The Accident

1 Everything seemed different at night I thought as I left the expressway and merged onto the county road. Mysterious and unfamiliar. Places that I passed during the day appeared to be strange and distant as if I were in a foreign land. Although the underbelly of the city thrived at night; not so here in the dark rural county where it was eerie and the silence sent shivers. I wiped the sleep out of my eyes and swallowed down the bile that gagged me, keeping one hand on the steering wheel as I drove to the accident. It was 3:00 AM on a March night. Technically early morning I knew, but to me, it still was my night until the sun rose. What was taking so long? I’ve driven this road many times before. I didn’t think it was this far away. But I wouldn’t have missed the police car’s flashing lights nor that of the ambulance. I knew I was on the right highway. I couldn’t have passed them. Absently, I glanced at my odometer. Little good that did since I didn’t check the mileage when I began, minutes after I was awakened by that telephone call. When you’re anxious and eager to get somewhere it always takes longer than it should. Up ahead I saw the spotlights from the first responder vehicles parked on farmland near the side of the road. Psychiatrists normally don’t go to the scene of an accident, but I turned off the road and pulled onto the shoulder. I got out of my car and trudged through the brush, the wind blowing my hair, eager to talk to Detective Reginald Rollins who had summoned me. He stood with his back to me, facing the overturned car, his open trenchcoat flapping in the breeze. I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned toward me, his hand blocking the beam of the headlights from his eyes. “Quick, but not quick enough,” Reggie said, his face heavy with sadness. “He’s unconscious.” “He asked for me?” I glanced at the paramedics who were arranging the victim on a stretcher. “He said he wanted to talk to Grant Garrick.” I shuffled over to the victim and was startled by what I saw. Seized by a jolt to my gut, I doubled-over. Took a deep breath. “Can you lift the mask for a moment?” I asked the paramedic. He lifted the oxygen mask revealing a face full of lacerations and a sizeable head gash. I gagged, spun around and darted to a bush where I unloaded last night’s dinner. Wiping my mouth with my sleeve, I stepped over to Reggie. “Recognize him?” “Yeah,” I swallowed, “Cole Hempstead. Doc Hempstead’s son.” “The shrink?” I nodded, still working to steady my breathing. It was too soon. Coming upon such a traumatic scene was sickening at any time, but impossible after Kevin. I fought to consciously will myself to cope. He jotted the name on a small notebook he took out of his suit jacket. “I’ll call that in. Check out the woman.” “Woman?” He motioned with his head. “In the body bag.” I’d seen the bag lying on the ground, but so preoccupied with who the young man might be, I never gave it a second thought. I moved over to the body, weaving around the forensic team scrounging for evidence, and waved the young female paramedic over and asked her to unzip the body bag. My stomach curdled in cadence with each downward notch of the zipper. She was Lara Stewart, my new patient, who I had recently seen for the first time. Thunderstruck, I was temporarily incoherent. A young, beautiful life had ended. What was she doing with Cole Hempstead? Reggie came over and took me out of my own world. “Did you recognize her?” “No,” I said, automatically as I needed time to think this through. “She looked familiar, but I can’t place her for the moment.” “We’ll figure it out. Should you remember, let me know. One hell of a waste.” A hell of a waste. One beautifully vibrant woman in the prime of her life. And what was she doing with Cole Hempstead, I asked myself again. I vigorously shook my head as if the movement would realign something that made sense. It didn’t. The internal fog was thick as ever. “Tell me what happened?” Reggie removed the cigar butt from his shirt pocket, slid it in his mouth, lit it and brought it to life. “Best guess, drinking and driving, probably drugs, too. He was driving too fast for the curve, lost control, rolled a couple of times, and slammed into a tree. Paramedics had to cut the kid out of the car.” I cringed. The accident didn’t have to happen. Lara Stewart was dead. Cole Hempstead was critical. Only time would tell if Cole would survive and how he might be affected. I watched the EMS team lift both Lara and Cole into the ambulance and speed off to the hospital. Then I returned to my car and finished barfing before I got in and drove home.