“Blink twice if you understand me.”
I let go of a lot of anger after the crash that almost killed my family. I just couldn’t bottle it anymore. Do you know how soda gets all bubbly every time you pop open the cap? I could feel that in my head every morning. Cracking and sizzling and bouncing all along the brain stem. Every time a doctor gave bad news. Every time Emma didn’t open her eyes. We risked spillage onto the floor.
But the kids deserved better. My wife deserved better. I needed to focus all that negative energy on something constructive like her health. I knew she could beat the coma. I knew she just had that strength. All of the doctors and all of the consultants said time was the only way to truly reduce swelling in an injury with such severity. So we waited.
And waited.
The investigation into the wreck came up clueless. A detective called often with questions and theories and information to review. Those conversations lasted over an hour in the early days. Eventually they felt like a formality. I looked into the cost of private eyes. I even met with one online. He told me sometimes there’s just not enough data out there to locate a suspect.
Sometimes people can be ghosts.
The photos stopped as suddenly as they started. I still couldn’t stomach a shot of Joey on the playground, or Sofia on the bus, so the teachers kept the kids inside, and my dad played chauffeur. Public spaces felt about as safe as the unused house with one hell of a mortgage eating up half my income. But we couldn’t go back there. I couldn’t risk another confrontation. Not yet.
We slept at my parents’ house.
We lived life inside a bubble.
Nobody in, nobody out.
Our home-base was the hospital. Emma’s routines became the structure. The doctors gave status in the morning before the kids went off to school at nine. I worked off the crappy Wi-Fi while nurses changed bandages and prepared my wife for another day of dancing with the devil. A new normal developed that both disgusted and comforted me at the same time.
I tried to look at the light at the end of the tunnel. The news improved day-by-day. One scan showed increased activity. Another indicated a dramatic reduction in swelling. After weeks of hell, one hot night, the chief surgeon actually told us to keep our phones on high-volume before bed.
“I really think she’s ready to pull through,” he grinned. “There’s a long road back from here. No doubt about it. But we’re starting to see all the right signs.”
I needed to celebrate. Sofia wanted pizza. My mom ordered take-out and my dad pulled out all the old home video tapes. The kids passed out to the sound of grandpa’s harmonica on record. I remember feeling like we were finally out of the woods that night. Like all the bad shit behind us finally led to redemption.
I fell asleep with thoughts of the landscaping back home. I knew Em would give me shit for the lawn. I hadn’t cut it for weeks.
I woke up to a picture message.
The time on my phone said two. Rain pattered the windows. Thunder shook the cabinets. I looked around and realized I was alone.
I opened up the text.
Emma laid serenely in her white hospital gown. Her makeup was done. Her eyes were closed. A hand held hers tight. Another message pinged back immediately after that one.
Her eyes were open.
I got my keys and sprinted out to the car. I needed to channel the adrenaline into something constructive. I called the hospital along the way. They didn’t answer. I called dispatch. I waited. Finally a live person came on the line.
“The doctor is going in there now,” the secretary snipped. “We don’t send picture messages.”
“I’m coming.”
I called the cops. I called my parents. I called everyone. A dozen scenarios ran through my mind. They could have her. They could hurt her. They could do whatever they wanted without me there. That photograph was proof. I was helpless in an instant all over again.
The hour and the weather kept people off the roads. The garage at the hospital was connected to the main building at the back. I found a spot, parked, and got out. Timed lights matched my pace until the roof opened up to the rain.
The campus had an alien feeling to it so late at night. Almost as if healthy people didn’t belong. Bright flood lights blended into swaying trees in the misty breeze. Empty lots gave way to shadows of trucks.
I didn’t know how to get in after hours. I had a loose plan to stop at the emergency desk and ask for help. But I didn’t recognize anything in the dark. I hustled up the path through the bright lit hedges. I looked around. I got lost after a while.
And then there he was.
About fifty yards away. Walking down the opposite road like any other fucking night. Black slacks. White shirt. Gray hat.
The right guy.
I kept my distance at first. It felt good to be on the other side of things. I followed him through the courtyard and all the way through a lot to his car. He fumbled with his keys for a moment. He dropped them. Then I stepped out.
“Hey.”
He turned around. He smiled.
“Hey!”
I stared at him for a second. He stared back.
“Looks like your girl is going to be alright in there.”
I moved closer.
“She’s going to be very popular, too.”
I hesitated.
“What does that mean?”
He laughed.
“Oh you know. Pictures like that? Death and back?”
He opened the door.
“My people are going to love it.”
The stranger gave me one last look before he sighed and went for his keys. He didn’t expect me to hit him. He should have. I reached back and swung with all the repressed rage of the past month.
The connection felt so fucking good.
The first punch broke his nose. The second pushed it all the way back. I could hear things snap. I could feel him struggling. That didn’t concern me. I pushed him down and old bones hit the pavement like a sack of molded potatoes. I kicked him in the ribs. I shoved my boot in his face. I straddled his thighs and hit, hit, hit until the bubbling in my brain fizzled and dissolved.
I lost control of the soda bottle.
I don’t remember stopping. I don’t even remember blinking. This could have gone on for hours and that all would have been just fine with me. But there was a rush of footsteps to my left. Somebody snapped a photo to my right. My arms went limp.
We weren’t alone.
I turned around to find a lanky guy in board shorts eyeing the scene. In his hands, he held one of those fancy black cameras with the strap. He readied it carefully and zoomed in on the bloody remains of the stranger in the little gray hat. He clicked the button. He smiled wide.
Then he turned to me.
“Picture?”
“No.”
“Please?”
He framed the angle.
“Okay. Okay. This is gonna be perfect. The two of you. Are you ready?”
He adjusted the lens.
“Say… tangerine!”