Northern_Lights_2017

27 Chemistry of a Car Crash Rachel Lynch Blaring sirens, streaks of red and blue darting against the dark trees and reflecting against glass windows, the sounds of walkie-talkies calling out codes and officers’ responses. Splotches of scarlet dot the ground haphazardly like paint on a canvas, glass shards reflecting the chaos. We’re at the corner of Oak and Maple, one of the nicest neighborhoods in the city. In the summer, you’d be able to hear the pop and sizzle of barbecues every weekend; while in the winter, the squeals of children hurling lopsided snowballs at each other fill the street and snow angels dot yards. Nobody thought that something like this would happen here of all places. I didn’t think this could happen to me. Shivering, I huddle deeper into the scratchy blanket while watching the scene from the back of an ambulance. It all happened so fast. How could something like this happen? I was just coming around the corner when . . . “Are you all right, Ms. Baker?” a paramedic softly questions as he walks up to me. I numbly nod my response, unable to speak. “Do you want to talk about it?” he questions, but I’m not paying attention. My eyes are focused on the object moving closer to us. It’s the man in the small Pontiac; I know it is. A subconscious part of me hopes that it wasn’t my fault. A small horrible part of me hopes he is to blame, and that small part only feeds my guilt. The gurney inches closer to me, each bump making the object under the blotchy white sheet jostle. A bitter taste consumes my mouth as the gurney sweeps past me. I shudder as a thought occurs to me. That could have been me. If I was driving my car and not my dad’s truck I’d be . . . “Ma’am?” “Hmm?” I respond, blinking slowly as I glance up at the middle-aged paramedic. He gives me a sympathetic smile, his brown eyes crinkling. “Are you sure you’re okay?” I nod my head mechanically as I look away again and back to the sight of the crash. An old burgundy car, lying on its side, in a ditch after having obviously rolled a few times, and a truck turned askew in the middle of the moonlit asphalt road. Both the vehicles were in better conditions just an hour ago. It wasn’t my fault . . . “Ms. Baker?” the man queries in a slow voice. He takes a step closer to me as if to offer some comfort. “Are you sure you’re all right?” Am I all right? I’m better off than the driver of the car—just scratches and a concussion. Physically, I know I’ll be all right after a few weeks. Physically, I just look like someone who had a very bad day. But how can I get that image out of my head? The way his startled gaze met mine seconds before we crashed. It wasn’t my fault. . . “Ma’am?” I nod my head again, swallowing air. “I—I was coming around the corner,” I begin in a breathless, hesitant tone. “Ms. Baker, you don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. The police will need your official statement at the station,” the paramedic gently says. I shake my head and look away from his pitiful gaze. “My phone started vibrating, so I—I grabbed it and looked down for a split second to see who it was.” I look up to the mute paramedic with watery eyes, and then words gush out. “My sister just had her baby so I thought it would be important. I thought no one would notice. I thought nothing would happen, but then h—h—he came barreling out of nowhere. I thought it was an e—empty road, but he came out of nowhere. I looked up when I heard a screech, b—but I couldn’t see anything. It was too bright and I—” I choke on my words as a sob crawls out of my throat. As I’m pulling the blanket closer around me, a warm hand startles me. “Take a deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. An officer will be by shortly, you don’t have to tell me,” the paramedic says, trying to calmme down. But I just shake off his hand. I ignore him as I let the memories and panic consume me. It wasn’t my fault. “He was in the wrong lane. I didn’t know what to do! I quickly yanked my wheel, and swerved to the left, but it was too late! He ran into me head first, and then . . .” The images haunt me as I close my eyes. Seconds before we hit, our eyes made contact. He looked so guilty and frightened. But it wasn’t his fault. It was mine. “It’s okay,” the paramedic soothes with a soft voice. I glance at him, and I can see the curiosity painted across his face. Even though he knew he shouldn’t ask, I’m sure he is craving to know. “I—I don’t know. I spun around in a circle, but his car skidded and then . . . ” I exhale, “ . . . it tipped. It was entirely my fault. If I hadn’t looked down, I—I—” “It would have still happened, Ms. Baker,” the man consoles in a cooing tone as if I were a spooked horse that he was afraid would trample him. “He missed a stop sign, and he was going well over the speed limit.” I shake my head at him as tears pool down my face. I sniff as I look away, trying to calm down. “I would have seen him coming earlier, even if it was just a few seconds. I could have made a difference. Because I looked away, a man is dead! What don’t you understand about that?” It was my fault. “Ms. Baker, it is in my belief that—” “Don’t. Just don’t.”