The car had been hovering close to empty for the last 30 miles or so. I don't know why I didn't fill it up at the last station, or the one we'd stopped at just half an hour before it. The only reason we'd made those stops was to get food. In a trip that should have taken only about two and a half hours, we'd stopped for food four times already, lengthening the drive to three hours with 50 miles yet to go. It didn't really matter that we'd eaten right before leaving, either. Eat lunch, eat dessert. Stop at gas station for a snack, stop again half an hour later. This was not hunger. This was the fact that none of us was in any kind of hurry to get there. That, and grief makes you want to eat. And eat and eat. Considering I couldn't have told you what I'd eaten for any meal the previous week, or whether or not I'd eaten at all or what I'd done on any given day other than stumble out of bed at some point and open a bottle of wine maybe this was a good thing. The pump had already clicked off one, maybe ten minutes before. I felt a gentle tap on the shoulder. "I think we're set to go". I blinked. It took a minute before that sunk in. "Sure. Yeah." It was getting dark and we still had to check into the hotel. "I think we should probably try and drive all the way through at this point." I said, getting into the car. A few somber nods showed that we were all in agreement.
A little less than an hour later and I was driving through the twisted highway entrance to Duluth. To the right was Lake Superior, shining in the dark with the reflection of the lights from the harbor and the city bluffs ahead. Our ears popped as I drove through a higher altitude into the city. I looked in the rearview mirror and watched my friend wiping tears away as she stared out the window. I wasn't ready to face this. You would think that having the support of three other people who had just suffered the same loss as you would be strengthening. But it wasn't. It was very, very lonely.
We planned on staying a couple of days. All of us grew up here and it was likely that other friends we hadn't seen in a very long time would be here. A strange reunion it was. Most of us had known each other since grade school, but many had taken their graduation freedom and scattered as quickly as possible. Some had moved to the cities. I know at least one couple who had gotten married right after high school split and moved to England as soon as they could get their papers together. Some had stayed to start families or continue working for their family businesses. It was strange to think that many of the people I'd known almost my entire life until that point had just….disappeared. People can just do that, you know. Disappear on you. You can be talking to them on the phone one day and the next….gone. No warning.
I opened the bottle of whiskey I'd brought with me. One of the bottles I'd brought with me. For three days and two nights, we'd practically cleaned out a corner of the liquor store. We almost had to leave some of the luggage behind in the parking lot to fit it all in the trunk. I decided to at least start the night with a little civility and pulled one of the little hotel cups out of its plastic wrap. I didn't bother to measure. I wasn't feeling that civil. I dug my laptop out and opened it. There must be some kind of news by now. It had been a week already since the accident but when I checked before we left, there were still no leads on the person responsible. I'd probably typed "hit and run, pedestrian, Duluth" into the Google search bar about a million times already this week. No one saw it. No one got there until about two hours after it happened. No one knew whether or not she could have survived if help had gotten there sooner. No one knew why she didn't have her cell phone or why she'd chosen the most remote road possible or why she wanted to train for a marathon in the first place or why the car couldn't have just stopped. There were no answers to these things. There probably wouldn't be for a very long time.
We stayed up until three in the morning, talking and reminiscing. I don't remember it all, even if I didn't really feel that three quarters of that bottle either. The funeral was at nine. I wasn't ready for it. I thought about backing out. I thought about my friend. I thought about running along the beach, about daring each other to jump in the lake each spring. I thought about the hours we'd spend under blankets in the sand, talking about relationships, music, the stupid books we both liked to read. I thought about getting in trouble when we never came home on time. I thought about how we hadn't talked nearly as often as we should have in the last year or so. I slept. I woke up. She did not.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
The Waiting Room
The woman sat in the waiting room, avoiding the eyes of the other female patients around her. Her parents had sent her here to recover after the baby was born. She hadn't met him. They'd told her it was best for her to be unconscious during the delivery, and had taken him away before she'd been woken up. Her room here was small and they insisted she visit with doctors and take medication every day. She wanted to sleep all the time. It had only been two months, or so she thought, since the father had left to go overseas. After finding out her condition, her parents barred the two from speaking to each other. Ever since the birth and the room and the new pills, her perception of time and reality had started to shift but she could still remember a few things very clearly. Like the night she'd spilled the secret. Her mother screamed and wept while her father sat at the table in silent anger. Then the punishment came. There would be no more visits, no more time together, no more planning for the future. No more secret notes left under the porch at night. And later, no waiting for the mail to be delivered, no hope for news of homecoming or letters of love and commitment like so many of her girlfriends received every few weeks. It was a mistake that neither of them in a million years thought was possible. They tried to hide it at first. He promised her that he'd find them a home so they could start a family together. They lived in California-he had steady work and the war effort was calling for women to pitch in too so if need be, she could get a factory job. They'd form a little family together and work toward building the country and doing their part to fight the war on the home front. But then his papers came. She remembered that feeling too. The desperation of knowing there was no way she could do this alone, and the reality that if she abandoned her parents, he would be her only support in the world. And there was a chance he would not make it home. So she tried the only thing she had left-begging for their understanding and forgiveness. They agreed to raise the child as though he was theirs under the condition that she receive help for her "mental illness" and never speak of him as her own. They signed her up for a program in one of the city hospitals. If she agreed to be a part of a small, inconsequential medical experiment that was to take place after the birth of her son, she would receive a stipend from them. Her parents were not wealthy, and knowing the burden she'd already placed on them, she agreed to it.
