Unbeknownst to Abby, as the temperature had dropped, the movement of the molecules in the fallen rain had slowed, causing the oxygen atoms to snuggle into orderly crystalline shapes—meaning that water pooling against the road’s surface on the upcoming curve was now a treacherous sheet of ice.
The car began to pirouette precipitously to the left. As it spun, its headlights strobed across a grouping of trees waiting at the road’s edge—two, three, four—and then the flickering light slipped over the bank and fell into darkness.
Abby sucked in a breath, tried to release, but her lungs refused to let go. A ripple of air wafted across her face—
or was it fear?—as the muscles in her body constricted. Her cramping fingers clenched so tightly, the leather wheel could also no longer breathe.
In the dark, Abby screamed.
The sun was up, though barely, as Carter pushed open the gate at the insurance company’s tow lot. It was triage for cars, a holding yard where the most heavily damaged vehicles were assessed. Carter preferred to come early not simply because there were fewer people, but because the light was softer. It made for better pictures.
Carter had a slew of accident reports on his docket, so he shuffled through his paperwork to find the first: a white Jeep Grand Cherokee. It was the only Grand Cherokee on the lot, so it was easy to locate. It was hit in the front, on the driver’s side. According to the report, the accident had been caused by an uninsured driver who ran a red light.
Carter stooped beside the car, bent to the ground to survey the undercarriage. It took only a moment to list the needed repairs: new side panel, undercarriage protector, and suspension. They’d have to pull the engine to check for damage to the camshaft fastener and the connecting rod, but that would certainly be doable. He’d itemize everything back at the office, enter it all into the computer, but he could tell already this vehicle was not even close to a total loss. Yes, it would require several thousand dollars’ worth of repairs and be in the shop at least a full week, but this car would absolutely be back on the road again.
With his notes complete, Carter snatched the company camera, a digital SLR, from his bag. He worked like a robot, snapping a picture from the front—click, the rear—click, and then each side—click, click.
Next up was a gray Hyundai Elantra. It had rear-ended a pickup truck on the freeway. The routine was the same. Assess the damage. List what needed to be repaired and what needed to be replaced. Take pictures to document accordingly, and then move on to the next vehicle.
The cars blurred. Reports were compiled. Notes were scribbled. Click, click, click. Next. Another, then another, and then another still.
Last up was a Ford Fiesta, red. This one, sadly, didn’t fare as well as the others. It appeared to have hit a tree or two—perhaps a power pole, because there was massive damage that raked both the front and side. Carter had handled enough accidents to know this car was spinning—rather violently, he guessed—prior to impact. He line-itemed the destruction: airbag deployed, mutilated side panels, three windows shattered with the glass gone, displaced front end, bent frame, and a broken axle. While Carter would tally the damage later, he already knew one thing for certain: this car was headed to the scrapyard.
He snapped the customary pictures—click, click, click, click—closed his file, and then glanced around. He was still alone in the yard.
His eyelids lifted. His lips followed. It was as if he were seeing today’s surroundings for the first time. Morning sunbeams dipped around the curve of a chrome fender, danced across the beam of a pickup’s tailgate, and then ricocheted in all directions through the prism of a smashed windshield. He may have even heard them snicker as they flittered away.
Carter pulled the camera to his eye, leaned in close to the Fiesta, bent low, and framed the mangled metal of the manifold. Click.
Next, he slid around to the front, nodded knowingly to the grill, then cropped ever so tightly as the metal melted into coffers of chrome. Click. Click.
Ripples in the roof became corrugated steel crags. Swells in the crimson hood morphed into dunes of Martian sand.
An artist was at work.
Carter was loose and relaxed, soaking in the sun so deeply it was leaving puddles. He kept circling his unwitting metal subject. Click. Click. Click.
He pried open the driver’s door wide enough to climb inside. It was a photographer’s wonderland: Click, the peppered grain of a leather-wrapped steering wheel. Click, a shot of fragmented glass that could be ice crystals. Click, a curve in the plump leather seat that was almost voluptuous.
