Wrecked

Rain pummeled the road and thundered on the roof of his beat up Corolla. Even with the wipers slashing back and forth, his view was drenched in frothy water.

His flashers were dim and lonely beacons in the down-pouring darkness.

He slowed to a bare crawl and cursed every grueling inch of the damned I-95. He hated his entire commute with a righteous passion. Driving from Jersey to Long Island every day for work-- 50 minutes on a good day, up to 3 hours on a bad-- that was thorough hell.

He hated the river of cars and trucks-- he hated the taste of the exhaust choked air. He hated the show-off drivers with their flashy cars their obnoxious beats, and their reckless driving. He hated the pleasure cruisers who drove an oblivious 10 under the limit and blocked traffic and soaked up the sunlight with their shit-eating grins. He hated the relics who drove clanking, arthritic cars... He hated the construction workers. He hated the cops.

He even hated the other commuters when they carried no fault.

And on some subconscious level he must have hated the system that funneled so many people through such a toxic choke point.

On such a miserable drive, hate was his only recourse.

He struggled to sight the road through the wind-whipped sheets of rain. The storm seemed against him-- never mind the entire North East region being washed merciless hard-- to him, this was unfair. This was added time on an already grudged commute.

Still, there was nothing he could do to fight it. He was squeezed into this mode of life, and there was no way to for him to wiggle out of it.

The needle in his speedometer quivered at 20 miles per hour, and that felt all too fast.

He thought about pulling over to the shoulder and waiting it out, but this storm might last hours, and he was already eating away at the 1.5 hour buffer he gave himself for this miserable drive.

Hunched forward, he urged his vehicle on with quiet pressure on the pedal. If he made it safely through this ugly stretch of highway, he'd have the distinct pleasure of paying to cross the George Washington Bridge. He'd do the same again on the Throggs Neck. He was always quite glad to shell out some extra cash during his already grueling commute- honored in fact to make a contribution to the local pride-- the shining jewel-- that was the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey.

He thumbed the cash in his pocket, glorying in the knowledge that it would soon be gone.

He slapped his hand back to the wheel and clenched both fists.

The needle swiveled up to the 25 mark, and it was on the rise.

Better that they should have it. What use had he, a struggling father, for the money he had earned? The bridges had need. Taxes surely weren't enough to maintain such treasures. They justly required tolls as well. 100 million cars each year, each paying 15 dollars to pass. Why do the math, when he could just despair?

His life for the fucking Port Authority.

He had climbed to 50 miles per hour, only 5 below the speed limit.

He pressed the pedal harder, his cast a grim expression, illuminated by the livid blue glow of his dash... To an outside observer, he might have looked like an angry ghost.

An angry ghost that was now speeding through the driving rain, leaving a wake in the streaming rivers behind him.

He ate into the gently curving turn of the road, but his speed was too great.

His wheels slipped, first the front. He felt his steering wobble, then he felt the rear tires fish tail.

His nerves locked down tight, his mouth went dry. In a split second which seemed an eternity, he knew he needed to regain control of the vehicle. And he knew that he had to gently steer in the direction he was already going to get the wheels back in line with their trajectory, but every fiber in his body wanted to slam on the breaks.

... He did what he was supposed to, even though it felt so wrong. He gently coaxed his shitty car back under his control, a maneuver which carried him dangerously into the left lane.

A heavy horn blared from behind and it sounded like the very air around him was shouting condemnation. It was the frightening honk of an 18 wheeler, it rattled his already shaken body like a concussive blast.

Glaring lights raged past him, and a every passing wheel threw a tidal wave over his little car.

He came to a complete stop, panting for breath, in the middle of the road. He felt as though his soul had been drenched by the passing of the truck. He felt like a doused candle.

He caught his breath and remembered that he was now sitting in between two lanes, in a downpour, practically invisible but for the timid flash of his hazard lights. He crawled back through the right line and pulled off to the shoulder. He knew he should keep going, but his heart was beating a little too hard.

This was a warning sign. He had let his anger-- the anger he had for his commute get the better of him, and he'd been speeding in a storm. The hydroplaning was a slap in the face, and the truck nearly hitting him was a punch in the gut. But neither was fatal, like a crash at 60 miles per hour very well could have been.

Deep down inside his shaking body there was a powerless rage. But this feeling only radiated out as a frustrated kind of sadness. It spoke to him while the sound of the rain on the roof pulverized his ears.