The doctor had spoken with her parents separately. "People like her" he'd said, "they need guidance. An act like this speaks volumes about her mental state. It would be best for you to let her live here. We have the facilities to take care of her mental and physical needs. We also have ways of making sure nothing like this happens again. Its part of a new wave of psychological treatment. She'll be receiving the best and most advanced care available."
The door to the waiting room opened. In walked a man with 20 or so others in tow, all women. Many wore dirty or tattered clothing and a few were accompanied by children. Some looked Native, others were from the Japanese neighborhood nearby. Perhaps they were here for a new vaccine of some sort. She had always been fascinated by medicine. The idea of curing diseases and nursing the sick back to health had appealed to her since she was a child. She remembered the nuns in charge of the school infirmary and how they'd administer remedies for colds or headaches. The feeling of comfort, of being cared for (even with the looks of disapproval she'd sometimes get after an ill advised adventure left her with a badly scraped knee or elbow) she wanted to give that to others. She'd even thought of going to school so she could enlist as a nurse. That was another memory she'd kept clear. She'd brought this plan up to her father thinking there was no way he would ever approve something like that for his only daughter and youngest child. But his reaction was not what she'd expected. Briefly. his eyes had brightened at the thought of his daughter wanting to do such a thing for her country. In that moment, she'd glimpsed at a possibility-that she may have a future in which freedom to do what she wanted was accompanied by a blessing from her father. But then he'd changed his mind. "War is men's work. We suffer the scars of battle so women can remain safe at home." That was the end of the discussion.
One of the women who had been ushered in with the large group moved to the empty chair next to her. "Do you know why they brought us here?" It felt like she was underwater. She shook her head-no. "Me neither." She couldn't have been older than 19. Dark hair in curls to her shoulders, brown eyes. Jewish, the woman thought. "They've been coming to my neighborhood almost weekly now." The previous day, they'd gone around to a few nearby neighborhoods, asking each of the women where they came from, who their parents had been and what they do. The ones who answered were asked if they'd like to participate in a a new medical program. They were offered a small stipend and promised that they would be brought back in no time to go back to work or their homes. They were given until the next day to go home and discuss it with their families. Most of them came back. Some of them didn't speak English, so one who acted as a translator was asked to tell these women that a mandatory test was being given for a typhus vaccine, and that they were to report immediately the next morning to the town hall. Now they sat silently with each other in this room. The woman picked up a pamphlet. "Pasadena Human Betterment Foundation." She'd read it before. It was the day she'd been outside her doctor's office, waiting for her weekly appointment.
She'd overheard bits and pieces of a conversation that day. She guessed they were talking about medicine, and she'd leaned close to the door with curiosity. They were carrying out medical experiments in Europe. Her doctor had gone to Yale for his education and two of his fellow classmates had been given a large amount of money from a prominent corporation years before, and had moved overseas to continue this work. One of them had been employed at a camp in Poland, doing experimental genetic work with twins. "The Germans have taken our ideas and put them to work. Support for this in America is waning, but we cannot give up what we've started. Too many of us have dedicated our lives to this work. We must insure our genetic future by eradicating the weakest among us today." Vaccines, she'd thought. They must be talking about vaccines.
The door opened and a nurse beckoned the two women sitting closest to the hallway. One of them had her child with her. "Don't worry, we have a childcare facility. They'll be well taken care of during the procedure and your recovery." She leaned down and held her child for a moment before allowing a second nurse to lead him down another hallway.
