Chapter 6

Lucius's car was a silver Lexus with wood paneling and leather seats. The car reacted immediately to her, but Emma had the habit of pressing too hard on the gas and stomping on the brake. The result was a nauseating drive of stopping and going on the freeway to the airport. The navigator on her phone said the airport was only ten miles away, but the traffic-laden streets turned this ten-mile distance into an hour journey.

Behind her, cars honked indignantly.

"Alright, alright!" she hollered in the emptiness of her car. She applied the gas pedal. "I'm going."

The Lexus abruptly lurched forward, which forced Emma to slam on the brake before she hit the van ahead of her. The Lexus shuddered. Emma wiped her sweaty palm on her thigh.

"10 to 2, 10 to 2," she repeated to herself. Or was it 9 to 5? She kept adjusting her grip on the steering wheel: the leather was slick with sweat from her palm. She thought it would slip out of her hand.

On the dash the clock read 1:55. She was twenty minutes away from the airport. With luck, Alfred would be delayed while going through customs, and nobody would know she was late. Emma just had to stay in her lane and she would be okay. It was going to be okay.

As if on cue, a car to her right began drifting into Emma's lane. It did not use its blinkers.

Emma slammed on the gas. "Oh, the hell you don't."

Her car jerked forward, closing in the gap, and the car on the right swerved violently back into its lane. A rancor of honking followed, and Emma unleashed a torrent of curses at the opposite driver.

"What!?" she shouted at the other driver. "You are the one who forgot to put his lights on. That's what they are there for, you ignorant idi—!"

The Lexus suddenly jerked backward—Emma's torso snapped against her seatbelt—there was the sound of impact. A tremendous torrent of honking ensued.

Emma had rear-ended the van ahead of her. The car to her right went on ahead, honking with glee at her misfortune.

"Dammit," she hissed. She gripped the steering wheel in a vice-grip—the leather groaned in duress. She wanted to tear this car apart.

The surrounding vehicles drove even slower to get a look at the accident. Emma felt all of their eyes glued onto her person, watching her, judging her. The driver of the van ahead stepped out and hooked his hand toward the side of the freeway. He was an older man in boots, flannel shirt, and fisherman's cap.

"Alright, pulling over," she said glumly. The clock now read 2:00.

She put her blinker on, trying to move into the next lane, but the drivers weren't moving. Couldn't they see she needed to get out of the road?

Emma suddenly smacked her horn in frustration. Why was everyone so stupid?

The driver of the van saw her predicament. He extended his arms out and waded into the incoming traffic.

"Oh great," said Emma in a small voice. She knew what the man was doing. The man went about the business with a calm and perfunctory quality. It was clear he had been in a freeway collision before. He stared down the incoming traffic coolly and fully expected their cooperation—which he received, because the incoming traffic, honking indignantly, stopped before him like he was some bizarre prophet.

With the traffic tamed, the man waved hurriedly but deliberately to Emma: this way.

Emma pulled the car to the right and made to the far end of the highway. The man directed her the whole way. Once she was on the other side, the man walked back to his van and pulled out as well. The traffic waited for him to do so—none of the drivers looked pleased, but they waited all the same. The van pulled in front of Emma on the side of the freeway.

Emma scrolled through her phone. She thought about calling Dad. But she didn't hesitated because he would, inevitably, tell Mom. And the whole point of calling Dad was so that she wouldn't have to call Mom.

She dialed on the phone. It rang for three beats until someone picked up.

"Lucius," she said tiredly. "I got in a car accident and I don't know what to do."

Lucius did not miss a beat. "Are you alright, Emma?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Do you need to go the hospital?"

"Lucius, you know I, of all people don't need to go to a hospital."

"Fair enough. The first step here is to get the other driver's license, registration, and insurance. If it's his fault, get photos, if it's your fault, also get photos."

He did not ask whether it was her fault or the other driver's fault. She was grateful for that.

"My insurance and registration are in the glove-compartment, Emma."

Emma figured that she had to tell the truth: and it was much easier since she didn't have to make eye-contact. Still, the words were like sandpaper coming out of her throat.

"I don't have my driver's license, Lucius." She closed her eyes rubbed her temples. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier."

The phone was silent. The driver of the van was looking at Emma through the windshield. He had his hands on his hips like: 'well?'

"I'll take care of this, Emma." said Lucius's voice finally. There was no anger or discipline in his voice. "Let me talk to the driver."

"How?"

"Hand the phone over to him."

