After the service, we stood outside. The guy broke down in a way that made me ashamed. He tried to hold my hand. I told him, please, to not do that. I told him, please, to go away. I wanted to be alone, I told him. I didn’t want to be touched, I told him. I walked to behind the church. I know I should have been nicer to him. But the holidays were over. There was too much snow on the ground. And I had a thought. I thought, You don’t know when your last snowfall is. It was such a fucking stupid thought.
But this was the shift, if you’re looking for one. I was leaning against the back of the church. I was saying words that sounded like prayer. I was saying words that sounded like fuck and help.
And I heard a plane. And my brain said duck. My brain said now and now and now. There was a lot going on. There was snow, and there was the sound of snow. The moon was out when it shouldn’t have been. The moon seemed close enough to touch. And there was the guy in the way of the moon. He said to get up. But I couldn’t get up. And he said, Get up.
A mechanic looked at my tires. Someone doesn’t like you, he said. But it was a miracle, he said, that I’d made it there. I agreed it was a miracle. It was a miracle, driving on two slashed tires. A miracle had pushed me hard through the snow. The mechanic told me to wait in a room. There was tinsel on the floor. There was a fake tree in the corner. There was the smell of oil and the smell of smoke. And the snow was really coming down. And the mechanic was beautiful, with black beneath every nail.
I could clearly see the scene on the ground. And if I had been someone else, I might have been putting out fires. I might have been pulling bodies out from the wreckage. I might have felt heroic, diving headfirst into the mess. And if I had been someone else, I might have been a body in the mess. I might have been a body pulled from the wreckage. Instead of a body on a couch. Then in a car. Then on a bed. Instead of a body starting something it would have to stop.
I could clearly see the scene on the ground. But I couldn’t see the scene inside the plane.
At dinner, I asked my father why things were the way they were. And my father said, Not my fault. Because it wasn’t my father’s fault, the world. He was too small to take the blame. He was only a person, for God’s sake. It was no one person’s fault, the world. Nothing that small was ever to blame for something that big. I said, Then whose fault is it. And he said, Not mine.
I often imagined crossing the tightrope. I knew to stare straight to the other side. I knew to hold the stick steady. I knew to force the crowd to be silent. And then, when I reached the other side, I knew to force it to explode.
The mechanic would keep my car overnight. I’d shredded the tires. Shredded the rims. Something was ruined underneath. He drove me home in a tow truck. I tried to think of things to say. Like something about how he chose his job. Like what, was he good at fixing things. Or did he just like cars. But it was such a terrible-feeling day. I wanted to tell the mechanic that. But I hardly knew the mechanic. And I hardly knew the girl.
If I were someone else, I would make something up. I would say she and I did things together. Or we were best friends. Or we were in love. But I’ll just say I lit her cigarette once. I’ll say I was shaking as I lit it. I’ll say the fire kept going out. I’ll say it turned into a private joke. I’ll say, Enough.
I looked as the pen scratched down my arm. It had felt like a feather. Or like an ant. But I was thinking ghost. And I said, Stop. I meant, Go. I meant, Stay. I meant, God. And I stood. And he stood. And on our way out the door we crushed the pills with our boots.
I could clearly see the scene from the ground. It looked, from the ground, like meteors falling. Not like plane parts falling.
But like fire falling. I could see the town go up in flames. And I would hear its name every day for the rest of my life.
The mechanic said to have a good day. But it was already not a good day. It was already a terrible day. And I thought to invite him in. I would take his coat. I would make him tea. I would tell him about my night. That it was very good and it was very bad. That it could have been love. That it would never be love. And I would dig out the black from beneath every one of his nails.
But I sat in the tow truck for a moment longer than I should have. A song was playing on the radio. I knew the song from some other time. There were holiday lights in all of the windows. There were holiday lights in all of the trees. It was warm in the truck. And outside it would not be.
The night before, I’d slept the deepest sleep. And I waked not knowing what I was waking into. And the phone kept on ringing. Someone saying, Get up, get up. My father saying, I saved your life. My father saying, Miracle. The guy in my bed saying something.
The night before, he’d told me a story. He was half-asleep. He whispered it into my hair. It was about a time at Club Midnight. A time he was messed up and had to leave. It was snowing. It was morning. He was waiting alone for the bus. But then this woman came walking through the snow. The woman wasn’t wearing a coat. She was holding a knife. She held the knife up to his face. She said, Give me your money. But the guy had no money. And the woman said, Do you want to be killed. Then he started to fall asleep on me. And I said, How did you answer. But he’d already fallen asleep.
When I imagined falling from the tightrope, I imagined what I would pass on my way to the ground. The hats of the people in the crowd. The necks of the people in the crowd. Their shoes as I crashed as hard as I could. I imagined breaking every bone. I would lie there waiting for someone to help. And a guy would rush to save me. And the crowd would be thinking terrible thoughts. Because I fell. Because I was saved.
I picked up my car the following day. But the mechanic wasn’t there. It was another mechanic I didn’t like. He gave me my keys and walked away. I knew I was going to cry. And I didn’t know why I was going to cry. And I didn’t want to cry right there. So I went into the restroom. It was an awful room. It was the smallest room. And I didn’t want to cry in there either. So I ran water in the sink. I scrubbed my hands as hard as I could. I scrubbed my face and neck and arms. I scrubbed extra hard at the first four letters of my name. And how unsettling to see its faint bluish trace. How unsettling never to see it again.
I don’t know who slashed my tires. I sometimes think it was her. Because it happened when she was flying. I mean it happened when she was dying. She was becoming a ghost in a world of ghosts and almost-ghosts.
I sometimes think she meant it as a joke. Because she and I had a private joke once. But I mostly think it was a desperate stranger on the road.
But of course I knew her. I lied to you. Of course I lied.
This story is not about me. As it turns out, I’m just a detail. Like the sky. Like the snow. Like the car you think was real. Or the bus you think was real. Or the plane you think was real. Or the premonition that, you should know, was not.
It wasn’t technically a crash. It was technically an explosion. It was technically a lot of things. Like the end of things. Not of everything. Not to everyone.
And I would hear its name each day for the rest of my life. Every day from that point on. Fucking stupid as that is.
I stared across the table at my father. I asked again whose fault it was. My father tried not to look at me. He said, Not mine. And I said, I know. I said, But whose. And he said, Not mine. He said, Not mine. He lifted up his empty glass. He threw the glass at the wall. The glass shattered. Dinner was over. The holiday, over. It was snowing again. The roads were a mess. I put on my coat. I walked to the door. Over my dead body, my father said. Murder, he said. The roads were a wreck. But I had new tires.