Savanna
I hate this commute. I hate it so much some days I swear I'll quit my job just so I don't have to drive it anymore. Too much of my life is being wasted sitting behind this damn wheel. But the rational part of me knows it isn't so easy to quit a teaching job and find one in another school district. I don't want to move; I love my school and I adore my students.
If I had more money, I could live closer to the school. I could move into the city and find myself a saltbox studio. But the thought of living again in a college style dorm again is too hard to take at twenty-six, so every morning I get up, pour coffee into my travel mug, hop into my car, and take this damn commute.
My only consolation is the weeklong spring break that is coming up around the corner. A break I plan to spend watching Netflix and sipping wine. No driving during the break. No taking this damn daily commute until school resumes. I just needed to get through a little longer before a brief week of heavenly rest and relaxation can begin. Peace and quiet is so close, just within my reach.
I don't bother turning on the radio while I drive because the motor on this darn thing doesn't purr like a kitten--rather, the engine sputters and churns like a jackhammer. It's a classic Volkswagon Beetle, but "classic" in my world is code for "piece of crap." I can't afford to have it restored, so until the motor gives out, this is my ride.
The cars around me crawl along this stretch of the freeway. I'm in the fast lane, but ironically, at the moment, it's the slowest moving lane. My leg's getting sore from pushing the clutch constantly. Driving a stick shift in traffic sucks.
The line in front surges forward abruptly, and I follow the pack slowly, trying to avoid grinding my teeth with impatience. Over the roar of my engine, I hear an even louder motor. I check my rearview and side view mirrors and catch sight of a motorcycle in the distance, between my lane and the carpool lane, the source of the roaring engine.
Cycles are known to ride the lines in heavy traffic, and I always kept an eye open for them, knowing how dangerous that position can be. But this cycle is being more than just a little reckless.
I keep glancing back as it approaches my section of the freeway. The speed it's traveling is so intense I have to catch my breath. A feeling overcomes me out of nowhere, that sense of wrongness so strong it feels like a premonition. As the thought, This guy must have a death wish, slides across my mind, the cycle zooms past my car with a whoosh of air, causing it to vibrate.
Then it happens. The cycle swerves to avoid one car at the exact moment that another car veers into the next lane, and then...impact. I watch in horror as the car pushes the cycle into another car. The rider is thrown forward violently, hitting a windshield then bouncing off and flying over two other cars before landing out of my view. Silence follows the melee, and all the cars slow to a stop.
Watching this accident happen right in front of me is a shock to my system. I start to shake and take deep breaths, trying to calm down. Cars in front of me slowly crawl past the wreckage, but I find myself pulling into the next lane and then over against the median, where I bring my clunker to a stop.
I tell myself I have to help. It isn't in my nature to witness something like this and just roll past.
I stop my car and cautiously get out. There are already a few other drivers out of their cars. Several are on their phones calling emergency agencies, I guess, giving all the needed details. I carefully pick my way through broken glass and chunks of motorcycle until I finally find myself close to where the rider is lying on the ground.
He's flat on his back, unmoving. When I kneel down next to him, I am shocked to find a pair of open deep brown eyes, staring up into the sky through a cracked helmet shield.
"Hey, can you hear me?" I ask, trying to assess his level of consciousness. I touch his hand, not wanting to move or lift it because I'm sure there's a lot broken considering the impact he suffered.
He doesn't respond in any way or with any movement, so I lean over a bit more, looking directly down into his eyes and watch as his gaze shifts to mine.
"Baby," he says in a strained voice.
I catch my breath at the look on his face. It's not a look of fear but something else. These are the eyes of a man embracing death, and I wonder if I'm about to watch someone die right in front of me.
"I'm here," I say, not sure why those are the words escaping my lips.
Then his eyes close.
With shaking hands, I reach for his neck and check his pulse, terrified that he's just left this world. But there is a pulse, beating ever so slowly underneath my fingertips. I'm so relieved I almost cry out. Seconds later, I hear the distant sirens of emergency vehicles.
I'm still touching his hand when I feel the warmth of someone else at my shoulder.
"Ma'am, step out of the way so the EMT's can do their job." The soft male voice tears my attention away from the broken man on the ground. I look up toward it, but the sunlight is behind the speaker, casting a shadow over his face. He reaches out to me, catching my hand in his, and pulls me up.