He truly hated his commute, but there was no escape. His wife and son needed money, and in order to earn it he had to work.

But he hated the fact that he had to work an hour and a half away from his house, while other fathers and working mothers had the convenience of a 10 or 15 minute drive. In some cases they even lived close enough to walk or bike.

Some even worked from the comfort and peace of their homes.

Why not him?

Didn't he have what it took to make a better life? All it was supposed to take was hard work and a serious effort... but between a 50 hour work week, a 15 hour commute week, and two days of playing with his toddler son, he was too exhausted for the effort it took to make a change.

The idea of working on his resume and looking for interviews-- it was daunting. Prohibitive.

No, he had to stay where he was.

It didn't matter that his commute was hellish. It didn't matter that it was expensive. It didn't matter that it was dangerous.

He quietly supposed that it was only a matter of time and luck before he met with a screeching end on these damned roads. The same way people said that if someone lived forever eventually a mutated cell would slip past the T cells and take root as a cancer.

If you drove for an eternity, eventually you'd crash. Driving a lot increased your chances. It was just statistics and probability: units he'd failed in school, but which still terrified him.

He stifled a yawn and realized that shaken or no-- scared or no-- he had to get back on the road before his focus and his energy ran dry. Driving tired. That was a carcinogen for sure. The smoking of driving.

And he was very tired. He felt another yawn welling up, and bit it back.

He had to move this was not the kind of thing you could really wait out-- on the contrary. Time would only augment that fatigue.

He drew a deep breath and shook away his defeatism.

He had to get back to driving. So he did.

He checked his mirrors and saw the darkness was behind him. He pulled back onto the road.

And that small action emboldened him, he made himself a promise: overtaxed or no, he had to muster an unshakeable energy and put forth a stern effort to improve his life. Not just for himself, but for his wife and his kiddo.

A shorter drive wouldn't only mean a safer drive, it would directly translate to more quality time at home and a happier family.

It was simple enough to attend to, even if it was daunting. He'd look for an apartment near his work, and for work near his apartment. One of the two would simply have to give. In the meantime he'd drive as carefully as possible and hope for the best.

He still looked like a wraith in the blue dash-lights, but now his face had lost its angry glower. He frowned, the lines in his face seemed heavy, and his eyes were weary-- like a ghost who'd been haunting the same old places for far too long.

He wanted to be home, he wanted to be with his family, to see his son's smile and hear the music of his laugh.

He loved that little kid, loved his soft hair, and his hilariously short legs. Loved his tiny hands, and is wide-opened always amazed eyes.

He loved him so much that the mere memory of his son was enough to give him a warm fuzzy feeling-- a feeling which quite easily surpassed all others in terms of magnitude and import.

The rain still danced across the road in front him, and he knew if the boy were here he'd look at the rain with that pure awe and a contagious joy.

That thought lifted him just a bit out of his lonely funk, and helped him to set aside the hate, just for a time.

Then he was greeted by lights in the blowing haze. The cold, electric glow of the toll plaza for the George Washington Bridge.

He pulled under an awning, it caught and diverted the buffetting rain, and he nearly flinched at the sudden silence.

He rolled down his window.

A woman greeted him with the uplifting, wholesome, inspiring words, "fifteen dollars."

That old anger which had kindled so brightly before was back in a flash, but he subdued it out of courtesy.

She was an employee. She wasn't the problem.

He passed the bills to the woman behind the booth. She looked pitifully bored, so he tried smiling at her.

She looked back at him with a blank expression and said, "Have a good day."

He rolled up the window, and put his eyes back on the hated road. Beyond the awning, the world seemed absolutely apocalyptic: the storm a fury, loosed upon a quiet, pitiful earth. The bridge rose into the darkness. The night betrayed no hint of the bridge's grand, sturdy architecture. No-- braced by crushing darkness-- the road felt like a meager reed flung up in frail defiance of a yawning sky.

The trussed towers arched overhead, braced with pale light. They seemed the beckoning hand that welcomes the damned-- the main cables, the guidelines that hemmed traveling souls on the road to hell.

Suspension cables yearned towards the sky, like steel spines from some dead behemoth.

He thought he saw them sway...

No. Impossible.

He was tired. That was all.

He was tired and it was dark, and his anger had gotten the better of his imagination, and his imagination had gotten the better of him. These were just cables, and the tower of the bridge was just a tower. It was no gate to hell, and the George Washington Bridge was no grinning doom. It was just a fucking bridge.

