The Drive
He knew he was alive because he was drowning. The fluid tearing at his lungs was comforting for the simple fact it let him know his body was still demanding breaths. He knew how he got here, but he couldn’t decide what exactly led to this. He knew the car veered, shrinking away from oncoming lights. He knew the bridge barrier proved mostly decorative, the car’s metal shredding through it with the casualness of a shrug.
He also knew he wasn’t alone.
But the murky water made it feel so.
He thrashed his arms about, reaching for anything, for anyone.
He wanted her.
He wanted to hug her, to finish his statement. To apologize and make a joke, suggesting a late-night diner stop.The usual placating peace-offering they always made after a fight.
But she wasn’t in reach. The murkiness obscured her, the deafening slushing of the water silenced her. He couldn’t tell which way was up.
Thrashing around he finally spotted the car, one of its headlights still flickering underwater. It was sinking, moving farther and farther away. He tried to move closer but it was moving away at double the speed. It was like a real-time reenactment of their relationship. He could see her, but he couldn’t reach her. He could chase her, but she was always swifter.
His lungs seized, warning the rest of the body that the time to shutdown was imminent.
Still thrashing, trying desperately to sink as quickly as the car, another light flashed above him. He knew this because it was bright enough to flash his shadow on the sinking car. His shadow looked wispy and frail, like an emaciated memory of hope.
He heard muffled screaming, then a muffled splash. Then he felt arms envelop his chest and pull him upwards, away from the car.
Away from her.
He felt his eyes closing, demanding not to see anymore. Demanding to follow the lungs’ example and shut down. The bubbles floated past him, evidence of his scream.
He went black.
“Sir? Sir?”
His eyes fluttered open.
“Are you with me?”
She was there, she was above him, pointing down to him with a thin flashlight. She looked from pupil to pupil, measuring his body’s reboot after the water.
He blinked, threw his head to the side as he coughed up the remaining water in his lungs. When he turned back, it wasn’t her. It was another her, an anonymous her.
Is she okay?” He heard his voice and it was foreign to him. Like a dream when you watch yourself but your features don’t quite lineup with the reality you know.
“Sir?”
“She okay?”
“Who sir? The other driver? That was a man and he’s fine. A little shook up but okay. Did you know you were driving the wrong way?”
“What?”
“How many fingers do you see?” He looked down to her hand, and her three extended fingers.
“Is she dead?”
“Who sir?”
“My daughter. She was in the car.”
He noticed the woman’s eyes flicker with fear for just a moment, then return to control.
“No sir, our divers checked the car and the surrounding area. There was no one.”
He closed his eyes and nods. This woman was right.
She’d outrun him again.
— -
His home was quiet, the flashing colored sirens of police lighting up his walls. The lights were so overbearing he felt like he could hear them, which cancelled out the eery silence of his empty home. He didn’t really understand why the flashing was necessary to drive a crazy old man home but there they were.
“Pageantry takes all forms.” He chuckled at himself and his wit.
He moved to the back of the house, and the kitchen, which was the only spot free of the blue and red lights. He grabbed a half full cup of coffee, old enough that a film had formed over the tepid coffee, and sat at his lacquered kitchen table.
He took a sip and sighed.
Looking to his fridge, he examined the photos of his daughter. A smiling, glowing face that tells a story of happiness. He knew they were lies, but he wanted them to be true. That’s why they were on the fridge, a collage of happiness, a narrative of normalcy, a lie.
She was never a happy person. It was probably his fault. He read up on it, knew it was supposed to be a chemical imbalance but he knew better. He was never a good father. He never understood her, he never helped her, he didn’t know how. She’d plead for help, she’d weep for hours begging for help, but he couldn’t. He saw only weakness.
That night, she didn’t weep though, she screamed. She screamed at him for never helping. She yelled at him for never understanding. And he did the one thing he never should have done. He yelled back.
He sipped at his coffee, wincing at the taste. He stood and moved to one especially happy photo of his daughter. He turned it over. There it was, a clinical rundown of her life. Her date of birth, her surviving family members, her date of death, and information for the visitation. A heartless retelling of a life spiraling, desperately grasping for a point of anchor. He should have been her anchor.
She jumped off that bridge, she jumped off with weights tied to her. Making sure her body didn’t veto her death. He wasn’t there. He yelled at her and kicked her out instead.
He stood, walked to the sink, dumped his viscus coffee down the drain.
They said it was dementia, they said his brain was going.
He knew better. Sure he got confused, sure he couldn’t recall things like he used to. But he didn’t have dementia, not really. No, he just wanted his daughter back. He wanted to make a joke and suggest a late-night diner stop. His brain was willing to do whatever was needed to make this so. If that meant hallucinations, if that meant he got to see his daughter but in a fractured and shapeless non-reality, then that’s just what it would take.
Anything for his girl.
He walked back to the living room, the house now completely silent, absent of all flashing police lights.
“What do you call a cheap circumcision? A rip-off.” He hears her reluctantly giggle from the corner.
“Want to go for a drive, get some pie at the diner?”
“Sure dad.”
