Letters to Nowhere(36)

ME: Another plus.



I put the phone away and I turned back to Blair.

“How did you deal with the Yurchenko vault issue?” Blair asked.

“The same way I handle any fear issues, technical analyses and drills.”

“Find a way to use that to help you get through this.”


Questions I’m too afraid to ask Jackie



At what point in dying does the brain actually stop working? We can measure a person’s last breath, but not their last thought?

When the reality of what’s happened hits me, after I’m done denying, how much will it hurt? What can I do to alleviate this type of pain? I can work through physical pain, should I apply the same techniques?

Why do I have to be reminded of what happened to my parents everywhere I go and with everything I do? When I fill out forms that need a parent’s signature, when I go to college, when I get married…it’s never going to end, is it?

I don’t feel like a whole person anymore. Something is missing and I’m afraid I can’t ever get it back.

What if it’s my fault? What if I did something wrong? And what if it’s someone else’s fault, like a semitruck driver or the construction people that made that strip of highway? Is anyone even looking into this? I HAVE to know.





***

The backseat of my parents’ car felt cold and distant. I tugged on the seat belt several times, eyeing the bleach–blond hair hanging over the driver’s seat.

“Got your seat belt on, sweetheart?” Mom said, glancing over her shoulder, smiling at me.

Dad’s auburn hair showed above the passenger seat. “Jodi, she’s not four years old anymore…you don’t need to remind her to put her seat belt on.”

Mom shrugged as if this didn’t matter at all and pulled the car out onto the road. Seconds later we were speeding along the interstate, dodging cars left and right as Mom used both lanes to pass up everyone. My heart thudded faster and I gripped the door handle.

“Slow down!”

Dad turned around and lifted his eyebrow at me. “We can’t, pumpkin…this is the speed we have to maintain to cause the greatest amount of impact.”

My mouth went completely dry, sickness settling in my stomach. “Wait…what? What’s happening?”

Neither of them spoke and I nearly screamed as we zipped down the interstate at a reckless speed. “Mom! Stop! Please . . .”

I felt the blood drain from my face, nausea taking control of my body. “Oh God…this is it, isn’t it? I’m not supposed to be here. Let me out!”

My hands gripped the door handle, shaking it violently.

Mom’s head snapped around and she glared at me. “Karen, don’t you want to come with us? We’re a family. We should do this together.”

Trembling, I tugged harder at the lock. “I don’t want to…I don’t want to be here…”

The door flew open and I jumped off right before the twenty–foot metal pole appeared out of nowhere. Pain shot through every nerve in my body as I tumbled onto hard, frozen grass.

Right in front of my eyes, Mom and Dad’s car wrapped itself around that pole, their bodies flung toward me, screaming my name. I threw my arm over my head as they landed with a thud beside me, pieces of limbs strewn in the grass.

And blood. Everywhere. Oozing from Dad’s face as he reached a hand toward me. I backed away from his bloody fingers screaming louder than I’ve ever screamed in my entire life.

***

“Karen? Wake up, Karen…”

I shot up in bed, aches hitting every inch of body all at once. Sweat trickled from my hair and down my neck and back. Air refused to move through my lungs. “I jumped out…I wasn’t supposed to be there…I had to jump out…”

“Karen,” Coach Bentley’s strong hands curled around my arms. “It’s okay…you’re okay.”

My eyes flew open, taking in the dark, bare bedroom and the bald–headed man standing in front of me, his face full of concern. I clutched my stomach and pulled myself from his grip, darting around him. “I’m gonna be sick.”

Some part of my subconscious must have hung on to previous concerns because I managed to slam the bathroom door shut, giving myself privacy before puking in the sink. I leaned over it, heaving until I started breathing again, and then I ran the water, waiting for all the chunks of vomit to vanish down the drain.

My head pounded, and despite the sweat, I could feel myself shivering uncontrollably as I fumbled for my toothbrush and quickly ran it through my mouth, getting rid of the vomit taste. There wasn’t enough energy left in me to make it out of the bathroom, so I decided, after my legs practically collapsed underneath me, that it would be a good idea to sleep on the bathroom floor.

“Karen, open the door,” Bentley said, the knob rattling.

I tried to raise my head and tell him I was fine, but that required energy that I didn’t have. Sometime later, after I dozed off, I peeled my eyes open to see the doorknob falling off and hitting the tile floor with a loud clank. Somehow Coach Bentley managed to push the door open with me lying in front of it.

He scooped me up off of the floor, like I weighed nothing, and carried me down the stairs. “My head hurts,” I mumbled. “It really hurts.”