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October 18, 2008

Clearing the Fog

(written for a fiction writing class--the assignment was to write a scene that resulted in a consequence.  This is based on a true incident that happened in the late 80's in our county, only a few miles from where we live.)

For her late night bike ride home, Elizabeth pulled on her hooded sweatshirt, knowing she’d need the additional warmth of an evening spent visiting with friends. A chilly fog engulfed her on the moonless night as she picked up speed along the dark country road, feeling the mist moisten her cheeks and forehead as she pedaled.  Her eyelashes gathered little droplets that she wiped away.   It was later than she had planned; everyone at home would already be in bed—as an adult living at home to save on expenses, her parents no longer waited up for her.   

The fog dampened engine noise of a car that approached from behind her, so that Elizabeth was warned primarily by the headlights that suddenly lit the road beside her.  She shifted her bike to the right and the car moved over the center line to grant plenty of space as it passed, pulled forward by the twin beams of light, plunging her back into the dark mist.  She pushed ahead a little faster, eager to reach home, a warm bed and her comfortable dreams.

She soon became aware of a faster-moving vehicle approaching from behind as its headlights lit up the road, so Elizabeth stayed off onto the shoulder to the right of the fog line.   The truck bore down with startling intensity.  There was a terrible moment of inevitability before the impact.  The blow struck her on the left as she and her bike became airborne, launched in a helpless arc to a landing in the deep drainage ditch alongside the road.  

The truck slowed briefly, swerved to the left, accelerated and disappeared into the night.

Elizabeth lifted her face out of the water flowing in dirt and gravel at the bottom of the ditch, and instant shocks of pain ran down her neck.  Her bike lay askew on top of her and she thought she could climb out of the ditch, get back on and ride away.  Yet as she struggled to move the bike,  she knew something was very wrong.  Her legs would not move, as if something heavy had landed on her, weighing her down, pulling her deeper into the ditch, pulling her away from reaching home and climbing into her soft bed. 

She tried to think through the fog of pain and disorientation, knowing she needed to get to the top to get help, concentrating on moving herself up the sloping sides of the ditch so passing cars might see her.   She moved up as far as she could by gripping clumps of grass.  Although every movement was excruciating, Elizabeth kept on trying, reaching, reaching.

As the dawn light filtered through Elizabeth’s bedroom window, her mother opened the door to wake her daughter to come down for breakfast.  The tidy bed startled, standing empty and undisturbed.  Her mother stepped back into the hallway, reaching out to grip the door sill tightly, trying to steady herself. 

                                    ********************************
His first awareness was the morning light burning a hole through his eyelids.  Joe’s head throbbed.  Nausea made him reconsider whether or not to sit up on the couch where he had collapsed the night before, unable to navigate the stairs to his bedroom. 

He slowly pulled himself upright, holding his head as if fearful it could fall off.  The room spun briefly and he gripped the arm of the couch to steady himself.  Never again.  He’d told himself this how many times after a night of drinking?  Never ever again.

Joe clung to the walls on his way to the kitchen to choke down some antacids and aspirin.  He showered and dressed for work, fighting the dizziness and nausea, noticing the shake in his hand as he poured his coffee.

It took almost twenty minutes for Joe to find his keys, thrown on the floor of his truck by the passenger seat.  As he circled around the front of his truck he was startled to see a large dent in the right front fender extending up to the hood.  He stood staring at the dent, trying to glue together the fragments of his memory from the previous night, struggling to make sense of it.  He walked around the truck, looking for other damage, finding none.   As he considered it, he thought he remembered wondering if he had hit a deer in the road on the way home, feeling an impact, but not seeing anything, and kept going.  He’d keep an eye out on his way to town, just in case.  He could use some venison in the freezer.

He drove a mile and turned onto the road heading to town, driving slower than usual.  He scanned the ditches as he drove, thinking he might spot the deer he had hit.  Up ahead a half mile, Joe saw a cluster of vehicles pulled off on the shoulder, some with flashing lights.  Approaching, he was waved through a maze of sheriff cars and he strained to look at what was going on, but could only see a bicycle lying crumpled on the shoulder.  He continued to town, troubled, but not so much that the fog of his hangover cleared.  He managed to put in a work day at his desk, his body aching, hands trembling, the sweat beading up on his face. 

As Joe drove home that evening, he listened to the local news on the radio learning a young woman had been hit on her bike on the road he drives every day.  She had been knocked by the impact into the deep ditch, her spine broken, her spleen ruptured and bleeding, and that she had died while trying to climb out for help.  The medical examiner estimated she lived an hour or so after the accident. The sheriff’s office was seeking any information from possible witnesses.

The fog had cleared by the time Joe pulled into his driveway.  He was taking breaths in gulps,  trying to compose himself as he walked into the house and sat down.  His hand shaking, he reached for the phone.