And then, as he hunched over trying to focus on rumpled floor mats, he spied the corner of a photo pinched between the seat and the center console. He extracted it with two fingers slowly, carefully, like a new father handling his child’s first soiled diaper.
Personal items were usually retrieved before the insurance company tabulated damage. If adjusters did find personal articles left behind, protocol required that they note them in the salvage yard log, lock them in a designated bin, and then notify the involved parties so they could arrange for pickup.
Carter held the photo to the light. It was a picture of a woman—orphan eyes, slender nose, mid-twenties, wearing a soft floral blouse that must have been selected to complement her coordinating smile. There was a name written on the back: Abby McBride. Carter squinted as he tried to recall if that was the name of the insured. It didn’t sound familiar, but his assigned accidents were sorted by vehicle make and model, not by driver name. It was akin to a doctor who couldn’t place the face of a patient whose life he had saved but would long remember the threatening wound or medical condition.
Several seconds passed as Carter stared at the girl, the girl staring back, until the sound of an opening gate startled him. Lenny was arriving.
“Hi, Carter. Have you been here long?” Lenny asked as Carter climbed out of the car.
“Just finishing up.” Perfect timing.
Carter collected his gear, ducked into his own car, and then drove from the lot toward the office. Two blocks away, while waiting for a traffic light to change, he pulled out the picture from among his papers and gave it another protracted glare. It carried a puzzling question that was now crinkling his forehead and causing him to lean forward in his seat. The girl in the picture, Abby McBride, was likely the person who had been driving the totaled car.
Was she injured? Did she survive?
Mannie McBride edged forward on the mattress and then back. Trying to get comfortable in a hospital bed was like lounging on LEGOs. He was a large man with a determined frame, whose arms, chest, and head sprouted curls of gray hair. For a man who was recently rushed unconscious to the hospital, he appeared to be abundantly energetic. More important, as his niece who sat next to him had twice pointed out, the man donned a hospital gown with confidence, like an attorney attired in Armani.
Fitting the image, Mannie was grilling his niece like she was a defendant on trial.
“Headaches?” he asked.
“No,” Abby reassured.
“Back pain?” he wondered.
“None.”
“Bruises?”
She glanced up from her chair. Her head wobbled. “Actually, I am having a sharp pain I just can’t seem to get rid of—right here.” She pointed with concern to her posterior. “It’s a pain in my butt that is getting worse the longer you go on, so watch my lips and listen. I told you, Mannie, besides the slight bump to my head and a few scratches, I’m fine—though my Fiesta isn’t feeling so festive.”
“Any word from the insurance company?” he asked, relenting.
“They assured me an adjuster would be assigned and someone would contact me shortly.”
A distinguished-looking man in a white coat stepped into the room to interrupt. He was either the doctor or a lost cruise ship waiter.
Mannie spoke up quickly
. “Abby, this decent man is here to check my blood pressure. While he does, do me a favor. Run to the lobby and grab me a pack of those mints I love.”
Her eyes curled. “Which mints are those?”
“I don’t remember what they’re called. The whitish ones that say mints on the package.”
She studied him warily, hesitated for a moment, and then scooted out the door. When Mannie was certain she was gone, his lips feigned a grin. It was an errand that would buy him fifteen minutes with the man who had, in fact, come to deliver his prognosis.
Mannie turned now toward the doctor, who was waiting to make eye contact. The news couldn’t be good because the white-coated man was holding his clipboard like a shield. Perhaps he’d had a disastrous prior experience.
“Mannie, we’ve run some tests,” he finally said, “and we’ve confirmed that you have amyloidosis.”
“Amy-la-who?”
