Smith and the Three Part Miracle
A Short Story
Smith’s first thought, upon waking in the Northend ICU and discovering a breathing tube in his throat, was: this is going to max out my insurance deductible.
The events of the car accident didn’t happen simultaneously. They only seemed that way to Smith. He’d been going 75 mph on north I-19 at 8:11 a.m. when 1) a silver 1999 Crown Vic slammed into his (Smith’s) driver’s side door, 2) the pavement of I-19 curved up in a perfect ramp, and 3) 3.2 gallons of Windex exploded across his windshield.
Only later, in the ICU, did Smith read the one paragraph description of the accident from the newspaper (section 4D, next to an ad about silver ore investment opportunities.) The blurb, titled, “Holiday Pile-up” gave the name of the deceased Crown Vic driver as Mr. Douglass Freds, a retired, grocery store manager from Duluth. According to medical records, Mr. Freds suffered a major cardiac arrest resulting in instant death. The article went on to describe the six days of record rains that resulted in the I-19 bubble (or perfectly curved ramp as Smith experienced it). Over 14 inches had fallen in the metro area, causing floods and landslides in the foothills north of the city. Finally, the article went on to describe how the Windex had fallen from a Mr. Peter Yellow’s grip, who was suspended on the western façade of the JP Finance complex. Mr. Yellow had survived the gust thanks to his safety harness. The same gust of wind which sent him sliding along the building’s exterior sent his reserve tank 110 feet down towards the freeway. One witness described the impact between Smith’s windshield and Windex tank as “awesome.”
Smith had to squint to read the article as his left retina was still bandaged after a surgery to reattach it. Someone, he wasn’t sure, had left the article on his right bedside table, the only side he could do anything with as his right arm was semi-responsive to mental commands. Smith was without his Rx glasses as the emergency workers (twenty-two when the pile-up was finally cleared) were unable to find his glasses in the subsequent wreckage and his new pair were still in the mail.
Smith, laying semi-awake in his ICU bed, recalled the driver’s side impact again, his instinctual braking, both of his hands tightly locked on the steering wheel, the feeling that his neck muscles would never unclench, and then, the traffic in front of him was replaced by black asphalt, the asphalt ramp that lifted him was beautiful, perfectly curved, and the sensation of being pinned against his seat, much like the moment of ascent when a plane leaves a runway, and then, pure, wonderful morning sky, with hardly a cloud to be seen. There were blackbirds doing that swirl thing they do, as if they know where every bird is at all times, some kind of primordial spatial instinct which allows them to fly and react instantly to all other birds around them. It was a lovely view. Smith had the distinct feeling of flying in that moment – not the feeling of a plane’s initial take-off, like he had earlier – but of the pure, unfettered sense of flying one often has in dreams: he rose as a child does through the air and he wanted to reach both arms out like wings, but was unable to, since his hands were death locked to the steering wheel. And then the three gallons of Windex collided and cracked his windshield just as his car began its sixteen foot descent back to the, thankfully, empty right lane. Smith, despite the sensation of wanting to release his bowels, found the Windex shade of blue quite lovely and wondered, later in his ICU musings, what shade of blue Windex really was. Ultimately, he was unable to fit it between sky blue or cobalt blue and decided to just called it Windex blue.
On the way down, bathed in Windex blue, he remembered women screaming and the sound of cash registers opening and closing. He assumed it was a false memory. It wasn’t. When the paramedics opened his passenger side door with the Jaws of Life, and removed their protective ear covers, they were disquieted by the sound of women ululating. Smith’s car was still playing the later tracks of Pink Floyd’s seminal 1973 Dark Side of the Moon, in which the back-up singers do scream a lot. Once Smith’s unconscious body was strapped to a flight board and rushed to the freshly landed chopper (You didn’t want to be on I-19 that morning. Traffic was stopped for an hour.), the emergency workers cut the main battery line to his car and the screams finally stopped.