Of all the things in her life, this had to be one of the more humiliating things. But she had no moral recourse: She had messed up, Lucius was going to take care of her mess, and she needed to comply with his orders. She knew it, and Lucius knew—that is why he wasn't angry with her. There was no need. She was already being punished.

Emma got out of the door. "Okay. Give me a second."

Emma approached the driver of the van with a warm smile. The driver already had his documents and license in his hand. He was an older man, but his eyes were keen underneath the brim of his fisherman's cap.

"Hello," he said in a neutral tone. He stood somewhat aloof and upright. This posture let everyone else on the freeway know who was at fault and who was not at fault for the collision.

"Hello," said Emma. She stopped a few feet away from him. "I'm sorry I didn't see you."

"So you admit it was your fault?"

"Yes, I didn't see you," she conceded. She raised the phone in her hand. "This is going to sound strange, but can you—"

The driver shook his head angrily. "Everyone your age is on their phone. You know you could kill someone."

"I wasn't on my phone. But there is someone who would like to speak with you." She held out the phone again. "They'll explain everything."

The driver took one look at the phone, then the smashed in Lexus, and finally rested his eyes on Emma. He looked her up and down. Then he seemed to have come to an understanding. His lips sneered in scorn.

"I see," he said in a low voice. "The Lexus, the business skirtsuit: you're a trustfund baby? And now you want Daddy to fix it for you. Well I don't care how much money Daddy gives to the local charity or whatever. You ain't going to get out of this with your money."

There was a triumph to his diatribe. He was animated with purpose. He lifted his fisherman's cap, wiped a musty forehead, and squared the cap back on his head with a final satisfaction.

"You and me," he said, "we are going to stay right here until the authorities get here. That's the problem with you people. You think you're above us all. You think your money and your fancy cars makes you immune to the rules. But not today. Today you're gonna taste what it feels like for the rest of us."

Emma stared at the man. She thought she would scream, but instead she found herself almost chuckling—didn't this man know she shared so much of his resentment? Of course he didn't know, because to him, she was certainly one of them.

Emma held out the phone doggedly. She had to try a new tactic.

"It's my father," said Emma. "He's the one who takes care of these things."

The driver continued to look at her distrustfully. But there was a shift in his eyes; they had lost their fury. Now they were bitter and resigned.

"Alright, give it here," he said finally, as if he was expecting this all along.

He held out his hand to accept the phone. Emma placed it in his palm. The driver leaned against his van and spoke. "This is Edward Holley speaking."

Emma waited with her arms folded as the men talked. She was looking at the damage on the Lexus: a bent fender and a smashed grill. The van had taken very little of the damage.

"The young woman—your daughter, I'm guessing?—hit my van on the 5 freeway . . . no, she knows it was her fault . . . no, I already told your daughter that you can't buy me off, and . . . well I'm retired . . . get out of here, that's impossible. Wait a minute, how do you know I have American Express? How do you know that I—"

The driver suddenly raced back to the cabin of his van. He was away for another five minutes. Then he came back. He had a lost look on his face. He handed the phone to Emma.

Emma put the phone to her ear. "What happened, Lucius?"

"Everyone has a price, Emma," said Lucius in a bored tone. "We just had to reach his. Everything's taken care of. He should be getting a call from his bank at any moment—stay on the line so he takes the call."

On cue, the driver's personal phone went off. He looked at it and his eyes widened. He gulped and put the phone back into his pocket.

"When he's done, hand the phone back to him," said Lucius.

Emma handed her phone back to the driver. He took it with a much more subdued and quiet look. He listened carefully to whatever Lucius was saying.

"Alright," said the Driver. "You have my word."

He handed the phone back to Emma. He looked like he had run a marathon.

Emma pocked her phone. "Is everything okay?"

The driver looked like he himself was struggling to accept the situation. "The man on the phone—your Dad—just paid the rest of my mortgage. He wired the money into my account. Bank just confirmed it."

"So we're good here?" said Emma slowly.

The driver was looking at the Lexus like it was a thousand miles away. "Must be nice – to have a get-out-of-jail-free card. I supposed I can't blame you. I would have done the same at your age."

"This is the first time this has happened," she said honestly.

The driver looked at her. He had amused smile, but also, a tad scornful. "Sure it is."

He got back into his van. He turned the engine out and rolled down the window. "Our business is done here. I won't call insurance on you—and even if you do, I got the pictures."

"I wouldn't do that."

