It was early morning when I attempted to cross the busy road next to my building on foot. I was exhausted, but sleeping in wasn’t an option. I had chores to do and my rescued kittens to tend to at the Old Woman’s house down the street on the other side. This was my morning routine for the last seven years. I had long since foregone any sense of vanity and typically shuffled my way there in slippers and pajamas, knocking back a Diet Coke en route. But as I approached the curb, I quickly noticed this was not a typical day.
Darting through four lanes of morning drivers rushing to get to work was like a game of human Frogger. I ran the risk of getting squished the moment I stepped into the street. But this morning, my risk was cut in half. While the two Northbound lanes were chaotic as usual, the two Southbound lanes were diverted to the entrance of the alley between the main drag and the back of my building that led to another outlet, circumventing an accident in between.
As I safely crossed to the median and waited for a break in passing cars, I looked toward the accident site. A police car had blocked the street. There was a cement truck in the right lane and a flurry of people moving erratically on the other side of the roadblock. Must have just happened, I thought. It was too far away to see details, but I couldn’t pull my gaze from it as a feeling of dread gnawed at my stomach. A car flew past me unnecessarily close, pulling me back to my objective of crossing the street. Once on the other side, my mind redirected, prioritizing the long list of chores waiting for me.
An hour and a half later, responsibilities fulfilled, I returned to the main street. Morning rush hour was over, making it far less treacherous to cross. The Southbound traffic was still diverted down the alley, but by this time, a traffic officer had appeared. Without the threat of being mowed down, my attention focused on the scene of the accident. I was oddly drawn to it. The coroner’s van and several more police cars had arrived, and a white tent had been erected. The churning in my gut returned.
I had seen enough CSI episodes to know the tent was there to preserve the crime scene and prevent curious bystanders from ogling a dead body. “What happened?” I asked the traffic officer as I stepped onto the curb.
“Accident,” he said. “Cement truck versus a motorcycle. Cement truck won.” He smirked as if he expected me to chuckle at his banter.
Jesus Christ. As desensitized to the macabre as I had become, I suddenly felt an unfamiliar emotional encumbrance of the fatal calamity. My chest grew tight as if I was having an asthma attack, but I could breathe freely. My neighbor drives a Vespa, I remembered as I entered my building’s property. Those are clearly two different things. Despite the obvious differences, I found myself knocking on my neighbor’s apartment door. He didn’t answer.
The initial twinge of dread expanded and enveloped me, clinging to my skin like the pungent humidity before a looming storm. Impulsively, I grabbed my phone and went through my contacts, looking for his phone number. I knew I had it at some point, but it wasn’t there. Probably bounced out when I dropped it one of the few dozen times. Instead, I found his wife Laura’s number.
After a few rings, it went to voicemail. I cringed as I heard the words coming out of my mouth about the accident, my weird feeling, and checking in to make sure her husband was okay. And if they didn’t think I was weird already…. I concluded the message with a laugh and “I’ll see you guys later.” Despite how sheepish I felt after leaving such a peculiar message, the weight didn’t lift. It stayed with me for the rest of the day.
Late in the afternoon, an unknown number appeared on my cell phone as it rang, sending a prickly twinge to the back of my neck. I answered it. “Hey, I saw that you called Laura earlier…” My neighbor’s voice trailed off.
Nervous relief forced a laugh over my lips and into my phone as I gushed through the reason for my call and what the traffic officer said about the cement truck. “But, obviously, you’re okay.” I expected him to laugh the type of laugh I usually got after saying something strange or bizarre. Instead, I was met with an odd silence.
“We were in that accident. My scooter went down. Laura fell under the tire of the truck and was killed.”
I listened in stunned silence as he offered other details. He was also injured; a car ran over his leg, and he had gotten out of surgery a little while ago. Laura’s personal items had been brought to him, and he saw my name in the call log on her phone.
Several days went by, and the heaviness that initially burdened me didn’t lift. Instead, it shifted and redistributed its weight to integrate sadness. Whether it was a hello and goodbye in passing or a quick chat about something, I had grown accustomed to her smile and bright eyes being part of my days for the past five years. Memories of our daily interactions were irrevocably replaced with the violence of her death.
I was coming back from the laundry room. As I approached my stairwell, I heard the resonating metal SLAM of the front gate. I glanced in that direction as I stepped up onto the first step. I caught a glimpse of Laura coming around the corner, leaning to the right to avoid the overgrown Birds of Paradise. Our eyes met, and hers sparkled like diamonds as she smiled. I smiled back as I continued upstairs.
My foot barely touched the third step when I froze. Wait. What?! I spun around and nearly fell down the two steps in my haste. My eyes searched the large fan-like leaves encroaching the walkway, but Laura wasn’t there. I stared at the open space between the leaves and the wood fence, hoping she’d come back. My young neighbor rounded the corner and stopped when he saw me.
“You okay?” He asked, concern on his face.
It was only then that I realized I was holding my breath. “Yeah. I’m fine,” I said, fighting back tears. I raced up the stairs and into my apartment. I stood in my living room, trying to process what I saw clear as day, contemplating my sanity. I pulled in a deep breath and slowly exhaled, which ended in a soft chuckle. The heaviness had evaporated so quickly I felt lightheaded. I smiled, embracing her gift. “Thank you,” I whispered.
One Story at a Time 