It was the worst day of my life. Every day since has been a living nightmare.
I should never have let her drive in that storm. What was I thinking? Even now, three years later, she doesn’t remember me. Yes, Daphne understands she has a father, and it’s me, but only on a superficial level. I mean nothing to her. Less than nothing, in fact.
A lifetime of memories gone. For her, at least.
Oh, I tried regaling her with stories of her forgotten past: her first bicycle, which after showing off to all the boys on the block, she crashed. How she came running home, bloodied nose and scraped knees, wailing in distress. Her mother tended to her wounds, while I rushed to the store for some ice cream. Cookies and Cream, her favorite.
Or her first ballerina competition. She was so nervous; she cried the entire trip. But once she set foot in the dance studio, she found her courage, and delivered a stunning performance. This performance is recorded. When I showed her, hoping to spark some memories, she became pugnacious and cruel. To her, it was like watching a stranger; or worse, an imposter.
Now I know what you’re thinking, why not start new memories, and build upon them? Believe me, I tried. In a perfect world, or maybe a Disney flick, this would’ve worked. But not in real life. At least, not in my life. She trusts no one from her Before Time. Especially her parents.
…
It was her seventeenth birthday. I remember it like yesterday. How could I forget the day I lost my daughter; or more accurately, she lost me.
Daphne was a straight A student, a gift she acquired from her mother’s side of the family. My side? We’re a bunch of blue-collar stiffs, working back-breaking jobs for long hours at a time. My work is no different. But I don’t mind. I’d do anything for my daughter.
Unbeknownst to Daphne, her mother and I had been saving for years. Not only for her post-secondary education – she planned on becoming a veterinarian – but also for her first car.
Now, I’m not gonna lie, her mother was dead set against giving her the shiny new Camaro SS, candy apple red, of course. Daphne, she said on several occasions, doesn’t need a fancy car. She needs a practice vehicle that is safe and does good on gas. My wife Tara had a point. But I’m a guy who loves a nice set of wheels. Ultimately, this was an argument I was bound to win. A miracle, I know.
Daphne’s birthday party went off without a hitch. She had twelve of her closest friends with her; we barbecued shrimp and steaks, and had enough hors d’oervres to sink the Titanic. Her best friend Bryce even serenaded us on his twelve-string acoustic guitar afterwards. By then, many of our neighbors had moseyed over, cashing in on the festivities.
Finally, the moment arrived.
Up until now, we’d kept her present a secret. Daphne hates secrets, but she did her best to contain herself. She’d received plenty of cool stuff from her friends and relatives, including a black ‘Hangover’ hoodie from Bryce, along with a plethora of emoji necklaces, fairy lights, noise cancelling headphones and a personalized makeup kit. Stuff I know nothing about.
As the party winded down, and parents started trickling in, I sneaked away next door. You see, David, my next-door neighbor, was storing the Camaro in his garage, and had been for over a week. I pulled the shiny new sports car into the driveway, and honked.
Daphne has an abundance of energy. At least, she used to. She gets this from my side of the family. That and her fiery red hair, which matched her new ride. She came rushing over. The look of surprise and adoration on her freckled face was enough to make me cry. I wiped fresh tears from my face, as she hugged me tightly, then stole the keys from my hand. She jumped inside. The leather seats greeted her like an old friend.
“Oh my God!” she cried. “I love it!”
I knew she would. That’s how I justified putting myself in so much dept. A father will do anything for Daddy’s Little Girl. Yes, she would be satisfied with a Corolla or an Accord – you know – boring but reliable. This would’ve made her mother happy. Except, Daphne, being like her father, prefers something with a little more kick. Something with pizazz.
Immediately, she was the envy of her friends, who’d gathered around the driveway, awestruck. I detected a tinge of jealousy coming from the other parents, as they retreated to their SUV’s. This wasn’t my intention, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel wonderful.
The party wrapped up. Only Bryce remained. I could tell Daphne was eager to take it for a test ride; she hadn’t left the driver’s seat. I didn’t blame her. It’s not an ornament, it’s a car. Cars belong on the open road, careening across the freeway at jet speed. Especially sports cars with V8 engines, fat tires and boisterous engines.
