68 Jenson
I drove away, watching the young man at the top of the steps in the rearview mirror. He seemed like such a nice boy. Heck, it was silly to call him a boy, but that’s what he was to me. A boy. Both he and the other guy were both such nice young men.
As I watched him standing there waving to me, I just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Not just regular wrong, but really wrong. My hackles had been up all morning. It could’ve been the low clouds. It could’ve been the unsettling quiet. Heck, it could’ve been all in my head. But I didn’t think it was.
As I turned left at the end of the street, I thought back to the one other time that I’d had the feeling that something was wrong.
It had started out a beautiful day. There was a cloudless blue sky, a gentle breeze, and the air was thick with the smell of grease and gasoline.
I was a newlywed young man, working at a roadside gas station located smack dab in the middle of nowhere. I was working on the engine of an old car, doing whatever I could to push aside that awful feeling of wrongness. I’d skipped breakfast because it was impossible to put food into the twisted knot that was once my stomach. I was later thankful for missing the meal.
With my head under the hood, I hadn’t seen it coming. I’d counted my blessings many times throughout the years, and missing this occurrence was always on the list.
The feeling of something being wrong swelled up in me until it was all I could do to breathe around it. I remember dropping the tool I’d held in my hand, and at the same time, hearing the screeching of tires and the sound of a woman screaming. Immediately following the scream was a solid and heart-wrenching thud. After the thud, came the sound of glass shattering and metal bending and breaking.
I jerked my head out from under the hood of the car and without even thinking, began running. I ran toward the source of the sound even before my eyes had found it. I took in the situation as my legs carried me toward it.
The van had hit the woman, who was presumably hitchhiking, and veered off the road and flipped. It landed on its roof. The woman was lying on the highway. I went to her first. She was dead. I’d considered trying to save her, but I knew that there would be no way I could help her. Blood poured from her mouth and nose, her legs and arms all lay in the most awkward angles, undoubtedly broken, and her head was gushing dark red blood, creating a sickening pool on the blacktop highway.
No matter what I did, I couldn’t save her. She was gone.
Suddenly aware of the sound of someone crying, I hurried to the van.
I wished I’d kept my head under the hood of the car. Had I done so, I could’ve spent the rest of my life only imagining the horrors I might’ve seen, and even then, I couldn’t have imagined anything anywhere near as horrible as what I actually saw. This was the foundation of all future nightmares for me. I’d seen this scene many nights since, while I slept. It was always the same, and I always woke up crying.
As I approached the wreckage, I saw the small legs of a child poking out from under the van. Knowing it was futile, I struggled to lift the van from the child. Many times I tried, and many times I failed. I couldn’t budge the heavy vehicle. The crying was turning to shrieks, reminding me to move forward. Even if I could remove the van, the child was surely no longer of this world.
I had to get on the ground and crawl through a window to get inside. I crawled through broken glass and rocks and blood to get to the crying woman. She was lying on the roof, looking toward the back of the van. I followed her gaze and saw what held her attention.
A baby lay on the roof, still wrapped in a blanket, drenched in blood. The baby didn’t move.
I turned my attention back to the woman. Her wounds didn’t seem too severe, but upon further inspection, I noticed they were worse than I’d thought.
She didn’t move. Not one muscle moved. I asked her if she could move anything. She said no. I asked her if she could feel anything. She said no. I knew then that something was very wrong, most likely a broken neck. Her breathing was raspy, making it sound as though her lungs were filling with fluid. Most likely blood.
I felt sick. It wasn’t the sight of all the blood. It wasn’t even the smell of the blood. It was the helplessness. There was nothing I could do to help any of these people.
I stayed with her until she took her final, raspy breath. Then, I crawled out of the van. Once free from the wreckage, I found I didn’t have the strength to stand. I just lay there, face down in the dirt, and cried. I cried until my ribs ached and my throat burned.
In the years since, I’d often wondered if I’d paid more attention to that feeling, would I have been able to save any of those people. I knew that there was no way I could’ve done anything any differently. I hadn’t known what the feeling meant. I hadn’t known what was going to happen. But the guilt was there just the same.
I looked at my hands as they clenched the steering wheel. The scars weren’t as prominent as they once were, but they were still there. Reminders of a horrible day so long ago when I’d been plagued by the very same feeling I carried with me today.
My mind raced. I knew the feeling this time. I understood what it meant. But where was the danger? What was the danger? Maybe I should’ve stayed home. However, if the danger was at my house, it was wise to have left. Or if the danger was somewhere along my path, maybe I could be of some use this time.
I didn’t know what to do, so I went on with my day as usual. But I couldn’t shake the feeling. I wasn’t even going to try. I was going to pay more attention than usual to everything around me. I was going to do my best to be ready this time for whatever came my way.
69 Jill
I was ashamed of myself for being such a coward. Sure, I had the guts to sit in the parking lot for over an hour, but I didn’t have the guts to go inside the police station and tell them about the flowers and the threatening card Bernie had left for me.
The truth was I wasn’t sure what I should do. I knew Carla hadn’t wanted any cops involved, but this wasn’t about her. This was about me. If I went to the cops, they would know about Carla. They had to be told in order for them to know the severity of the situation. Besides that, what if what happened to Carla’s mother happened to me? I knew the chances of that happening were slim, but it was still possible. I couldn’t take the chance.
I decided to talk to Andy before doing anything. I drove home. I couldn’t ignore the shaking of my hands on the wheel. I took deep breaths to keep calm, which somewhat managed to work. I had no remedy for the knot in my stomach.
I pulled into the driveway and turned off the car. My heart was racing. Andy was home! I couldn’t wait to talk to him.
I jumped out of the car, leaving the flowers and the note behind, and ran into the house, yelling his name as I went.
He didn’t answer.
I went room to room searching for him, continuing to call out to him, but he still didn’t answer.
He must be at Owen’s.
I grabbed my surprise for him from my purse and bolted out the door, gave Bernie’s house a quick glance as I flew down the steps, and ran next door.
I didn’t knock. I didn’t ring the doorbell. I just went inside. This was unlike me, but I couldn’t help it. I was dying to tell Andy my news. Our news. The news I’d been trying to tell him, but never having the appropriate time.
I wouldn’t be stopped this time. I couldn’t wait any longer. And now I also had to tell him about the threat from Bernie.