The doctor removed his glasses and leaned back in his chair. The morning's paper sat on his desk, untouched as he had been inundated with letters and new research information immediately upon arriving to work. He'd read the headline-The US involvement in the war was escalating in Europe now that the draft had been reinstated. But he had to focus on his work. New ideas, new thoughts on how to better the human race that had been born in the American medical community in the decades before were being put to use overseas. How great it was to think that a generation from now, the malaise of the human race could be eradicated and his name would be there, next to the great leaders in medical innovation. Perhaps, he thought, a Nobel prize was not out of his reach.
The doctor had spoken with her parents separately. "People like her" he'd said, "they need guidance. An act like this speaks volumes about her mental state. It would be best for you to let her live here. We have the facilities to take care of her mental and physical needs. We also have ways of making sure nothing like this happens again. Its part of a new wave of psychological treatment. She'll be receiving the best and most advanced care available."
The door to the waiting room opened. In walked a man with 20 or so others in tow, all women. Many wore dirty or tattered clothing and a few were accompanied by children. Some looked Native, others were from the Japanese neighborhood nearby. Perhaps they were here for a new vaccine of some sort. She had always been fascinated by medicine. The idea of curing diseases and nursing the sick back to health had appealed to her since she was a child. She remembered the nuns in charge of the school infirmary and how they'd administer remedies for colds or headaches. The feeling of comfort, of being cared for (even with the looks of disapproval she'd sometimes get after an ill advised adventure left her with a badly scraped knee or elbow) she wanted to give that to others. She'd even thought of going to school so she could enlist as a nurse. That was another memory she'd kept clear. She'd brought this plan up to her father thinking there was no way he would ever approve something like that for his only daughter and youngest child. But his reaction was not what she'd expected. Briefly. his eyes had brightened at the thought of his daughter wanting to do such a thing for her country. In that moment, she'd glimpsed at a possibility-that she may have a future in which freedom to do what she wanted was accompanied by a blessing from her father. But then he'd changed his mind. "War is men's work. We suffer the scars of battle so women can remain safe at home." That was the end of the discussion.
One of the women who had been ushered in with the large group moved to the empty chair next to her. "Do you know why they brought us here?" It felt like she was underwater. She shook her head-no. "Me neither." She couldn't have been older than 19. Dark hair in curls to her shoulders, brown eyes. Jewish, the woman thought. "They've been coming to my neighborhood almost weekly now." The previous day, they'd gone around to a few nearby neighborhoods, asking each of the women where they came from, who their parents had been and what they do. The ones who answered were asked if they'd like to participate in a a new medical program. They were offered a small stipend and promised that they would be brought back in no time to go back to work or their homes. They were given until the next day to go home and discuss it with their families. Most of them came back. Some of them didn't speak English, so one who acted as a translator was asked to tell these women that a mandatory test was being given for a typhus vaccine, and that they were to report immediately the next morning to the town hall. Now they sat silently with each other in this room. The woman picked up a pamphlet. "Pasadena Human Betterment Foundation." She'd read it before. It was the day she'd been outside her doctor's office, waiting for her weekly appointment.
She'd overheard bits and pieces of a conversation that day. She guessed they were talking about medicine, and she'd leaned close to the door with curiosity. They were carrying out medical experiments in Europe. Her doctor had gone to Yale for his education and two of his fellow classmates had been given a large amount of money from a prominent corporation years before, and had moved overseas to continue this work. One of them had been employed at a camp in Poland, doing experimental genetic work with twins. "The Germans have taken our ideas and put them to work. Support for this in America is waning, but we cannot give up what we've started. Too many of us have dedicated our lives to this work. We must insure our genetic future by eradicating the weakest among us today." Vaccines, she'd thought. They must be talking about vaccines.
The door opened and a nurse beckoned the two women sitting closest to the hallway. One of them had her child with her. "Don't worry, we have a childcare facility. They'll be well taken care of during the procedure and your recovery." She leaned down and held her child for a moment before allowing a second nurse to lead him down another hallway.
