Page 4 of June: Jess' Story

“Fuck!” I slam a palm down on the steering wheel asbrake lights start reflecting against my windshield. It goes on for as far as my eye can see, bringing us to a complete standstill on the highway.

I bounce my palm impatiently against the wheel, then turn on the radio for probably the first time in this car, flipping to the AM station for highway information. Before I can even hear the reporter, first response sirens sound in the distance, and it’s like all the air gets sucked right out of me. I look at Blanks, and he looks at me. The silent conversation is happening again.

Calm down. They’re probably just sitting in this traffic, too. Try calling her again.

I hit her contact on my phone and it rings. And it rings. And it rings.“Hi, you’ve reached Amy Palomino.(Baby giggles in the background.)We’re a bit busy at the moment,(she laughs when the baby laughs louder)but I’ll call you back as soon as I can, promise!”I look at Blanks, and he sees it on my face.

“She’s probably on the phone with her mom,” he says, but I shake my head at him.No, she’s not.Chills run up and down my arms as I throw my truck in park then throw open my door. I don’t even bother to shut it, just bolting the second my feet make impact with the asphalt.

Blanks is already yelling at me. “Don’t do this! Come back! They’re fine!” His voice fades as my feet move me faster down the highway. He honks the horn twice, and is still yelling at me, but that’s because he doesn’t know what I know. When I heard the first siren, I think I knew. The way Tally and I speak without words, andknow, it’s the same way I knew.

Pumping my arms and pushing my legs, I’m running a 5-minute mile easily, even in this rain. I clock myself gauging the distance, head on a swivel looking for a little red SUV.

But each minute that passes, and her red SUV doesn’t come into view, is like someone throwing a shovel of dirt on your coffin. You’re already in the ground, sure, but each shovel is just more proof you’re never coming out of this.

It’s at four minutes and 39 seconds that I see carnage. There's an 18-wheeler and at least eight other cars…at least one of them red. Hard to tell what shape or type of car it is now.

Don’t need to see it, though, because I know. Just like I’ve known.

I weave between parked vehicles the last quarter mile, running like my life depends on it. Probably running faster. I’ve run like my life depended on it before, and I’m beating any personal records now, bar none.

There’s smoke in the air, paramedics, overturned vehicles, and then I pass the first casualty. It’s a small white Honda, crushed beyond what the mind can comprehend. I selfishly don’t even look to see if there’s someone still in there. When I think back on this, I’ll feel fucked about it because I might be more qualified to handle a disaster than every person standing on this highway. Of which there are many, at least 12. Some are “good samaritans” trying to help, but I don’t want their help. Don’t need it. And some are first responders.

Just need to get to that red SUV.And now that I’m closer, I can tell. It’s a red SUV. Itwasa red SUV. I’m breathing hard, soaked to the core, but I’m moving towards the red vehicle like nothing,no one, has ever existed outside of thismoment. The rest of the world goes quiet while my vision tunnels.

At the moment, there’s paramedics and firefighters working on the little red SUV. No other carexcepthers is getting worked on. That’s either the best sign…or the worst.

“Sir! You can’t come over here!” Someone is yelling at me.Don’t give a fuck.I come to an abrupt stop when I’m face to face with…aftermath. Metal and glass crunch underneath my boots, a siren blares in the distance. Then I freeze and stop breathing altogether when I realize: There's no one in the driver’s seat.There’s no more windshield either.I look around frantically for my wife that’s no longer in the car.

Because her body…is on the ground. Covered by a tarp.

I run over and rip the tarp back, and people really start yelling at me now.

“Sir! STOP! YOU CANNOT DO THAT!”Still don’t care.

Amy. I start crying. It’s involuntary. Haven’t cried sincethatday.

My body slips into shock. I know it, but I’m powerless against it. So when someone grabs me by the arm to pull me up and away, I fold easily and go with them. Didn’t even realize I was on all fours on the ground till then.

“That’s my wife,” I say. To him? To the universe? I don’t know what’s really happening right now.

“What?” he asks in return. It’s loud, there’s machinery prying metal apart, rain pounding against every surface, people yelling –screaming– for help.

“THAT’S MY WIFE!” I point to the mangled body on the ground.That was my wife.

The firefighter stops trying to drag me away. He looks around trying to gauge something I’m not yet aware of.

“Alright,” he resigns. “Come to the truck.” He tries to shoulder me towards a vehicle, an ambulance, but I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to shield me.

“Where’s my daughter?”

“Sir, I want you to take a seat and we’ll get you a blanket.” The guy is really doing a great job at being compassionate, good bedside manor, really.

It doesn’t take much to break free of his grip and run over to what’s left of Amy’s car. I’m there just in time to see the jaws of life prying apart red pieces of metal. Really just remnants of a passenger door.

As soon as there’s an opening large enough, three firefighters and a paramedic clamber forward, towards the toddler still strapped into her carseat.

The paramedic turns around first, putting the back of a gloved hand to her mouth, a look on her face I’ll never forget. Instantly, I know I’ll remember her always. This paramedic, a woman in her late thirties I’d guess, now wears a face that’s a mix of devastation…and revulsion. It’s haunting how even in the rain I can see her tears.