That Boy

“I will.”

I ask, “What? What's wrong?” I'm worried because whatever his dad said didn't sound like good news. I wonder if there was a terrorist attack or something equally horrific.

Phillip takes a deep breath, like what he has to tell me is so very bad.

“Your parents were in a serious car accident.” He blows out a big breath. “They are being life flighted to University hospital. My parents were following them home when it happened. They'll meet us there.”

“What?”

Phillip flies out of the car and quickly shuts off the gas pump. We leave the Gas Stop fast, and he's already speeding by the time we hit the viaduct going out of town.

I look at his speedometer and then at him, with a what are you doing look.

Phillip never speeds.

Reading my mind, he says, “I know I'm going a bit fast, but Dad said to hurry.”

That can't be good, can it? My world feels like it's slipping out from underneath me, and to top it off, Phillip is mad at me. That's fine. I'm mad at him too. But at the same time, I'm glad he's here. This is scaring me.

Because Life Flighted?

That's bad, isn't it?

Just as we climb the hill and go speeding by the high school, a police car's lights come flashing on behind us.

“Shit! We don't have time for this.”

“What do you mean, Phillip? How bad is it? Phillip?”

He pulls over and rolls down his window. Then he turns to me. “Bad. Really bad.”

“Bad as in broken bones? A bit smashed up? Paralysis, coma?” I pause and think, oh my God, “Or like dying bad?”

“I don't know.”

The officer walks up to the window and shines his flashlight in our eyes.

“JJ?” the policeman asks. I hold my hand in front of my squinting eyes, trying to see whose face the familiar voice is coming from.

Phillip says to the officer, “You know, JJ?”

“Sure. Went to high school with her dad. Still play wiffle ball together.”

Phillip looks up to the roof of his car and mutters, “Thank you.”

Then in a very businesslike tone, he tells the officer, “Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds were in a bad car accident and are being air lifted to the hospital. I was told to try to get JJ there. FAST.”

“Not the accident that has the interstate shut down?”

“Um.” Phillip gulps. “Yeah.”

“Damn. Leave your car here and come with me,” Officer Myers tells Phillip. “I'll get you there.”

“Come on,” Phillip says, pulling me out of his car and putting me into the squad car next to him.

“Is there anything you're not telling me?”

He tells me that everything will be okay, but his body language is sending out an entirely different message. He is way tense. I can tell that he is biting down hard on his back teeth. It's making his jaw look very stiff. I can't tell if it is because the accident was a bad one, or if it's because he is so mad that he hates me now and can't even stand to speak to me.

“Let's just get there,” he says, not really answering my question.

Officer Myers, who I do recognize now that he's not blinding me with his flashlight, does play wiffle ball with my dad. I think his first name starts with a J, like John or James, but everyone calls him Cookie. Don't know where they come up with these nicknames. Everyone that lives in a small town, the guys that play wiffle ball on Sundays, in particular, seem to have them. I think I remember hearing they call him Cookie because in like fifth grade, he stole the neighbor girl's boxes of Girl Scout cookies and ate them all.

I don't know why I'm thinking about all this. I feel bizarre. I have tons of adrenaline rushing through my body. Part of me feels like I could jump the tallest building or run faster to the med center, but the other part of me feels numb. Like I can't move. Like I'm paralyzed.

The police car goes fast, the lights flash and the siren blares. I usually hate hearing sirens. They have always kind of scared me, but for some reason, maybe because it never stops, it's almost comforting.

I pray the whole way there.

Please let them be okay. Whooh, whooh, whooh. Please let them be okay. Whooh, whooh, whooh. Please let them be okay.

It's like the siren and my prayer have a sort of rhythm.

I close my eyes. Maybe I'm having a bad dream. Maybe this whole fucked up night is just some bad, horrible, messed up dream.

I will myself to wake up. I slowly open my eyes, only to see Phillip staring out of a police car window with a scared and numb look on his face.

So it's not a dream.

Okay. I need to mentally prepare myself. Be rational. Whatever this is, I can handle it. Obviously, they are hurt badly if they are being air lifted. But lots of people get better after bad car wrecks. You see it on ER all the time. Broken bones heal, scars can be fixed.

They are going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine.

I see the hospital up ahead. We're almost there. I feel a hand on my shoulder, so I lean my head toward it and touch my cheek to it. I take a long, slow breath and feel myself relax. I feel comforted. As we pull up to the emergency entrance, I put my hand up to my shoulder for more reassurance, but my hand only touches my fuzzy sweater.

That's weird. For a minute, I thought it was Mom's hand I touched. She always holds my shoulder like that. But I shake my head at that thought because, duh, she's obviously not here.

I hear Phillip tell Cookie, “Thanks for the ride.”

Shit. Here we go.

We get out of the car and walk thru the emergency room doors. I see Phillip's dad right away. He's pacing, waiting for us, and he doesn't look so good. Truthfully, he looks terrible, like he's been crying. His shirt's untucked and dirty, his hair's a mess and, OH GOD, it's not dirt, it's blood all over his shirt.

He was there, I remember.

“How are they?” I ask immediately, as he takes my hands in his.

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, opens them and says somberly, “JJ honey, your mom didn't make it.”

Didn't make what?

OH.

GOD NO!

That can't possibly be.

THERE'S GOT TO BE SOME KIND OF MISTAKE!!!!!!!!!!!!

But I don't have time to think because he drags me down the hall, “Come on. Hurry. You need to see your dad. He's been asking for you.”

We're riding up the elevators to Intensive Care when he adds, “He's not doing well, JJ.”

I ca

He rushes me into ICU and lets the nurse know I'm here. She leads us to Dad's room.

Oh my.

All my self-talk in the police car did nothing to prepare me for this.

SHIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Saying Dad doesn't look good is a major understatement. He looks, well, like he's going to die, and I am instantly petrified. His head is wrapped in bloody bandages. The majority of his face looks swollen and bruised. There are tubes and wires hooked up to him everywhere, and the room is filled with all sorts of beeping monitors.

Part of me thinks this can't possibly be my dad.

I mean Dad is big and strong.

He's invincible. My very own superhero.

I can't handle seeing him like this. He looks........helpless.

I stand frozen in shock in the doorway. I am totally unable to move. Mr. Mac puts his palm across my lower back and gently guides me closer to Dad's bed. Then he turns and walks out of the room.

I stand there and stare at Dad for a minute, not quite sure what to do.

“Daddy?” I finally say.

Dad slowly blinks open his eyes and looks at me.

He's okay! He's awake!

I grab his hand and pull it up to my cheek. I feel relief. It's going to be okay. He and I, well, I don't know what we are going to do without Mom, but at least he's okay.

I close my eyes and feel warmth go through me as his hand touches my face, even though his fingers feel cold.