I'm dazed, still in shock after seeing this terrible tragedy, and I can't seem to find my voice, so I stay silent as I get pulled to my feet. The whole while, my eyes never leave the man lying broken on the ground.
A solid body is now next to mine. "I'm Officer Sheridan. Do you know this man?"
I turn and look into the face of the police officer, the owner of the calm voice that helped me up. A tall man in uniform with bright eyes and a warm face looks at me with concern.
"No. I don't know him. I saw the accident, and I had to stop and try to help." My voice shakes, the adrenaline still pumping through my system. My hands tremble and my heart pounds. I can't stop seeing those eyes staring at me. That voice whispering, "Baby." Something about it all unsettled me even more than the carnage of the impact.
"I wish more people would care to help." The officer's voice is reassuring. His reaches out and touches my arm. "If you feel up to it, I'd like to take a statement for our accident file."
I nod. My gaze crawls back to the man. The EMT's are now working on him, but I can't see everything they're doing. Their actions seem a bit frantic as they work in a race against time, and I wonder again if I'm about to watch someone die.
I can't think straight when the officer asks me to describe what happened, but I tell him what I remember. My words come out stilted, my breathing is shallow and quick. Everything seems fuzzy around the edges.
"Whoa, I've got you." Officer Sheridan steps in close and holds me up just as my legs begin to give out. "I think you're going into shock. Let's get you some water."
He helps me to sit, the median divider providing support against my back. The officer leaves for a few seconds to retrieve the water, but the whole time, my eyes remain fixed on the rider.
He's been moved onto a gurney, an oxygen mask covering his face. One EMT speaks into a radio, brow furrowed. A few seconds later, the rider is lifted into an ambulance, just as the officer returns with a silver emergency blankets and a bottle of water.
"Here--take a drink," He hands me the bottle then gently wraps the blanket around me. "This will help."
I drink the water as the ambulance drives away. I'm left feeling empty, hallow. What now? I can't imagine going through life never knowing what happens to this man. It feels ridiculous, but I'm worried about this stranger. What about his family? My heart sinks thinking of the devastation that will come to those loved ones if he doesn't make it.
I look back to the officer as the ambulance drives out of sight. "Will he live?" I can't stop the question from coming out even though I don't know if I truly want to know the answer. If he dies I know the image of him flying through the air and hitting the ground will haunt my dreams.
Officer Sheridan's lips press into a thin line. "I don't know. His injuries appear extensive. The odds aren't good with a motorcycle accident like this."
My heart starts to race. I can feel it pulsing in my chest, and I reach a hand up to the spot, trying to rub the worry away.
"Hey," he calls out steadily, "they got to him fast. He was wearing a helmet, and you said he was conscious when you saw him. That's a good start."
I'm listening, but his words don't reassure me. My worry doesn't diminish as I remember the look in the rider's eyes. He was ready to die. I could see it in that one look. They say that sometimes folks know when they're on the brink of death, that they can feel their death before them.
"I have your contact information. If you'd like, I can give you an update when I know anything," the officer says.
My eyes shoot back to his face. He looks so concerned, so full of sympathy for my feelings. It's not what I expect from someone who I'm sure has been hardened by seeing so many of these accidents. But he just offered me a line of hope. Not knowing if the rider lives or dies would leave me so unsettled
"Yes, thank you." I breathe the words, feeling my heart begin to settle down.
The officer leans down closer and peers into my eyes, saying softly, "Are you all right to drive? I could arrange for a tow truck."
I realize I'm still sitting on the side of the freeway, wrapped in an emergency blanket, and I wasn't even in the accident. I feel foolish, and still a bit shaky, but I need to leave now.
"Yes, I'm fine to drive. I should start making my way home."
Officer Sheridan checks his notes. "Oakwood Lane, correct? That's still another twenty minutes in this traffic. Are you sure you're steady enough?"
"Positive," I say with more assurance than I actually feel. " I'll take side streets so I can stop if it's too much."
I can tell by his expression he is about to push me to get a ride. But I have a sudden desire to be alone.
"I promise I'll take it slow."
The officer seems satisfied. He walks me to my car and makes sure I've got a safe opening in the traffic before I pull away.
I look back in my rearview mirror at the flashing lights, the twisted metal, the pool of blood still visible on the freeway where the ridder once lay.
This day did not go as expected.