The doctor removed his glasses and leaned back in his chair. The morning's paper sat on his desk, untouched as he had been inundated with letters and new research information immediately upon arriving to work. He'd read the headline-The US involvement in the war was escalating in Europe now that the draft had been reinstated. But he had to focus on his work. New ideas, new thoughts on how to better the human race that had been born in the American medical community in the decades before were being put to use overseas. How great it was to think that a generation from now, the malaise of the human race could be eradicated and his name would be there, next to the great leaders in medical innovation. Perhaps, he thought, a Nobel prize was not out of his reach.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Chevrolet
I'd purchased the car used about seven, maybe eight months prior. A good solid car for the commute I'd agreed to every day. I walked onto the lot looking for something simple-an American made large sedan of some sort. Nothing fancy. Just reliable. I'd joked that I wanted to be able to fall asleep at the wheel and be perfectly safe while the car rolled itself into a ditch and waited for me to be done with my nap. This was a month after I'd started the job. Now here I was, on the side of 35W with a mangled front bumper, a windshield that was shattered to bits and a doe, bleeding and broken and still breathing on the side of the road. I'd had some time. Enough to see the fawn run out too. But not enough to brake at the speed I was going. So I'd hit her going 90, maybe 95. But she was still breathing. All I could think to do was to sit down next to her and wait for help.
It was only supposed to be temporary, this job. A two hour commute each way seemed worth it when I considered that the pay was more than enough to support the family and my wife's tuition. Of course, that was supposed to be temporary too. I remember the day the acceptance letter came for a school half the country away that she'd never discussed applying to. She sat me down and begged me to let her have this once in a lifetime opportunity. Two years while she completed her grad program in California, then we could move back to Minnesota or wherever we'd like. I used her as an excuse at the time-the kid. A move would mean she'd start kindergarten while we were there then have to switch schools right away. It was crap, I know. She would have been fine. *I* didn't want to move. Just....didn't want to. So we agreed to live separately. Phone calls every day, letters, email, Skype, all that. It worked for about six months. Then the phone calls stopped. The responses stopped. The letter came shortly after. She'd met someone else. Someone who was "willing to work with her to advance her career". Someone who "didn't tie her down with responsibilities". Someone who "wasn't so wrapped up in himself that he couldn't make sacrifices for the sake of their relationship". A short time it had taken her to gather all this about him.
The doe stirred. Her eyes were wide, the whites almost completely visible. The creature wasn't quite there anymore, but her body wasn't ready to give up. I could see the fawn in the woods-still, silent and laying behind a bush about ten feet to the right. At least, I'm pretty sure that's who it was. It was dark and all I could see when I shone the flashlight behind me were two gigantic eyes hiding, waiting. The fawn was too young. There was no chance of her survival if she didn't stay put long enough to be caught. I put the flashlight down. I didn't want to frighten her away.
It was late, but that's fine. Her grandmother took her during the day while I was gone. I usually didn't pick her up until nine or ten, sometimes later if it was a happy hour night. I needed that time, you know? And its not like she missed me. She was usually asleep when I picked her up anyway. Her grandmother was becoming an issue. Always sharing her opinion about my parenting. And now she'd given her crayons and paper to draw "her feelings" on. Little boxes that looked like people, or houses or trees or the dog. Boxes scattered everywhere-one box with long lines of yellow on top of its head, always to the left of the page. We showed her on a map once where her mother's school was. I hope that's all she's picked up about the situation so far. She'd left one in the backseat of the car last night. Four boxes. One with a tail, one with a roof, one little one and one with curly gray tufts and what looked like glasses. I crumpled it up and threw it in the backseat trash bag with the wrappers and old coffee cups. I can only imagine the off handed remarks from her grandmother that led to that little, limited "family portrait". I'm not the one who left. I'm not the one who abandoned a whole life and my own child for my "career advancement". I'm the one who took a shitty job with a terrible commute to try and support us. And now I'm the one sitting on the side of the highway with a broken car, a dying animal and no way to fix any of it.
Her breathing had finally stopped. I closed my eyes briefly. I'd never seen this before. The death of an animal. I remember staying home with the baby when she was two weeks old while my wife took our 18-year-old cat to be put down. She was the only one of us in the room with the vet while her life left her little body. She'd come home sniffling with red, puffy eyes and locked herself in the bedroom for the next couple hours. We were the ones responsible. Her for choosing when the cat would die, me for ending this deer's life. I put my hand on her head and waited until I heard the sirens in the distance. The trooper pulled up a few feet behind the deer, got out of the car and removed his hat. "Looks like a rough scene". I nodded. He filed his report quickly. It was pretty obvious what had happened. "Common for this time of year". I told him about the fawn and he pointed the beam of his flashlight behind us into the woods. He scanned about ten feet in each direction but there was nothing to be seen. We walked up and down the road with our lights for a few minutes but there was no trace of her. No movement, no trees crashing, no eyes shining back. "Well, hopefully she'll wander into someone's yard tomorrow. Folks around here are likely to call the DNR right away if they see something like that". I nodded. "Anything you want to get from the car before the tow company gets here?" I opened the back door and unhooked the child seat. I set it on top of the roof and leaned in once more, digging into the backseat trash bag. I gently smoothed out the little drawing. "I think that's it" I said and closed the door.
