Three
It had been raining that day. I was decorating the living room when I received the call. I had dropped the phone and I remember sitting down on the newly upholstered couch. It was a beautiful amber and here I was sitting staring at the new rug which I had matched perfectly with the room. I was good at decorating and creating beauty, but what had just happened was unbelievable.
My daughter had been in a car accident…with my ex-husband.
I knew I should move and go to the car, but I remember picking the phone back up instead. I held it in between my fingers, clutching it as if it were my lifeline. I remember sitting there for at least five minutes before I managed to stand up and stumble awkwardly to the garage. I remember the pouring rain that clouded my vision that must have clouded his.
Had he swerved into an oncoming lane? Had another car hit him? Had he been speeding because I argued with him to bring Cristina home earlier? There had been no details in the phone call, just a summons. Come immediately. The rain splattered against the windshield as I played each and every possible scenario out in my head.
When I arrived, there were paramedics and police officers rushing around the scene. I remember walking straight toward his car, a beat up blue sedan. The hood was crushed and one of the wheels was still spinning slowly. Another car had flipped over. I remember a paramedic zipping up the body bag as I passed it.
At first, when I saw him there was just a little bit of blood coming from his mouth. Then I came closer. The steering column had impaled him. He was really and truly dead. I remember feeling that this was not real or that he was trying to spite me again as he did when he showed the casual affection he could use with Cristina. I remember thinking that he could not truly be dead.
I was wrong.
When I could breathe again, I noticed an officer trying to pull my daughter from the car. What if she was hurt? I pushed him out of the way. She had unbuckled her seatbelt and had her arms around her father. Her hands were bloody from attempting to stop the bleeding. She must have realized he was dead because she had stopped and instead wrapped her arms around his neck like she had done when she was a little kid.
Tears coursed down her face as she hugged him. I remember the officer shouting at me to get her out of the car, but at that moment, I could not bear to tear my daughter away from the man she had loved so much. She was nine. A girl her age should never have had to deal with this.
Finally, I sat down in the car. When I touched her, she flinched, clinging tighter to her father. I tried again and she turned to stare at me with pain-filled eyes, the broken eyes of a little girl who had lost her hero. I whispered her name, trying to convince her to let go on her own, but those fingers would not loosen and she rested her head on her father's shoulder.
Almost crying myself, I gently began to disentangle her from the body. She fought at first, but then went limp. For a moment, I remember thinking that perhaps she too was injured, but nothing physical was wrong with her. Before I could pull her off, she leaned in again and whispered something in his ear before kissing his cheek. Then she let go and I pulled her into my arms.
I remember holding her while I gave the police officer my information. I held her tightly, afraid that she would disappear. Her sobs stopped, but I knew she was still crying. Yet that whole time she stayed silent. She did not speak to me, did not whimper, nor groan in pain. Her bloody hands clenched in fists on my back. I held her, but she did not hold me.
I remember walking away from the scene in the pouring rain, holding my daughter. I remember walking away from his body, the man my daughter had loved. But most of all, I remember what she said when we came home.
"He died because of you."
