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Chapter 57

Time became a wash of movement, a confusion of images. Impressions swam through his head. A house on a shady lane at the end of a road, jungle-gym bars, a faded salmon-pink shirt, the yellow cushion reeking of cat piss, him with his elbows propped on the sill, waiting. Mike Doe at the bay window blended into Katherine Smith at the bay window. My dad’s coming back.

You swore it, now. You swore it.

A film reel turned in his head, the run-on sentence that was his daughter’s life.

– her fist, hours old, around his pinkie, Where’s Kath-a-rine?, rocking her to sleep to the na na nas from ‘Hey Jude’, her baby tongue fluttering, scorched with thrush, the soporific pulse of the breast pump at midnight, goodnight chair and the red balloon, holding on to his leg, reaching for him to pick her up, him looking at-

– the sunlight through the windshield, so strong that he had to fight to keep his eyes open so he could see-

– a plaster of paris handprint, the pchhhhht sound of pouring imaginary tea, that No Tears scent, her going boneless in a grocery-store aisle, him struggling with the jointless arms, like trying to pick up water, crying the first time she watches Annabel get her hair cut, the movie-theater seat popping up beneath her tiny legs until he reaches over and holds it down, covering her eyes when the teapot shrieks, walking in his sneakers, in Annabel’s high heels, in his boots, and-

– the station wagon was off the road now, stopped, and he was slumped forward, his lips smashed against the top of the steering wheel. He looked down through the rip in his T-shirt and saw the glittering stick of his rib in the wash of blood at his side. The surrounding skin was fish white. He closed his eyes again and dreamed about how lovely it would be just to keep them that way.

You will come back for me.

I will come back for you.

He set his hands on the wheel and pushed himself upright. He was shuddering; his flesh was shuddering. He willed his arm to move, to throw the car into reverse. The station wagon thumped its way up out of the roadside ditch and onto the road, and he gritted his teeth, blinked the sweat from his eyes, took a creaking breath, and-

– then she is five, jumping rope, smiling at him, missing eyeteeth, the lavender dress with the flaking Disney princess iron-on she sleeps in until it grows brittle, the first time she can read her own fortune at a Chinese restaurant, round red-framed spectacles, the spring break she wants to eat only licorice, orange slices at halftime, the Abominable Snowman on the Matterhorn, High School Fucking Musical. You swore it, now. You swore it-

– a horn blared, bringing him back to life, but by the time he lifted a sluggish arm, the driver had skidded angrily around him and kept on, leaving him behind, coasting down the wrong side of the road. A flash of awareness told him he was driving about five miles per hour, and he did his best to send a signal to his foot to tamp down on the gas pedal. Sometime in the past few minutes, the pain had shifted to numbness. His flesh felt as hard and cold as ice. Vaguely aware of the loose photocopies fluttering around the backseat, he cranked the wheel, righting the station wagon’s course. The road looked wider, a real road now. The sun had notched a few clicks higher in the sky. Pins and needles pricked his fingertips and his breaths were shallow, almost delicate, the breaths of a newborn.

He closed his eyes for a quick prayer, but then, like magic, he has flown forward in time. He sees the future, and it is present. It floats out of reach, as fragile and elusive as a butterfly, and-

– there she is at graduation, the free spirit with the peace sign stitched to her gown who busts a dance move on the dais before shaking the principal’s hand, the pale blue sky filled with graduation caps, and then her wedding night, a speech from a younger sister, or brother maybe, Annabel squeezing his hand beneath the table, and the first strain of the song for the father-daughter dance, him rising, cameras winking from the surrounding tables, and there she is, his daughter, in a shower of white, he takes her gloved hand and-

The collision hammered him into the dashboard, his eyes flying open. He rolled to the side, his forehead leaving a smudge on the driver’s window. He noted the clean little homes spaced on the landscaped slopes outside, the old folks in their yellow golf shirts and beige walking shoes, pointing at him.

Through the wobbling sheet of steam rising from the crumpled hood, he saw the barely dented stucco pillar of the activity-center building and realized he must have been going only about three miles per hour. The car had ended up on some shrubs a few yards through the rear gate, a sad little terminus to a slow-motion journey.

A photocopied ledger page drifted dreamily past his face and settled on the dashboard. His lips barely moved. ‘Help me,’ he said to the wall of steam.

He heard whistles and footsteps, the rattle of a gurney, and at once a medical team was there, guiding him out of the driver’s seat, pulling at his arms, questions raining down on him:

‘Flank wound there, see?’

‘Were you shot or stabbed? Shot or stabbed?’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Any allergies?’

‘¿Hablas español? ¿Te pegaron un tiro o te apuñalaron?’

‘We need to roll him. Give yourself a hug now.’

‘… can’t…’ He forced the words out. ‘I can’t die. You don’t understand. My daughter… Katherine Wingate…’

‘Don’t move. Let us do the work.’

‘Pain here? Here? ¿Dolor aquí?’

‘Tenth rib, midaxillary line. We’re gonna need the blood bank.’

He heard what was left of his shirt rip away, and then leads plopped onto his chest. The pressure beneath his chin, he realized, was a cervical collar. ‘… in a foster home. Have to fix me.’ His voice was so hoarse and weak that the sound barely reached his own ears.

‘Open your mouth.’

‘Deep breath. Again.’

Now he was being rolled down a walk, past puzzled elderly faces and manicured flower beds. He passed by the rear gate, a sign drifting by, cheerily announcing NEW BEGINNINGS ACTIVE LIVING CENTER. That painted smiley-face sun winked at him.

‘Push six of morphine.’

‘… so I can get to her. Tell her mother… Annabel. Jocelyn Wilder is the name.’

‘Little pinch, okay? Good.’

Air-conditioning on his face. Overhead lights flying past, one after another.

‘He’s tachycardic, hypotensive, blood in his belly. He needs to get to the OR now. Who’s on call?’

Mike’s words were fainter yet. ‘My daughter… she’s hidden. Tell my wife… Annabel Win… gate…’

‘Dr Nelson’s in already with the shattered hip.’

‘He’s lost a lotta blood. I don’t know.’

‘… can’t die… without…’

‘CT?’

‘No time – he’ll bleed out in the scanner.’

A sturdy male nurse leaned over him, sliding a finger into his numb left hand. ‘Squeeze my finger. Squeeze. That’s good, that’s good.’

Mike focused hard on forming words, shaping his lips. ‘… Jocelyn Wilder… Parker, Arizona. Tell… my wife…’

The nurse leaned closer. ‘What’s that, pal? Tell your wife what?’

Our daughter is with Jocelyn Wilder of Parker, Arizona.

Right before time stopped, Mike realized that the words had not left his head.