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(Italics)‘Fatal hit-and-run 10th February 11p.m. Witnesses call 1800-0202-555.’
Everywhere I look, I see those signs. Those dreadful signs that awaken you and cause you to shout in my head. My eyes ache looking at the bold words, and in turn, gnawing pangs grip my heart. Your voice only adds to the contrition that overwhelms me. Turn yourself in, you say. I ignore you.
Last night I had waited until Jodie retired to bed before I snuck outside to sit in the garage. The sight of the car reduced me to tears. I had let my damp eyes wander over the hood and front bumper, then lower down to the tyres. I fingered the tyre threads gingerly while you made me think of the ‘bump’ I had gone over as I drove off, and the panic that had engulfed me as I worked furiously to clean the unintentional artwork off my car. My mind had drifted carelessly back to how I let my hands slip off the steering wheel, how my foot was glued to the gas pedal, and how my head had been woozy with the drink. It had been too late - a fraction too late.
***
(Italics)“Honey, please pass the salt! How many times must I ask you?”
“Dad, are you alright? Your eyes seem a bit unfocused.”
“Salt! I need the salt!”
“Remember our game tonight dad!”
I do not budge as I gaze at the newspaper. A radiant face smiles at me. Elizabeth Jenkins has died after three days. Her family is grieved beyond measure. She was a bright child, why did God have to take her away so soon? Another victim at the hands of drink driving, sigh the police. Doctors say that she had fought desperately for her life, but because of the sheer force of the car that had hit her, her internal organs had been severely damaged. I do not remember going that fast.(Italics) Yes you were, you nag.
A brush against my shoulder alerts me to the forgotten presence of my family. Jodie is frowning at me from across the table, savagely jabbing her finger at the saltshaker. Her mouth moves, but I cannot make out the words. My mind is filled with the girl’s angelic face. Joe and Maxwell, my twin boys, are chasing each other around the breakfast table, while my eldest son stares at me, concerned. As I look at my family, I ask you, is this what you want me to give up?(Italics) Yes and no, comes your ambiguous answer.
Jodie is striding over now, the salt forgotten. She grabs the newspaper right out of my hands and checks to see what could be more important than her. I flinch as I wait for a brutal verbal attack. Instead, her arms encircle my head and she smiles. “My poor sensitive darling,” she murmurs. “My poor sensitive darling.” The twins pretend to throw up.
Sean surveys the front page, eyebrows knitted together. “That hapless kid. Justice should be served.” I wonder where he got that line, that line that sends shivers up my spine. Justice should be served. Is it really justice? It was just one moment, one moment that had gone terribly wrong. Was I prepared to give everything up for justice? The girl is dead. Nothing can bring her back. Not even me going to jail. That would serve nothing but dull her family’s anguish. (Italics)Own up, you chide.
I decide to take the day off work. Jodie gives me a list of things to do while she loads the car with the kids. Go to the grocery store, get some milk, eggs, whatever that we need. Just check the fridge. Oh and Martha might come by to drop off last night’s pie. Lemon, I think. Please open the door for her. If you need to find me, just call my cell. Oh, oh and…
Her voice trails off as the car pulls out of the driveway. I stand in the yard in my pajamas, hair tousled, in an imperfect world. Made imperfect by people like me. I need to clear my head, especially of you.
The park is empty, devoid of human life. For that I am grateful. What I need now is silence. I choose a green bench at the far end where the trees grow crooked. I challenge you. Speak up, I say. Now is the time. You graciously accept.
(Italics)You think your life is good, Tom? Think again. You hit the pubs every night, drinking with your friends, and rationalize it as ‘work’. The only day you left early, you left too drunk to think straight, and ran over a kid. A kid Tom, you ran over a child whose future was ruined by you. Did you stop? No. You drove straight home and pretended it wasn’t you. Oh yes. Speaking of home. Your family has been long forgotten haven’t they? When was the last time you sat and talked to Jodie? When have you last asked Sean how school was? How about the twins? You missed every game they had last season. Great dad you are. They pretend it is all okay, but you know it’s not. You heard Sean praying for you the other night. You better own up.
I stop you there and go home. I do not want to hear the rest of it. I wish to keep silent, even if it means losing the fragments of my dignity.
***
The weeks creep by. I spend lesser time at home now, too ashamed to face my family. I do not deserve their sympathy and concern. Silence is still my choice though.
***
I have spent the past few nights pondering the outcome of confessing. I think I might go insane if this keeps up. I realise that it is you that keeps me in this dilemma. Own up, own up, just own up. Your voice is like a chant that causes me sleepless nights, and accompanies me like a bad smell. Nothing is worth this. I have to do something.
***
It is already past ten as I turn off onto the small road leading to our house. As I make the turn, I see those signs, then I see the girl’s horrified face, and then I feel a bump. My car screeches to a stop, and my body slams against the wheel, the horn cutting through the silence of the night. In the stillness that follows, I hear my heart pounding, and my rackety breaths. I open my door cautiously and step out. The road is empty.
I leave my car where it is, and sit down on the pavement. My head falls into my lap, and the tears flow freely. The case was closed, and her family left to grieve. It has been a month already, but I re-live it everyday. Why can I not forget? Why did I do what I did? Good question, you say. I feel like hurling obscenities at you. You think life is so easy.(Italics) No, you say. I just want you to own up.
I cannot take this any more. Your incessant nagging, my chosen silence, our conflicting opinions. I know that you will not stop gnawing at me unless I confess. I decide to make a bargain with you.
“Fine”, I whisper. “How about this. You let me remain silent, but I will spend more time with my family, being a better husband, a better father. I will quit drinking. Take it or leave it. I need my peace.” You accept. A weight leaves my chest and then returns. There is no bargain that can fix what I have done. Alone in the chilly night, I mourn. I mourn for the girl who lost her chance for a life, but most of all, I mourn for my soul. I mourn for my lost soul.
------
moonWALKER_
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