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It’s Thursday. I am at Billups, finishing up the midweek filing. It’s been slow today because the weather turned bad around noon with ice and hail clacking against the glass. I will take snow over cold rain any day. The wind is whistling through the cracks around the door. Around seven thirty, sirens wail somewhere out in the night. I stop my filing and look up, through the large plate-glass window, into the murky gloom lit only by the gleam of the streetlights. The sleet slashes across the road, almost horizontal. It is one of those rare spring storms that throws us right back into the depths of winter. Just this morning I was noticing new buds on a few of the trees. I almost didn’t even wear a jacket. It’s been such strange weather this year, and this sudden ice storm certainly tops it all.
Off in the distance, I can still hear wailing sirens, but they are finally lost to the wind and I turn back to my filing. Mr. Billups is checking the doors to lock up. There is no sense in staying open until nine like normal; nobody is getting out in this weather.
We leave together, Mr. Billups and I. When the weather is bad, he often gives me a ride home, even though it’s a good five miles out of his way. He’s a good man, a decent man. Wish my mother could have found just one of them along the way, but decent isn’t what works for her. The headlights of his pickup barely grace the iced road, and the murk seems to invade the interior of the cab. He squints through the flapping wipers into the gloom as the heater pumps out tepid warmth onto my hands.
***
The trailer is dark when Mr. Billups stops to let me out, and it does not seem odd that my mother isn’t here. She’s probably with Cal. She has been around less and less these last few weeks, and I’ve been mostly glad when she is elsewhere. Even more glad that her absence makes it less likely that I will see him. Her promises of being better, of drinking less, of being “mother” were broken and forgotten within hours it seems, and I barely even care. She is who she is and will be who she will be. I’m angrier about him.
The house stays cleaner anyway, and I don’t have to deal with the tension. I turn and wave to Mr. Billups as I step into the doorway and flip on the porch light. He backs slowly out of the drive and turns toward the way he came. I flip on lights as I move through the house, my eyes scanning for evidence. The pillows on the sofa are set askew, so I know she’s been home since I last was. The kitchen counter has a single glass sitting out, residuals of some drink filming the bottom. I can smell the vodka as I pass through, on my way to my room. I stop in the bathroom and brush my teeth. I know it’s early for bed, but I suddenly feel tired to the bone and want nothing more than to settle under my quilt and let the world disappear.
My room is black as pitch when I open my eyes some time later, the reverberation of someone pounding on the front door ricocheting down the hall to me. I debate for a moment on whether to crawl out of bed and admit whomever it is or just stay where I am and let them pound. Then I remember that I locked the door, and depending on her state, Mom may not be able to get it unlocked. Sometimes it sticks, especially when it’s damp out.
Something is wrong, very wrong. I know as soon as I open my bedroom door. The kitchen and living room glow red, and the pounding on the door suddenly seems very businesslike. I turn on the light and open the door. There, standing on the porch, with ice in his mustache, is a policeman, nearly frozen.
The thoughts in my head run the gamete from her being arrested for some drug or another, to her being in the hospital because the crazy bastard hit her over the head with a two-by-four. “Alison Hayes?”
“Yes, what’s happened?” The creeping panic rises up my spine.
“There’s been an accident. Please come with me.” He leads me to the car and opens the passenger door for me to slide into the front seat.
“What’s happened?” I ask, convinced that the two-by-four is the most likely scenario.
“Well, ma’am, your mother’s been in an accident.” He hesitates, and I notice that he is so young. He has the look of a deer in headlights, with wide, adrenaline-wide, eyes. This is probably one of the first big things that has happened since he has been with the force. I turn and watch out the window. A mixture of rain and ice pelt the glass and distort the world outside. My mind frames the image of my mother with her head crushed. It’s a horrible, disturbing image but one with which I can cope. What kind of accident?
“Is she alive?” I ask, my voice sounding strange and calm outside of my own head.
“Yes, yes, ma’am, she is.” I can feel him shift on the seat, looking at me, probably wondering how much he should tell me. I hope he can’t see how disappointed I am that she lives. I can’t make myself speak, and the dread of whatever comes next makes me shake. I am a horrible person. He doesn’t speak again, and neither do I.
We move slowly through the sleet-slicked roads, passing under the misted glow of street lamps. The rotation of the light on top the car should allow us swifter passage, but we move at a snail’s pace, and I feel trapped. A lone snowplow creeps along, spreading salt as it goes; otherwise, we are alone out in this night. My stomach churns as we ease into the hospital emergency lot. The officer is out of the car and to my side before I even have my feet settled under me, his hand firmly under my elbow, steering me toward the sliding doors of the emergency bay, moving in double time after our slow progression to the hospital.
The glare of the lights reflecting off the walls and tiled floors shocks my eyes and forces me to squint against the intensity. I’m glad for the policeman’s hand under my elbow, steering me, guiding me, holding me up, since for half a minute or more I am blinded.
“Sit here,” he says and steps away from me, leaving me and my eyes to adjust. The acrid smell of hospital antiseptic and the bright lights flashing off of the white tiles makes my head hurt. A few minutes pass, and I sit, unsure of what to do, where to look, whom to ask for details, and finally the young officer, Officer F. Jones according to his name tag, comes back and sits beside me.
“Okay, Alison, the doctor is going to be out to talk with you as soon as he can. She’s still in surgery.” He pauses, unsure of how to handle the situation.
“Can you tell me what happened?” It is not that strange, calm voice from the ride over. It is something shriller, closer to off-kilter, ricocheting through my inner walls, echoing too loudly now in the subdued waiting room. Officer Jones glances around the room then back to me. I follow the direction of his eyes, as if that’s going to provide me an answer. There’s only one other person in the room, a young man, sitting along the opposite wall, his head lowered, pressed into his splayed hands.
“She had an accident.” His voice is low, almost a whisper. I don’t want him to whisper. I want him to talk loudly and clearly and tell me exactly what has happened. “Apparently she slid through a stoplight and ran into another car. That’s really all the information I have right now.” So the two-by-four theory is shot.
“Was she drunk?”
He looks startled. “I don’t have that information, ma’am. I was just told to go pick you up. The roads are terribly slick.”
I can tell I’ve made him uncomfortable, so I change my tack. “Who else was hurt?” I ask, my eyes spinning back to the young man sitting alone in the corner.
“I don’t have that information.” Which is apparently officer speak for “I plead the fifth” or whatever. I can feel him shifting, uncomfortable, and a slow, red anger starts to bubble in my stomach. I know he knows more but won’t say. “The doctor will be out as soon as she’s out of surgery.” He pauses. My eyes glue on the young man, who suddenly stands and moves in halted jerks through the room, crossing in front of us, stepping through the bay doors and out into the frigid night. “Can I get you anything?” I shake my head, and he reaches out and touches my shoulder. “Is there anybody you want to call?”
I want Dylan to be here with me. “Yeah, I’d like to call someone.” My voice has gone back to the oddly calm, disconnected tone. “You don’t have to wait with me. I’ll be fine. Thank you for coming to get me.” I put my hand out to shake his, and an odd look crosses his face. He takes my hand in both of his and squeezes.
“I’ll be back to check on you after my shift.” Finally he releases my hand and turns away from me. I do not watch him leave. I feel like I could start to cry, and I really don’t want to do that. Not here. Not now.
I call Dylan from the phone in the waiting room and go to the corner farthest from the spot where the man has now returned. He is sitting again with his head in hands. His shoulders rock slightly, and his body sways back and forth, slowly. I turn and look out the window into the ice covered night.