According to Smith’s doctor, his 9000 series Alpine puffy down jacket probably saved his life. Smith was wearing full winter gear on his morning commute, as he had since buying an electric car. His fifty-three mile commute didn’t allow for much use of the heater, which to his chagrin and frozen-ass feet, ate up too much of his car’s battery. The car had 140 mile range, true, but that didn’t account for elevation change or use of the heater. So he’d been in winter coat, gloves, and beanie when he was hit by the Crown Vic/ramped to the sky/bathed in Windex six days previously.
Shooting pain between breaths brought Smith out his musings and he lurched around in his ICU bed. Smith couldn’t feel much below his neck. This alarmed him. His mother crotches a red and yellow something in the corner of his room. She’s been there for three days. In his head, he says, MOM! Help!, but she just hears gurgles and some spastic clicks from her son. She stood and brought the nurse back who administers some Fentanayl. Smith drifted away to that happy land of opioids. On his way out, he remembers Dr. Franklin, his undergrad Intro to World Literature 1100 professor, who assigned Voltaire’s Candide and something about “Best of possible worlds” from Dr. Pangloss, but was unable to make any conscious links between his broken pelvis and Dr. Pangloss’ missing buttocks.
Smith wakes to his wife’s face, blurred and out of focus. He squints his right eye and her face resolves: it’s soft, sympathetic, or maybe empathetic? Smith wasn’t sure. He was sure that it was his wife, whom he had left four months earlier when they’d separated. She sat there staring at him, like she’d just said something to him, but he hadn’t a clue what. Her winter coat is tucked on the back of her hospital chair. Her face is clear of makeup but her eyes are a little red. Smith notices his mother again. She gets up, a pair of crocheting needles in one hand and stands next to his wife. He gets the sense he’s been asleep for a while but can’t tell how long. He sees his left leg is in a plaster cast, his chest too, and various tubes run from his right arm. He wiggles his right hand and then his toes. It feels good. Smith needs to piss. The incredible weight and pressure of his bladder shifts and sends warnings to his brain. But, Smith wasn’t sure he could or how to connected to all the tubes. He tries to motion for a bedpan but then the fluid descends from him via catheter. Glorious release. His mother and wife look on, oblivious to his joy, and he’s unable to speak with the breathing tube down his throat.
Smith recalls having to piss the last time he saw his wife. He’d had two coffees and really needed to go but there hadn’t been a break in their conversation. They’d met a local coffee shop to discuss the terms of their separation. She’d come ready to make consolations, to listen, to hear him out. He’d said things like “tie breakers” and “best school zones” and “house tax rates.” What had it all been about? And they went back and forth on how best to break the news to their children. (The children? Smith realized he hadn’t thought of his son and daughter in days. It was an odd sensation, as he’d thought of them every day for years.) His wife had listened to him yammer on about his rights while she sipped a cappuccino (three Splendas) and finally told that he was making too many demands, that they really should get lawyers, or something like that. He’d replied that they were grown-ups, should be able to work this out between themselves, but there was too much property involved, too many factors, too many parental rights. He’d told her she “must be joking” and she’d been so hurt.
Smith pictured her face, the way her checks rose just slightly and her eyes tightened when she was really hurt — not just annoyed. He’d done it that morning at the coffee shop, like he’d done over and over the past few years. Smith felt like he was back in his cold, electric car just as it came off the end of the perfectly formed asphalt ramp, just as it began its descent. He was descending again, back to the moments he hurt his wife: the trip to see her parents in Texas, the morning she got back from her Brother’s funeral, the time Smith left her with the kids to go to a high school reunion.
The same face over and over.
Smith began to weep. His mother left his ICU bedside and the nurse added a dose of Fentanyl to his IV drip. He wanted to scream: NO! NO! Don’t! It’s not my body, but he couldn’t speak.
Smith saw his son and daughter standing behind the nurse, just over her shoulder, and that the room was full of people who loved him and the Fentanyl took him away for a bit.