Chapter 5

Sweetheart?

What is the worst thing that's ever happened to you?

What is the worst thing you ever imagined?

Are they both the same thing? Then I am both happy for your ability to imagine and hopefully even prepare yourself for reality of whatever that bad news may be... and saddened by the knowledge that you likely have lost something precious in your life.

The worst thing that ever happened to me was much worse than I could ever imagine.

But over and over in mind after that day, I did imagine it... even though I wasn't there.

Can you see it your mind's eye? How beautiful she looked that day coming out of the long-term care center, her long black hair gleaming in the parking lot lights? Her laughing eyes and mischievous smile charming everyone she knew? She would've been tired after a long day worked as a CNA. Her back always ached from having to move patients over twice her weight from bed to gurney and back again. She was always the shortest person in the room at five-foot nothing, but her presence made her seem so much bigger. She'd brook no shit from anyone, turning from cheerful chatterbox to spiteful hellion in a second... and people loved her for it. They knew she wasn't just punching a clock. She really cared, and it showed.

"Mr. Perreault?"

"Yes, speaking."

"Mr. Daniel Perreault? Of 16541 Collingwood Circle?"

"Yes! Who is this please?"

"Mr. Perreault, this is Sergeant Phillip Collins of the State Police."

Deep breath on the other end of the phone.

Can you see her climbing into the RAV-4, shivering in the early winter cold? Cranking the engine and letting run until some heat finally starts coming from the vents. Turning the defroster on to melt the thin sheen of ice that had formed in the hours between dusk and midnight? Finally turning on the lights and pulling out of the parking lot, driving slowly down the double-lane driveway toward the stoplight at Broad Street?

"Sir, I'm afraid I have some baaaaaddddd nnnnneeeeewwwwsssss...

Time slows. Words stretch unintelligibly.

Can you see her waiting patiently for the light? Maybe she humming to herself, that song by the Filipina whose name you could never remember? Maybe she's thinking about Christmas, the first in our new home? Maybe, at the edge of her hearing, she can sense the tractor-trailer barreling down Broad Street, down the hill from Main, doing 45 already and accelerating.

"Yyyyyooooouuuuuurrrrrrr wwwwwwiiiiiiiifffffffffeeeeeeee..."

You stop breathing.

Can you picture the scene? Maybe you float above the intersection, a disembodied spirit, watching the mad interaction between gravity, mass, and momentum. Can you see where the fire hydrant was tested earlier in the day and was then not sealed properly? Can you hear the drip, drip, drip of the water from the as it falls onto the curb and rolls out toward the street. It leaves such a small trail, but leaves so much of the pavement wet as it makes its way down the hill toward the storm drains. Who would be careless enough to leave that water alone on that downhill grade in near freezing weather? To not put down some drying compound to insure there'd be no chance of black ice forming?

Can you see the truck driver, sitting in his cab, impatient to get through the city and onto the interstate to start his way cross-country? Just a little too impatient, charging down the hill without concern because the traffic is light and the weather are clear? He sees the light change to yellow and starts to apply his brakes, but something is wrong, something is terribly wrong. The truck isn't slowing, isn't stopping. Its wheels are locking uselessly as they skid across the thin layer of ice caused by the dripping fire hydrant. Maybe, just maybe, if he'd just let the wheels roll instead of locking his breaks, he'd have been past the ice before he could lose control of the truck. Maybe he could have rolled through the intersection, even through the red light, without deserving more than a citation for his reckless speed and failure to stay in control.

"innnnnn annnnnnnnn akkkkkkksssssssssuhhhhddddeeeeennnnnttttt."

You hit your knees. Your heart flutters as if unsure it should beat or not.

Can you hover closer to RAV-4, close enough to touch the face of the one you love as she looks up to see the now skidding tractor-trailer? She's suddenly frozen in place, afraid. The light in front of her is green, she could gun the engine into the intersection and across and be out of the way, narrowly missing any collision that might occur. Her fear confuses her, roots her in place, as she watches the shiny grill of the tractor hop the curb.

You could see the time to impact in your mind's eye like a countdown clock, couldn't you? At five seconds, you're just yelling at her, telling her to move. At three seconds, you're beating on the top of car, screaming "GO, GO, GO!" With barely a second left you're praying for a miracle, willing the car to move forward just enough to avoid total destruction, just five feet forward, please God, PLEASE GOD PLEASE..."

The truck, careening out of control, drives right through the space occupied by your wife's car. The impact slightly lifts the smaller SUV off its wheels, allowing the massive truck and its fully loaded trailer to drive the car into a concrete wall that runs parallel to the driveway of the long-term care center. The wall is purely decorative; behind it is solid, hard packed earth.