Or so I thought.
The humidity gave way; a thunderstorm was inevitable. Gray, foreboding clouds were wafting in. Flashes of white lightning and voluptuous thunder crashed in the distance. Droplets of rain fell, promising more.
Bryce sat quietly in the passenger side, fiddling with his phone. Meanwhile, my daughter was staring at me with ocean blue eyes, begging for a test ride. How could I give her this car, then immediately take it away? her eyes petitioned. My fatherly instincts were screaming: NO! Don’t let her go out in this storm. She can test ride tomorrow; or at least once the storm settles down.
Daphne pleaded. She made clever arguments that only a teenage girl can. She pulled at all my heartstrings, never letting go. Finally, I agreed. All she wanted was to drive around the block, pick up some coffees, then return. Back in a jiffy, she promised.
Reluctantly – and to my wife’s chagrin – I agreed.
Don’t judge. A dad is weak against his teenage daughter, as any father knows. Besides, my pop let me drive his pickup truck once I was tall enough to reach the peddles. We’d drive in conditions that made this storm seem like a summer breeze. Daphne learned on our Toyoda RAV4 – you know – boring yet reliable, a far cry from the Camaro parked in our driveway. But my daughter’s no slouch. She’ll be fine. The roads were wet, but visibility was satisfactory.
The storm crashed in the distance, warning otherwise. The rumble of the thunder promised havoc. By now, I was soaked to the skin.
“Be careful,” I said, using my Best-Father-Ever tone.
“Don’t worry Daddy! Be back soon. Love you lots!”
She turned the key. The car roared to life. It sounded like a symphony. As she pulled away, the precious words ‘love you lots’ warmed my heart.
Those were the last kind words she’d ever say to me.
…
One hour had passed, she hadn’t returned.
My wife groaned. “Something’s wrong. I just know it!”
As usual, I downplayed the alarm. “Now, now. Daphne’s a teenage. With a cool car. I’m sure she’s fine.”
We’d sent several texts. All unanswered.
“She’s driving,” I asserted. “She probably has her Bluetooth set up, with tunes cranked.”
I did my best to remain calm. The torrential downpour did nothing to help my shaky nerves. Another half hour passed. By now, my wife wasn’t the only one freaking out. I too was angst-ridden. Calling the police over a teenage girl missing for under two hours was futile, although that’s what I wanted to do. Instead, I hopped into the RAV4 and set out looking for her. I knew this search was in vain, but sitting around doing nothing was no longer an option.
The rain was an unwelcomed guest. I drove through the streets with the wipers on max. The swooshing of the wipers did nothing to sooth my anguish. After cruising around town, visiting her usually spots, I gave up and returned home, feeling downtrodden and dejected. Hopefully, my wife had better news.
She didn’t.
My wife greeted me with swollen eyes, punishing in their intensity. She knew, as well as I, something was terribly wrong. And it was my fault.
Then the call came; the call every parent fears.
“There’s been an accident.”
I don’t recall what happened next. The phone fell from my face, replaced by my hands, as I wept. My wife, God bless her, took over from there. She jotted down the information, then rushed us both to the ER.
The drive took forever. The streets were slick; and although the rain had subsided, the streetlights were laser beams glaring off the waterlogged roads. Visibility was poor. Tara white-knuckled it the entire way, refusing to speak. Her silence was a dagger to the heart. Purple veins bulged from her neck, the lines around her eyes deepened. I could hear the whistling of her breath as it passed through her nostrils.
Still no words. Oh, how I wish she’d say something. Anything. Even if it came at my expense. Which it indubitably would. In our twenty-year marriage, I’d never seen her so upset. There was a monster brewing inside her. A monster waiting to escape.
Finally, we arrived. Paying for parking and finding the appropriate entrance felt like an eternity. Nothing we could do was quick enough; I needed to see my daughter, pronto. Once inside the hospital, we were greeted with more bad news.
The receptionist was a portly woman, with dark skin and heavy hair. She seemed pleasant, but fatally exhausted. Daphne, she told us, had been in a serious accident. Her car collided with a transport truck. The car was totaled. Bryce, who came away with minor scrapes and bruises, and would likely suffer from whiplash, was sent home. Daphne, on the other hand, remains in serious condition. Her fate undetermined.