"I know you wouldn't. I have the pictures. But there is one more thing—Your Dad told me to tell you to call your mother."

Emma's heart sank. That was the one thing she was hoping to avoid.

The driver saw this on her face. He snorted as he put the car into gear. "Let me tell you a couple of three things: I don't care how much money you got; you can't buy family, you hear me? Don't be such a spoiled rich brat—call your mother, dammit."

He drove off. Emma walked back to the Lexus. The clock on the dash read 2:30. She sat there for a while and stewed. She hated the shame she currently felt. Her mother had so many rules and was so uptight and it infuriated Emma—she was always the one who had to control herself. Her parents let William get away with everything: he was moody, he was rude, he was arrogant, whereas Emma had to dress in heels and in expensive skirts and run the company and she was supposed to control herself? It was so unfair.

Emma rubbed her temples. She loved her family. She loved her mother. But they could all be too much sometimes.

Again, Emma's hands started to shake. She felt that electricity hum within her. She meditated for a few minutes. She began to feel better. And she realized, begrudgingly, she should probably call her mother and let her know what happened. It would be the responsible, adult thing to do.

Suddenly Emma's phone began to ring. It was her mother.

"Dammit," hissed Emma. Because now her mother would never believe Emma.

Emma answered the phone. "Hey, Mom. I was just going to call you and—"

"Emma," said Diana's sharp voice. "Why didn't you call me earlier?"

Emma closed her eyes. She breathed deeply.

"Lucius told me everything. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Mom. You know I am."

"I meant are you okay 'nerves-wise'?"

"Nerves-wise? I can't believe you just asked me that."

"I'm just saying a car accident can be a stressful situation, Emma. Are you sure you are—?"

"I won't be able to make it to the airport now," said Emma forcefully. "I think we might have to call a cab for Alfred."

"I already did," said Diana. "Or rather, Lucius did. He also called you a tow truck and a ride home."

"A tow truck—seriously, Mom? That will take hours."

"You can't drive a crashed car, Emma. And there's no use in you going to the airport if Alfred won't be there."

"That's not what I meant, Mom. I mean, I could lift this car to a body shop in ten minutes. And then I could fly to the airport—"

"No," snapped Diana's voice. "I don't know how many times I've told you, Emma. But we don't do that. We are going to do this by-the-books."

"Why are you like this? Why do I have to keep hiding myself for—?"

"Because it's for your own good, Emma," said Diana heatedly. "I've told you already—the world doesn't need any more heroes. We all promised to lead normal lives."

"But I am not 'normal,' Mom. I'm a freaking—"

"Wait for the tow truck," said Diana impatiently. "You can hate me later. I have to finish the decorations for the party. See you at home."

"But why can't you just—!?"

Diana ended the call. Emma punched the steering wheel so hard it left a dent in the rim.

Emma watched the passing cars for a long time. There were many children with their faces pressed up against the glass looking at her. They weren't smiling or laughing. They just watched her with open, never ending eyes.

The clock read: 3:30 when the tow truck finally appeared in the rearview mirror. The tow-man was a short, pleasant-mannered man. He was putting on dirty gloves as he walked over.

"Hello, pretty lady," he said warmly. He looked over the car. "Car trouble?"

"Something like that," said Emma. She pointed to the car. "Can you help me?"

The tow-man waved a dirtied glove. "Ain't no problem, Miss. I'll have you out of here in no time." He hooked up the car to the tow machine and started hauling the car onto the bed. It was going fine until the tow jammed and made a loud whining sound.

"No worries. The crank is jammed. Easy fix."

He went over to the crank and pulled on it, hard. His face turned bright red from the stress.

"Looks like she needs a little oil grease. It'll just be a second."

He went back into the cabin of his towtruck, humming to himself.

Emma watched the crank on the tow machine. The tow-man had his back toward her while he looked for that oil grease. And she was hidden from the highway behind the body of the crashed car.

Emma stepped forward and took the crank by the hand. With the barest effort it came loose and she spun it testily a few times. She wiped the grime on her black skirt and stepped back. Nobody had seen her do it.

The tow-man came back with the grease in his hands. "Alright, pretty lady, don't worry. We're almost home free here." He carefully applied the grease to the crank and tried it again—it moved effortlessly.

"Wow, that was fast," said the tow-man. He was smiling foolishly. "I guess a little grease is all you need. You ready to go?"

Emma was still looking at the crank. Nobody had seen her do it. "Yeah, I'm ready to go."