It Comes Back To Me Post 3

Day 2: Drew: “Oh, Shit.”

Well, John, I can’t figure out who this woman is with you but she has the right idea. More long weekends for travel? Maybe even a lighter caseload and longer trips? If I closed the practice down we could go anywhere.

Portugal. We’d been talking about Portugal. I remember that now. That and a fight. About what?

            Images of Portugal were playing through my imaginary vision as I drove onto the Golden Gate Bridge that morning. Fog everywhere, traffic at a crawl. I really didn’t mind the quick trip to Marin to pick up tile samples you ordered. Anything to nudge the kitchen remodel forward. I was thinking the other day, can you believe we’ve been in the Pacific Heights house for 17 years?

It was tile. Kitchen tile. Blue matte versus gloss, for god’s sake. That’s what the fight was about.

            I need to apologize. I mean it.

John,  I hate it when we fight. It’s usually pointless, with little resolution. There was a low fog on the bridge. I could barely see three feet in front of me, which actually isn’t all that unusual when you think about it. Anyway. Going slow, then the fog lifts a little and traffic speeds up. Images of Lisbon’s Biarro Alto flash in my head. Then, my phone vibrates. I reach across to the passenger seat to retrieve it, I  fumble and the phone falls to the car floor. I realize I shouldn’t chance it, but it’s still ringing and I just want to say I’m sorry, so, I  steal a glance at the road ahead, strain downward to retrieve the vibrating phone, and sit up just in time to say, “Oh shit.”

Day 2: John: What Else Happened.

“Drew, it’s me. Emma’s been here, too. The doctors say you may or may not be able to hear me. They say it’s very important for us—me, that is—to talk.

            “I asked what I should talk about, which feels strange. We’ve never had trouble finding things to talk about before. Before. Before all this. The accident. The doctor—your doctor—Dr. Creasy—suggested I bring you up to speed. Let you know what happened.”         

            I already know what happened, John. I bent down to grab my cell phone, looked up and went airborne off the bridge. It’s what happened after that is fuzzy to me.

“So, here’s what has happened. You’ve been in a car accident, a pretty serious one. You’ve been here at UCSF Medical for a little more than 36 hours. They helicoptered you here to the Trauma Unit. You’re in a coma, but your vital signs look good. The nurses seem to check in every five minutes or so, and they reassure me. I must look like I need reassuring.

            “They’re telling us—by the way your sister, Kit flew in yesterday—they’re telling us that you’ve had a pretty serious head injury, along with some broken ribs as well as a broken left ankle. Your spleen is bruised, but should be ok.

            “Here. I’ll let Kit say hello. And Emma’s been here, too. I said that already. Right.”

            I’m taking in about half of what you’re saying, John. I’m so tired. Could Kit wait?

            “Hey, little brother.”

            I guess not.

            “You’ve given everybody quite the scare.”

I’m sorry about that. Really. It was stupid, really. Reaching for the phone, taking my eyes off the road. All of it. Oh, come on, now. Don’t cry.

Day 5: John: Bedside.

“Well, Drew, it seems you’ve made a bit of bridge history. The investigating officer told me that in the history of the bridge, an accident like this had never happened before.  He called it a ‘sequence of errors’ that would be almost impossible to replicate.

“Look, I’ve pieced together events on the bridge with the help of witnesses on the bridge that morning.  The guy in the car behind you said it looked like you were fiddling with your cell phone, failed to see the empty flatbed semi in front of you, ran up the truck’s empty loading ramp, which acted as a catapult that sent you and the Honda over the protective bridge railing into the bay below. It sounds like something out of an old Charlie Chaplin movie.”

I pause. I hesitate and then let it out.

“I am so pissed at you. How could you be so careless? How many times have we talked about cell phones in the car? Dammit, Drew.

“I am so angry. I was hoping I could use my anger to bully you out of your coma, wake up so you could fight back. I hate our fights. And I’d give anything to have one with you right now.”

I dry my tears.

“The short of it is this: it happened so fast that bystanders found it hard to comprehend. The bridge police shared his report with me: ‘There’s no way anyone could have survived it,’ said a tourist from Columbia, Maryland on vacation with her husband. ‘The car just flew over the railing and landed, head first, into the water below. It was like a cartoon. It’s one of those things you just can’t imagine happening.’”

Day 5: Drew: Airborne.

            As I went airborne, everything went into an eerie slow motion that, oddly, gave me time to think. Did I answer the call? Was it you? Thank god I missed those tourists walking along the railing. I thought, I’m going to be late picking up the tile. But, in the grand scheme of things, the tile isn’t really that important. And, I realize, seeing the waves growing closer, there’s probably not any grander scheme than this, right now. I smile. I’ve never seen the view of Sausalito from here. And then, oh, my god, I’m gonna hit. And then, quiet.            

And just so you know, John, Yes.  I can hear you, John. Perfectly. I’m so sorry about the stupid tile, the accident. Everything. And my head hurts.

I feel someone lift my right arm and mumble something I don’t catch. She—yes, it’s a female voice, with a Southern drawl—says something and pats my arm gently. I feel a rush of pleasure surging through me. My head is instantly better. I drift off.