A stupid fucking suspension bridge that cost 15 dollars to cross.

And then came the lightening and the thunder, right on top of each other.

A streak shattered the darkness on the farside of the Hudson River, it seared his eyes and left a purple scar on his vision. The thunder pounded his ear drums. The theatrics of the storm, both light and sound, seemed deadly clear and impossibly bold despite the smothering wind and rain.

It really was an incredible sight, and he perked up just to soak it all in- incase another flash tore the sky in two.

He felt the childlike awe his son showed for all things.

and...

He didn't realize that he had been drifting- through the center and into the right lane.

In fact, he only discovered his errant path by the jolting sound of his vehicle grinding up against concrete and steel-- against the guardrails which acted as a retaining wall for the traffic on the bridge.

His mind raced in disbelief and mortal fear.

He jolted back to the task at hand-- panic! He pulled the wheel hard to the left, causing the front tires to quiver and buck under the forward momentum of the car itself.

He was vaguely aware that his back tires had lifted into the air- only for a moment- but then they crashed back onto the wet asphalt, and that was glaringly obvious, even in his adrenaline charged state.

All the while he was painfully aware of the vast darkness which raged beside and below the bridge- he thought of the icy cold water into which he'd have plummeted if not for the guard rails. He thought of his death, and the horrible possibility that he'd never see his son again... that his son would never see him again.

And in that very same instant, his car whipped back from the shoulder, through the left lane and into the center.

He didn't even have time to wipe the sweat off his brow in relief, because that's when it happened.

His car lurched forward before a huge and imposing force, which rumbled and roared behind him. Blazing light flooded through the windows and caught the chaos in perfect suspension: shattered glass, twisted pieces of plastic, rain from the outside, and drops of spittle from his mouth: all erupted into the air in a storm which shamed the one outside. He was thrown forward and back and side to side with violent ferocity, he felt his seat belt dig into his shoulder, and he heard something which might have been his clavicle crack.

The front tires of his corolla screeched, and the axle buckled, while the back of the vehicle was lifted by the force of the truck behind it. The car was flipped like an omelet with him inside, he felt the rear rise and the front dip, like he was on a roller coaster riding a circle bent in on itself.

Then the car was airborne and upside down and the trucks headlights were glaring in his face while glass and other debris danced around peppering the ceiling with his own blood.

He braced himself, and wished he had been given a chance to hold and kiss his baby boy just one more time.

He felt a sickening lurch as Corolla fell back towards the surface of the road, roof first.

It hit.

He heard a crunch and then there was a heavy, devastating impact on the top of his head.

The world went out like a light at the flip of a switch, and everything ceased to exist.

***

***

A man woke in a desert of silent confusion. He knew nothing, not even his own self.

He worried profusely, but he didn't know about what. His frantic eyes bounced around his sterile and boldly lit environment. then focused on a beaming light which shown from someplace above him.

A clear plastic funnel was placed over his face, and secured over his mouth. Then a man with bushy, intense eyebrows loomed over him.

And the man went back to sleep.

When he woke again, he had a headache so intense it was beyond description.

He was still lost in a sea of confusion but he hardly noticed anything beyond the pain; if he could have reached in to his skull and scooped it out, he would have.

A figure, a human probably but he could not be sure, entered the room and asked him, "Mr. Wimbly do you know where you are?"

The voice was thunder in his quailing ears, he let out a groan of suffering and wished he would just pass out or die.

They started to do something to him, he was too weak to resist.

He began to cry, his weak and pitiful sobs were like hammer blows in his temples.

***

***

This time, when he awoke, it was as though he were completely encapsulated in an impossibly fluffy cloud. It was as if his very mind were filled to the brim with comfort, and he hadn't a care in the world. Voices might have been speaking, and faces might have been greeting, but they were nondescript-- mere droplets and particles in the cloud which hugged him.

He smiled, and was in immense peace.

***

***

Weeks went by. He was tended by doctors, and visited by family. But he remained very heavily drugged the entire time, and ultimately incapable of engaging them. To him it was eternity of weirdness, where faces stretched and squeezed through his vision. The furniture danced.

The throbbing agony in his skull slowly began to fade, and as it receded they decreased his dosage.

When the drug induced veil of stupor began to finally part, some few desperate inquiries made it through to him. His responses were at worst nonsensical and at best unhelpful.

When the Doctor Ronald, who'd been observing and treating him asked, "Jason do you know where you are?" He replied, "This is a salad." While holding up his thumb and index finger in the circular 'ok' symbol.