It was only supposed to be temporary, this job. A two hour commute each way seemed worth it when I considered that the pay was more than enough to support the family and my wife's tuition. Of course, that was supposed to be temporary too. I remember the day the acceptance letter came for a school half the country away that she'd never discussed applying to. She sat me down and begged me to let her have this once in a lifetime opportunity. Two years while she completed her grad program in California, then we could move back to Minnesota or wherever we'd like. I used her as an excuse at the time-the kid. A move would mean she'd start kindergarten while we were there then have to switch schools right away. It was crap, I know. She would have been fine. *I* didn't want to move. Just....didn't want to. So we agreed to live separately. Phone calls every day, letters, email, Skype, all that. It worked for about six months. Then the phone calls stopped. The responses stopped. The letter came shortly after. She'd met someone else. Someone who was "willing to work with her to advance her career". Someone who "didn't tie her down with responsibilities". Someone who "wasn't so wrapped up in himself that he couldn't make sacrifices for the sake of their relationship". A short time it had taken her to gather all this about him.
The doe stirred. Her eyes were wide, the whites almost completely visible. The creature wasn't quite there anymore, but her body wasn't ready to give up. I could see the fawn in the woods-still, silent and laying behind a bush about ten feet to the right. At least, I'm pretty sure that's who it was. It was dark and all I could see when I shone the flashlight behind me were two gigantic eyes hiding, waiting. The fawn was too young. There was no chance of her survival if she didn't stay put long enough to be caught. I put the flashlight down. I didn't want to frighten her away.
It was late, but that's fine. Her grandmother took her during the day while I was gone. I usually didn't pick her up until nine or ten, sometimes later if it was a happy hour night. I needed that time, you know? And its not like she missed me. She was usually asleep when I picked her up anyway. Her grandmother was becoming an issue. Always sharing her opinion about my parenting. And now she'd given her crayons and paper to draw "her feelings" on. Little boxes that looked like people, or houses or trees or the dog. Boxes scattered everywhere-one box with long lines of yellow on top of its head, always to the left of the page. We showed her on a map once where her mother's school was. I hope that's all she's picked up about the situation so far. She'd left one in the backseat of the car last night. Four boxes. One with a tail, one with a roof, one little one and one with curly gray tufts and what looked like glasses. I crumpled it up and threw it in the backseat trash bag with the wrappers and old coffee cups. I can only imagine the off handed remarks from her grandmother that led to that little, limited "family portrait". I'm not the one who left. I'm not the one who abandoned a whole life and my own child for my "career advancement". I'm the one who took a shitty job with a terrible commute to try and support us. And now I'm the one sitting on the side of the highway with a broken car, a dying animal and no way to fix any of it.
Her breathing had finally stopped. I closed my eyes briefly. I'd never seen this before. The death of an animal. I remember staying home with the baby when she was two weeks old while my wife took our 18-year-old cat to be put down. She was the only one of us in the room with the vet while her life left her little body. She'd come home sniffling with red, puffy eyes and locked herself in the bedroom for the next couple hours. We were the ones responsible. Her for choosing when the cat would die, me for ending this deer's life. I put my hand on her head and waited until I heard the sirens in the distance. The trooper pulled up a few feet behind the deer, got out of the car and removed his hat. "Looks like a rough scene". I nodded. He filed his report quickly. It was pretty obvious what had happened. "Common for this time of year". I told him about the fawn and he pointed the beam of his flashlight behind us into the woods. He scanned about ten feet in each direction but there was nothing to be seen. We walked up and down the road with our lights for a few minutes but there was no trace of her. No movement, no trees crashing, no eyes shining back. "Well, hopefully she'll wander into someone's yard tomorrow. Folks around here are likely to call the DNR right away if they see something like that". I nodded. "Anything you want to get from the car before the tow company gets here?" I opened the back door and unhooked the child seat. I set it on top of the roof and leaned in once more, digging into the backseat trash bag. I gently smoothed out the little drawing. "I think that's it" I said and closed the door.
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