Twenty More Minutes
Flung off the road by speed and ice, my car smashed into the trees, ricocheting like a pinball. Battered by the brutal violence of the crash, it took me a moment to realize that the car had come to a rest, pinned against a tree, upside down. The engine hissed in weak acquiescence as its wheels spun, slow and hopeless, somewhere above me. Below me, a bed of crumbled safety glass glittered in the soft, evening light and my dripping blood splashed like abstract art. Hot oil and engine fluids leaked into the dirt, giving the fresh, cool air an acrid taint.
Though crushed into my seat by the steering wheel and dashboard, I felt fine. I thought I might shimmy out of the wreck and walk back up to the road, but I found that I was unable to move anything but my head. I knew that was bad, but I also knew that I still had a little time. Maybe the twenty minutes they always said you had.
The sounds of the forest were returning now that the echoes of the crash had faded. Birds sang their evening songs and a breeze shuffled the fallen leaves. Deeper in the woods, I thought I saw the dark, blurry shape of a man standing in the shadows between the trees. I called out, pleading for help, but my voice was barely louder than the insistent ticking of the cooling engine. When I blinked to clear my eyes, the man had vanished into the dusk.
Stephanie would just now be arriving home, turning on the lights, feeding Ruby, and wondering about our plans for dinner. We’d been wanting to try that new whiskey bar serving Mexican tapas and country songs, but hadn’t found the time. Or maybe the kids would come by and we would grill burgers in the backyard, sipping beer as the sun set. They always complimented me on the grilling, but I knew it was a conciliatory prize. The magic that made those burgers so delicious was all Stephanie. It always had been.
The dark shape of a deer moved between the trees just a dozen yards from me, a little closer than where the man had stood. When it suddenly darted away, bounding into the shadows, I thought for a moment that maybe someone was coming along the road and would see the wreckage, but no one came. I had taken the little-traveled backroad to avoid the rush-hour traffic. It took longer, even longer than the jammed main roads, but it was far more enjoyable.
I remembered our last trip to Hawaii. The hotel’s pools had all been connected by canals and slides, and we’d rented a private cabana next to a small pool with a view of the beach and the sparkling ocean. We laid about in the cabana, talking and reading, the kids playing music on their phones, trying to find rap songs that Stephanie liked. When the heat became more than the margaritas could handle, we hurried across the hot concrete and jumped into a pool. We stood at the corners of a lopsided square and threw a football back and forth. Stephanie often threw it short, the ball splashing cool water into my face, her apologies almost as loud as her laughter.
As the shadows of sunset crept through the woods, I saw a low, dark shape, smaller than the deer, slip between the nearby trees. I didn’t feel fear exactly, but rather a sense of apprehension—and loss. I tried to focus on it, to understand it, to see it for what it was, but it evaded my knowing. I stared as hard as I could at the shadows between the trees but a barrage of memories soon overwhelmed me.
Stephanie had been my sister’s best friend in grade school, before we moved away. We didn’t connect then, but by the time she visited us in high school, things had changed. Her bare legs flashed in the sun as we walked on the shore, and when she smiled, I knew I would follow her anywhere.
— The dark shape, an animal of some sort, watches from the trees.
We traveled across the country, young and alive and impetuous. We drank milk from the carton and danced to music under the stars. We found a little apartment where we would dream on a cheap futon laid bare on the floor.
— The animal circles behind the wrecked car, sniffing at the dirt.
One of my favorite dreams was the one where Stephanie and I are well into our so-called golden years and we visit our kids during a holiday. After a big meal and a bottle of wine, we all take a walk in the last of the daylight. Stephanie and I hold hands while the snow falls around us and the kids tell us about the latest in their lives.
— It rustles the leaves alongside the car. It’s so close.
There is still so much to do. So much more to feel. I can’t believe it’s over—that I leave her like this. Soon, she’ll check my location on her phone, but by then the dry sun will have set. I think of the kids and their brilliant lives ripe with dreams. They’ll be there for her, and she for them.
— It’s right next to me and I smell it, earthy and wild.
The dark shape suddenly steps into view and I see now that it’s our dog Ruby, wagging her stumpy tail. She carefully steps over the safety glass and leans in through the side window. I remember when Stephanie brought her home on a bright Christmas Day so many years ago. The kids had been delighted by the excited black puppy running in circles around their presents. I remember long walks along grassy trails next to flowing creeks. I remember Stephanie holding a stick while Ruby crouched beside her, alert and quivering, ready to give chase.
Ruby sniffs at my wet face and I wish I had another twenty minutes to remember just a little more, but the pain is starting to creep in, and I hear myself groan as I close my already shut eyes. I try to whisper “good girl,” but my voice is now nothing more than an empty husk. I know it’s time. Ruby leans closer, and with a wet, gentle lick to my cheek, she herds my last breath into the cool, quiet night air.