On one occasion his wife, asked him with tears in her eyes and a quiver in her voice, "Jason, do you know who I am?" he replied, "My name is Ronald."

Then he drifted back into another lazy sleep.

***

***

The days grew more lucid, and one day he awoke, with a clear mind. But it was empty.

With difficulty he sat up and looked around, he was in a... hospital room. A monitor was displaying his unknown readings. There was a blank television screen on the wall, a tray of food on one side of his bed, and a vase full of many colorful flowers on the other.

There was a large, clear window and two doors to the room- one which was marked as the bathroom, and one which must have gone to the hallway.

Beside him there was an empty chair.

The unmarked door swung in, and a doctor entered.

"Good morning Jason."

"Good morning."

The doctor smiled, "Tell me, do you know where you are?"

"A hospital." Jason strained at the frayed edges of his memory. "I don't know which."

"You are at Sacred Heart, in the Neurology unit."

"Neurology. Have I got brain damage?" He was suddenly struck with a curious sense of loss. He did a mental status check, the way a person might pat around at their body after being shot to check for holes. But he was feeling to see if his identity-- not his body-- was still intact, and this blind groping felt... oddly detached.

His name was Jason Wimbly. He was raised in upstate New York by Martha and Steve Wimbly. He had an older brother named Mark, and a younger sister named Laura. His first pet had been a bunny named Peter, but his favorite pet had been a black labrador puppy named Zorro.

He was a Store Manager at Halloway's in Long Island, and he lived in New Jersey with his wife Francis. They had a son named Michael...

But how would he know if he was missing something? Those were just the things he remembered, he had no way of knowing what he wasn't knowing.

The doctor smiled reassuringly. "Well that's what we are going to figure out. You suffered a serious head injury, We've got a lot to assess before we work on writing up a long term rehabilitation plan. Today we're going to work on assessing your memory."

"My name is Jason, the year is 2016, I live in New Jersey with my wife and son, their names are Francis and Michael. I work at Halloway's, my parent's names are-"

The doctor chuckled, and raised his hand, "Woah, woah Jason. Slow down just a moment. Though I am glad that you remember who you are and who your loved ones are. Very glad. Tell me what's the last thing that happened to you?"

"I remember being here I suppose, though I'm not sure for how long. It's all fuzzy and disjointed, like a painting that's been rained on."

The word 'rain' felt significant to him, but there was no telling why.

"Ok. You've had some surgery, and medication, so I don't expect you to have a clear memory of your stay with us so far, can you tell me what you remember from before? Before you were admitted here?"

He shrugged. "The last thing I remember, prior to the blur of treatments was... Kissing my son goodbye before getting in my car to drive to work. He was asleep."

Jason had a nagging realization that he wasn't panicked, despite learning that he had sustained a serious injury and possible brain damage. He was so calm in fact, that he hardly cared to learn what had actually happened to him, though at this point he deduced that it must have been a car accident. He noted, cooly, that he really didn't feel anything in regards to his situation.

He assumed that his ambivalence towards his own wellness was either a result of shock, or a residual effect of the drugs they'd administered.

"Well, you were in a car accident Jason. And truth be told it's a miracle that you came out alive. You had 3 cranial fractures- not to mention serious internal injuries in several other organs- and some massive hemorraging around the amygdala. That's the part of the brain associated with memory and emotions. You underwent three surgical procedures, one to drain the blood which was swelling in your brain, and two to remove bone fragments which had found their way into your medial frontal cortex. I'm pleased to say that upon initial evaluation, you appear to have made an astounding recovery!"

Jason nodded.

"Jason, you are lucky to have retained some of your core memories. Some people with similar injuries forget who they are, or forget the people they love. Even those who make nearly complete recoveries will often struggle with an ongoing impediment to the function of their short term and working memory."

The doctor was interrupted by a knock at the door.

A feminine voice called and the door opened.

Francis poked her head through, and Michael was in her arms.

The doctor beamed, and stood up, offering his chair. "Jason, your wife and son have been in to see you every day for the past 2 months, but until now you've been too heavily sedated to give them any relief."

Francis' eyes were blurred and shimmery. She looked like a portrait of worry with mingled lines of hope and despair.

She took the chair gingerly, and wiped at her tears.

Michael's eyes lit up when he saw Jason, the baby smiled and cooed.

"Jason-" Francis choked. Her voice was shaky, "Jason, are you ok?"