The State Police are kind enough to dispatch a car to take me to the accident scene. The kind-hearted trooper tries to engage me in conversation, but I only stare out the window silently. Eventually, he stops talking.

The flashing lights of the emergency vehicles light the sky with red, blue, and orange. The four lane highway is narrowed to two lanes, with westbound traffic detoured out of its regular route because of the accident scene up ahead. The entire intersection has been blocked, and yellow tape runs parallel to the car as we pass the area where the truck lost control. A quick blast of the siren, and the yellow barrier is lifted to let us through to the carnage just off the roadway.

The trooper opens the door for me, offering his hand for support if I need it. I take it gladly. My knees threaten to give way at any second.

He escorts me up to side of the tractor, then hesitates. He asks me to wait a moment, and then speaks to those gathered around the front of the truck. They look toward me, their eyes reflecting their pain and dismay. The trooper speaks a bit more urgently, jerking his head toward the road. Reluctantly, those around the scene move to what they feel is a respectful distance.

I feel a hand on my arm. Standing beside me is Father O'Reilly, Marie's priest. His face is ashen. "One of the girls at the care center called me," he offers by way of explanation. I nod... or I think I nod. I know I grip his arm like a life-preserver. He doesn't wince.

We walk together toward the front of the tractor. Chunks of concrete exploded from the wall by the impact cause us to zig-zag until we reach our destination... There is a gap of about six feet between the front of the truck and... and...

In your mind's eye, you can see it so clearly. The truck drives the car into the concrete wall and the dirt behind it without losing any speed. Black ice, wet grass, and driver panic turn the tractor-trailer into a missile that could not be stopped or turned. Airbags deploy, but do little for the small woman whose body is hit with the concussive force of a mortar detonation at close range. Her brain is bounced so hard inside her skull, she is instantly unconscious, her brain bleeding in countless places; the other trauma from the initial portion of the crash just seal her ultimate fate.

Glass fragments from the shattering of the driver's side window rip and tear at the unconscious form. Her seat belt keeps her body from flying sideways into the passenger compartment, but a rebounding effect sends her body careening back toward the truck grill, which had bowed in the driver's door on impact, in effect putting it inside the SUV. More cuts and broken bones ensue. Mercifully, she is already dead before the final impact with the wall.

The passenger side of the SUV explodes inward when the car hit the concrete wall at approximately 55 miles per hour. Even as shrapnel-like pieces of concrete rip into the car, the truck on the other side keeps pushing relentlessly, its mass acting to compress the small vehicle against the dirt behind the wall.

The truck presses forward until there is no further space remaining. The tractor then folds in on itself, its trailer crumpling and skidding to one side, jerking the truck back from the wall. The creaking and groaning of rendered metal is the only sound heard until the wail of police sirens begin to fill the night.

As I cleared the corner of the truck, I managed to stay upright long enough to see the ultimate result of everything that would later be spelled out in detail in the investigators' reports. I took in every detail of scene, committed it to memory... then, caught between shock and horror, I lost consciousness. Father O'Reilly managed to catch me and ease me to the ground, where the EMTs pulled me onto a gurney and wheeled me away. I would remain unconscious for two days.

Just what did I see? The impact was so violent as to compress a five-foot wide vehicle into a space of less than a foot. Blood pooled on the ground in front of the tractor-trailer, dripping from underneath the driver's side door of the RAV-4 to collect on the grass and debris below.

And I saw my beautiful wife's head through the broken window of the SUV. It lolled atop her neck, askew, as if it could fall away at any minute. Her hair still shone in the harsh work lights surrounding the scene, but it shone because her hair was wet with blood... blood from her scalp and from her face. Her face... torn, bloodied and broken, with gaping flaps of skin exposing the bones beneath.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to vomit. I wanted to run.

Instead, I passed out.

In those two days it took me to regain consciousness, I dreamed. Each time, I saw her face, slack in death, turn toward me as I stood paralyzed beside the crushed car. I saw her eyes open. She smiled at me with teeth covered in blood. And she said only one thing, a question really, a word that said so much and yet so little.

"Sweetheart?"

And in those moments after the funeral, after I knew all there was to know, and I spent my nights flying over the accident scene in my dreams, standing on the roof of the SUV as the truck bore down on my wife, I could hear her asking again and again, in that last second before the impact, the question for which I had no answer.

Sweetheart?

Where the fog took me after I stepped into its embrace, I do not know. All I know is that I found myself hovering over that intersection again... a place I had not been in my dreams in months, its place supplanted in my mind by the new nightmares of loss and fire.