to change lanes. While they’re still studying the site, tire marks, and debris, it’s believed Mr. Hubbard swerved to avoid the truck, becoming pinned between the truck and the side wall. The quick maneuver caused the truck’s trailer to wobble. The driver tried to avoid a jack-knife situation. The size of your father’s car…”
The breakfast Fin made earlier this morning was threatening to reappear. I lifted my hand. “Please stop.”
Mr. Gordon changed the picture; however, it was another of the accident scene.
I shook my head. “The driver of the truck wasn’t injured?”
“Not to my knowledge,” he replied.
I looked toward Uncle Darin.
“They tested the truck driver’s blood,” Uncle Darin said, “and are checking his log to learn if he exceeded the acceptable hours driving. The results aren’t in.”
My dad was gone and it could be because some man didn’t stop to rest or had illegal levels or illegal substances in his system. I couldn’t think about that, not now.
Next, Mr. Gordon showed us pictures of Dad’s personal belongings: his watch, his ID, his wedding ring, and the leather satchel he always carried back and forth to work. We identified each object as belonging to Dad.
This session was unbearably long as Mr. Gordon began asking more questions.
What was Dad’s full name?
What was his date of birth?
Did we know his medical history?
Was he taking any medication?
Did he have a religious affiliation?
Did he have any tattoos?
What about scars?
“He had a scar on his forearm,” I said. “It was from a dog bite when he was young.”
The questions continued.
Uncle Darin and I answered what we could. For the first time I could recall, I wished for Daphne’s presence. Surely, she knew more about Dad’s health than either one of us.