"I think so Francis. I remember everything. Well not everything. I remember a lot though. I think."

Her chest heaved, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Her shoulders slumped as if finally relieved of some great burden.

"Doctor, is he strong enough to... say hello to his son?"

"Daddy!" Michael's hands were squeezing the air in an obvious gesture of want.

The doctor nodded to Jason, "Jason, I'll leave that up to you. This can be an emotional moment."

Jason nodded, "I think I'm strong enough."

Francis stood and carefully laid their 2 year old across Jason's chest, "Now Michael, you be gentle with Daddy ok?"

"Ok Mommy," he replied. Then he gave his father a gushy hug and laid his young head on his shoulders.

Jason looked down at his son, and saw a smile.

But something was missing.

At first Jason couldn't figure out what it was, so he stared at Michael's smile for a bit longer to try to figure it out.

A look of uncertainty crept into the baby's eyes, and his smile faded. Then he started to frown, and his lip curled down in a little whimper. He buried his face in Jason's arm, as though he had done something wrong.

But Jason still couldn't figure any of it out.

Francis was biting her lower lip, she looked like she might be sick.

Michael risked an upward glance, but when his eyes met Jason's, he started to whimper once more. He buried his head and cried.

And Jason went on wondering what was missing, what had changed. Francis pulled Michael back to her and started to pat his back and rock him. It looked like she was sheltering the baby from him.

It hadn't even occurred to him to sooth the crying child. But then, he had no idea why the boy was crying to begin with.

He compared this recent moment- holding his son- to the many he'd had in the past.

And he realized what was missing.

Where was the joy?

When Michael had smiled, Jason hadn't smiled back... only looked.

Once upon a time, he had been overwhelmed with an almost painful love whenever he'd so much as glanced at Michael. But now that love was nothing but a memory, perfectly in tact... But no longer a living emotion. Emotion itself, seemed beyond him.

He looked at Francis, he saw her sobbing.

He looked at Michael. The boy was shrieking now.

And she ushered him into her arms, and turned and asked, "what is this?!"

And the doctor frowned. And stammered.

But Jason only watched, with remote curiosity. He didn't miss the feelings. Not really. But he mentally noted that the people in the room would probably be better off, and healthier if he could get those feelings back...

Or at least fake it for their sake.

He watched the boy sniffling and wiping his tears on the woman's blouse.

And Jason practiced what he figured would be a reassuring smile.

"Ok Mommy," he replied. Then he gave his father a gushy hug and laid his young head on his shoulders.

Jason looked down at his son, and saw a smile.

But something was missing.

At first Jason couldn't figure out what it was, so he stared at Michael's smile for a bit longer to try to figure it out.

A look of uncertainty crept into the baby's eyes, and his smile faded. Then he started to frown, and his lip curled down in a little whimper. He buried his face in Jason's arm, as though he had done something wrong.

But Jason still couldn't figure any of it out.

Francis was biting her lower lip, she looked like she might be sick.

Michael risked an upward glance, but when his eyes met Jason's, he started to whimper once more. He buried his head and cried.

And Jason went on wondering what was missing, what had changed. Francis pulled Michael back to her and started to pat his back and rock him. It looked like she was sheltering the baby from him.

It hadn't even occurred to him to sooth the crying child. But then, he had no idea why the boy was crying to begin with.

He compared this recent moment- holding his son- to the many he'd had in the past.

And he realized what was missing.

Where was the joy?

When Michael had smiled, Jason hadn't smiled back... only looked.

Once upon a time, he had been overwhelmed with an almost painful love whenever he'd so much as glanced at Michael. But now that love was nothing but a memory, perfectly in tact... But no longer a living emotion. Emotion itself, seemed beyond him.

He looked at Francis, he saw her sobbing.

He looked at Michael. The boy was shrieking now.

And she ushered him into her arms, and turned and asked, "what is this?!"

And the doctor frowned. And stammered.

But Jason only watched, with remote curiosity. He didn't miss the feelings. Not really. But he mentally noted that the people in the room would probably be better off, and healthier if he could get those feelings back...

Or at least fake it for their sake.

He watched the boy sniffling and wiping his tears on the woman's blouse. He watched the woman cry. And he thought about how his car was almost certainly totaled and he wondered with vague curiosity how much insurance would pay out. And he wondered how much his medical bills would be.

Then Jason looked again at his crying family and practiced what he figured would be a reassuring smile.

****

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