We filled out a mountain of paperwork.
Meanwhile, my wife was unraveling. Her hands unsteady as she penned the appropriate information. Her nose tightened, her bottom lip quivered, as she does when she’s brooding. As we journeyed up the stuffy elevator, seemingly for days, her hatred towards me intensified. When we made eye contact, albeit briefly, her eyes were as cold as a gunslinger’s heart.
Tara had yet to speak to me.
A voice sprung into my head: “This is all your fault,” it said.
I couldn’t leave the elevator soon enough. The walls inched closer and closer, threatening to trap me inside. The onslaught of a panic attack seemed inevitable. I didn’t know what to do, so I wiped the sweat from my brow, and waited. After an eternity, the door swung open, and I stepped out.
We walked.
Tara’s high heels clicking the cold linoleum floor echoed for days. Click, click, click, click. The sound was infuriating. So was her silence. All the while, the voice in my head pestered. Each word growing louder and louder, until I was ready to throw myself off a tall building.
“This is all your fault,” the voice said, again and again, like a schoolyard bully. “You should never have let her drive.”
I shoved my hands over my ears, stifling a scream. The voice was maddening. I turned to my wife for support, and found none. Her hateful glare made one thing abundantly clear: She too, had the voice ringing inside her head. This was as plain as the pale paint covering the drab hospital walls.
“This is his fault,” the voice told her. “He’s to blame.”
My guilt was a guillotine.
The sound of weeping pervaded us. Each room seemed sadder than the previous one. The hospital was a cesspool of sorrow. Miserly loves company, right? It took every ounce of strength not to fall to my knees and surrender to it.
Meanwhile, Tara’s heels clicked away, like spikes into a coffin. The long dreary hallway stretched on. Eventually, we reached Daphne’s room. I sighed. With a knotted stomach, I opened the door and shuddered. The scene was repugnant. My eyes switched on and off, assessing what they were seeing.
The room was empty, save for one hospital bed. On it, a figure cloaked in a pasty-white full-body cast, and hooked up to an IV, lay lifelessly. Our daughter. Her face was ravaged in scars, her lips as lifeless as a corpse. Her eyes remained shut. Apparently, she had more broken bones than a career boxer.
We sat next to her. The hospital chairs felt like rocks. We waited in stifled silence, still not speaking. Nurses came and went. Although they explained the direness of Daphne’s situation, I payed little attention. How could I? All I could do was listen to the nagging voice in my head:
“This is all your fault, Chuck.”
Tears spilled from my dour face like a leaky faucet. I cried more that night than I had in my entire life. The voice in my head was indeed correct. This was all my fault.
My wife would’ve preferred if I stayed home. Her eyes told me so. This did nothing to ease my heartache. Even as the nurses told us our options, my wife simply nodded, as if to say, “Yes, tell me something I don’t know.”
At least Tara was engaging with them. I, on the other hand, sat broodily on my chair of rocks, teary-eyed and confused, clutching my daughter’s clammy hands as if my life depended upon it. Maybe it did. With all my might, I prayed she for her to be okay.
The nurses said it was time to leave. When I tried letting go of my sick daughter’s hands, I couldn’t. My hands clung to hers. As I slowly released them, something peculiar happened: Daphne shifted.
The room gasped.
All eyes fell upon her.
It wasn’t much, but it was something.
I leaned in close, so I could feel the warmth of her breath.
She twitched. Then her eyes flashed open.
You could hear a pin drop inside that stuffy hospital room. We all felt it.
Daphne’s big blue eyes were chilling. It was like staring into the eyes of a stranger. Or worse, a demon.
Something was wrong. Someone else was lying in plaster, covered in sores and bruises. This couldn’t be my little girl. This wasn’t Daphne.
Finally, my daughter spoke. Her words, like a switchblade knife, spilled my guts and entrails across the floor. A part of me died right then and there.
As our eyes met, something coursed through me. Something evil. She grimaced as she spoke. Her voice as empty as a blue sky.
“Who the hell are you?”