Imaginary Friend

The smell of the burning rubber filled my nose and made me gag. It only took me a moment to remember where I was and what had gotten me here. I was hanging upside down, still strapped to the seat. I could hear Molly crying, pleading for someone to help me. I tried to tell her that it was alright, that I was going to be ok. No matter how I tried to speak, the words only came out as a whisper.

I turned my head towards the sound of my daughter's pleas. Please, Willy, please save my dad she cried over and over. I didn't know how she escaped the car still holding me hostage, but I was glad she was free. When I opened my eyes, the pounding in my head made it impossible to focus. I could make out Molly and what looked like a tall, heavyset man in a fuzzy blue sweater. Maybe he was the driver from the other car; he might even be the one who got her out.

The blue-sweatered man turned towards me and slowly started to approach. I wished he would hurry because I could feel my consciousness beginning to fail. The closer he got, the blurrier the world became. By the time he reached the door, the color blue was all I could see. I closed my eyes when the door was wrenched open; the rugged shake from this action was more than my head could handle. Then I felt my body drop.

I could hear Molly sobbing and, in the distance, the sounds of sirens. I slowly opened my eyes and gazed up at my beautiful daughter. I gave her a reassuring smile with a bit of effort; this seemed to calm her down some. I looked around the best I could. I was lying on the ground about twenty feet from the car. On the other side of the wreck was the small hill we had rolled down. I could see the flashing light of the fire rescue truck, but I didn't see any sign of the big man in the blue sweater; maybe he was up on the hill directing the firemen. I tried to ask Molly about him but could not get the words out.

After four days in the hospital, I felt a bit stir crazy. The dislocated shoulder left my arm sore and stuck in an uncomfortable sling, but that was nothing compared to the pounding headaches I suffered due to the concussion. How Molly was able to walk away from the accident without a scratch was nothing less than a miracle. The knock on the hospital room door snapped me back to reality. When the officer walked in, I was a little disappointed. I was hoping she was the doctor coming to release me.

The officer introduced herself and explained that she was the first cop on the scene. She had a few questions to ask to finish writing up her report. Upon completing her questions, she thanked me, then started walking for the door. I just then remembered the man in the blue sweater and inquired about him. The officer gave me a very perplexed look. She then scrutinized her notes and told me there was no one at the scene fitting that description. Now I was the one looking quite confused. I asked the cop then that if she did find out who he was, please let me know; I want to thank him for helping us out that night.

I've been home a little over a week now, and Molly has not talked much about the accident. The couple of times I tried to bring it up, she quickly changed the subject. I figured that it might just be best to let it go. She will talk about it in her own time and when she is ready. After all, for an eight-year-old, it must have been quite scary and traumatic.

Later that night, I went to Molly's room to tell her it was time for bed and found her weeping on the floor. I hugged her and asked what was wrong. Between sniffles, she explained that her special friend was gone and that she missed him. It took me a moment to remember that her special friend was the imaginary friend she created a couple of years ago after her mom had passed. The therapist explained it was just a coping mechanism to help her through the stressful times. I asked Molly where he went, and she told me she didn't know. Trying to cheer her up, I said that maybe he would come back. She sobbed even harder this time and cried out, he can't come back, and it's all your fault. Very confused and somehow feeling guilty, I ask why it was my fault. She explained that just before the car went off the road, her friend wrapped his arms around her so she wouldn't get hurt. When the car stopped rolling, he then helped her get out. She asked him to help me out of the vehicle but said that was against "no adults" special friend's rules. If he broke the rules, he would have to go away forever. Then with a loud sob, she cried out, I begged him to save you anyways, and now he's gone. Molly then buried her head into my chest and cried. Not sure what to say, I just held her tight till she fell off to sleep.

After breakfast, Molly gathered up her school bag, and I walked her to the bus. She didn't seem to be too affected by the events of last night. I, however, keep playing all that Molly said over and over in my head. Did the accident affect her more than I thought? I genuinely think she believes everything she says. It might be time to reach out to her therapist again.

The phone rang, and the man on the other end of the line informed me that the police finally released my car at the impound lot, and I could now get in it and clean out my effect. The car was too damaged to be repaired. I got to the lot an hour later and was in shock as to the amount of damage I was now seeing. It was the first time I got to view the car since that night. The back half of the roof caved in so much that the car booster seat that my daughter sat in was stuck. How did Molly walk away without a scratch? Walking around to my side of the car, I saw that something had forced my door open so hard that it snapped one of the hinges. I remember how violently the car jarred, but no one person could have done this. I know what I saw that night. It was just one guy. Thoughts of Molly's story keep popping in my head, but I know it can't be true.

After emptying the glove box into a plastic tote, I made my way to the back. A couple of Molly's books and her game system dotted the floor. Her favorite sketch pad was in the pocket behind the passenger seat. She had had this for some time now, and I'm sure she would be happy to get it back. I thumbed through the pad, thinking that this was the first time I'd ever done this; she had always kept it private. I got about three to four pages in and stopped. The picture sent chills down my spine.

I could not stop starring at the page in front of me. Molly had drawn a picture of herself holding hands with her imaginary friend. He was much bigger than her and covered with fuzzy blue fur. Below her likeness, she wrote her name, Molly, and below her friend was the name Willy Blue. The memory of Molly that night yelling, please, Willy, save my dad hammered over and over in my head.