Page 74 of Exiled

I’m about to turn away, as red flashes into green.

I feel it first. In my bones, in my blood. A hum, a vibration. Followed half an eye blink later by a blinding white-yellow flash.

WHUMP—

BOOOOM!

I am thrown backward by an invisible wall, by a hand snatching me in hot unseen fingers and hurling me across the road, to slam back against the hood of a cab. The wind is knocked out of me; I’m gasping, panting, trying to cough, to sob.

You’re there, You’re hauling me into your arms, I hear nothing but a hum a buzz a ringing in my ears, see nothing but flames where the Range Rover used to be. The flames billow and ripple in slow motion. I see Your mouth moving, Your face obscuring my view of the burning wreckage. I see it behind You, though. Flames licking and flickering. Charred metal. Debris strewn across the road, chunks of burning cloth, twisted pieces, shattered plastic.

“—Bel... Isabel?” You are shaking me. “Isabel! Look at me, babe.”

I slide my eyes to You, to Your one eye, Your indigo eye. Then past, to the flames, the wreckage. Beside, to the left, the Suburban is on its side, windows smashed, metal charred. Someone is crawling out of the broken passenger-side window, bleeding from cuts to face and body. Someone rushes to help, hauls the person out of the car, helps them stumble away from the wreckage. A crowd is gathered, staring, pointing, chattering. Taking photos with cell phones.

An oddity: The panel van is trundling around the corner. Vanishing. Unscathed. The white panels blackened a bit, but disappearing around the corner. I don’t know why I notice this, but I do.

You lift me. Scoop me into Your arms, and I feel Your heartbeat. It is soothing, centering. I am dizzy. Disoriented. Ears ring. My face is hot, seared from the blast.

Sirens howl, somewhere in the distance and getting closer. A fire truck, huge and red, is first on the scene, firefighters in full gear jumping out and springing into action, putting out the fire. More sirens, police cars probably and ambulances.

I am settled into the passenger seat, buckled in. I feel the engine turn over. I am in shock, I think. Everything is slowed, my ears ring, my mind is blank, my heart numb.

Caleb is . . . dead?

The wrong way down the one-way street, far too fast.

Around a corner.

Another.

Out the window, all is normal. Crowds cross intersections, carrying shopping bags and purses and briefcases. Couples duck into restaurants, examine menus posted outside doors. Cabs, yellow and myriad, ply the avenues.

A woman, stopped at an intersection, waiting for the walk sign to light up. I play my old game, invent a life: She is still young, but older than me. Blond, beautiful. Wearing a skirt far too short, a blouse that hugs massive breasts. The blond hair is from a bottle, teased out, curled into ringlets. Wearing too much makeup. Wearing spiked heels too many inches high. A man approaches the woman from behind, waiting to cross the same as her.

I create a romance for the two, staring at them out the window, still shocked, reeling, unfeeling, as You wait for the light. She is a stripper, maybe. Or a call girl. But she has asecret, a son at home. A little towheaded, blue-eyed hellion who is her whole world. She hates stripping, but she does it for him, to provide for him with the one resource she has. And the man approaching the same intersection, stopping behind the blond woman, the stripper. He stopped far enough away that he can stare at her. He’s a weightlifter, wearing track pants and running shoes and a tank top, despite the cool in the air. His arms are way too big, bigger than any man’s arms need be. He’s lonely. Spends his life at the gym, because despite his macho attitude, despite his massive physical presence, he’s nervous around women, gets tongue-tied.

I imagine that the muscle-bound man finds the courage to say hello. And the stripper finds the courage to say hello back. She’s afraid of being seen as easy, because of how she makes a living, even though she’s not. She’s anything but easy, in fact. So she comes across as aloof, arrogant even. But she’s lonely, too. So she says hello. And they walk together. He asks if she wants to get a coffee or something. She discovers that beneath the rough, muscled, surly demeanor, he’s actually a sweet, thoughtful person. A hard worker, and willing to see her for who she is. Willing to see past the teased-out hair and skimpy, slutty clothes and the nights dancing naked for strangers.

It’s a diversion, this fiction.

Caleb is dead.

Caleb is dead.

I stare out the window and cry, silent tears sliding down my cheeks. I hide them, because I don’t think You’ll understand.

I don’t thinkIunderstand.

Caleb is dead.

Chapter

Sixteen

Irelive that explosion in my nightmares.

Night after night, I feel the detonation. See the flames flickering hungrily.