The doctor sat on the bed bedside Mannie, so he was either very tired or the news had to be very bad. The weary, white-coated man continued, “It’s a rare disease in which proteins are abnormally deposited in your body, not broken down correctly. They have accumulated in your heart, causing a thickening of the muscle walls. In your case . . .” his mouth puckered as if the words were suddenly bitter, “you have a type called light chain, and unfortunately it’s the most difficult to treat.”
Mannie was lagging a sentence behind. “My heart?” he asked.
“More than your heart. It’s rapidly clogging your liver, kidneys, and nervous system.”
Mannie’s chin lowered, but not because he was surprised. It was his body, after all, and since the fainting spells, the arm pain, and the dizziness—all of which had begun months ago—it suddenly made sense: a battle had been raging in his chest. The doctor confirmed it: battalions of his own cells were already in full retreat. Amy-whatever had flanked the line and was pillaging his organs like a Viking army. What Mannie didn’t know was the timing of the final defeat.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.
The doctor bowed, almost in prayer. His voice turned timid. “A transplant is the only option, but unfortunately . . .”
Unfortunately was a sad word, Mannie thought. “What is it?”
“With your other organs already affected, you won’t be a suitable candidate to receive a heart. Honestly, even if you were, I’m not sure your other organs would survive a transplant. There’s a chance, but it’s very slim.”
The next question was already waiting. “How long do I have, Doctor?”
The doctor stood. “Your heart is acutely enlarged, and based on my past experience—”
Mannie was getting impatient. “How long?”
“I’m sorry to tell you, Mr. McBride, but in truth, you’ll be lucky if you make it to Christmas.”
Business Alliance Deposit Insurance: the company name alone would put most people into a trance, which meant it was industry perfect—save for one minor issue. In the late ’90s, when acronyms were popular, the company’s rebranding rollout lasted only days until someone pointed out they were advertising B.A.D. Insurance. No heads rolled, but the CEO took an early retirement, and the naming mishap was still being laughed at in business school case studies countrywide.
The accident reports that Carter now typed—one after another, and without embellishment—were so straightforward and boring even the screen flickered like it might doze off. When Carter got to the Ford Fiesta, he had already filled in the case number, time, place, location, and contact information before he realized it was the car in which he had found the photo of the girl.
His neck pivoted as he examined the room. With no one watching, he slid open the drawer of his desk and took another glance at the girl’s picture, the photo he should have reported finding in her car. He knew by now she had survived. He’d checked the notes from her initial call to dispatch, which had confirmed that despite the damage to her car, she had escaped with no significant injuries.
Carter scratched at his chin. In the myriad of reports he’d entered over the years, he’d seldom had the opportunity to place a face with an accident. Perhaps that was why he’d kept her photo.
He tabbed to the description field, watched the curious cursor blink back as it prodded him. He placed the girl’s picture closer. This is Miss McBride’s accident, he thought. It seems only fitting she have a good view.
His fingertips touched the keys, then waited for direction.
One more look around the office. One more glimpse at the girl’s upturned lips.
If there were any hesitation as to what he would do next, it was squashed by the blandness of the surrounding room. The drab grey walls were so lifeless, they needed CPR. The carpet so hideous, it would scare a crack house. The cubicle fabric so neutral, Switzerland may move in and pick out furniture. Even the mandated music droning on in the background could cause the bravest of elevators to plunge to its own death.
How could they not comprehend that the weight of this place was crushing him? How could they not understand he was drowning?
Carter remembered his mother, her upcoming marriage to a stranger. It was a thought that was dashed to the floor by memories of his breakup with Darcy, his now ex-girlfriend. He’d read that disasters come in threes. What was next? An earthquake?
His fingers twitched. One last time his head commanded them to simply type in the mindless accident report as succinctly as possible and move on. His heart nudged otherwise. He turned to the photo sitting on his desk. “So, Abby,” he whispered, “tell me about your accident.”
She didn’t move, didn’t blink.
“What was that icy road like?” he asked.
He waited, as if the picture would answer, and it must have, because he began to tap at the keys.
Abby tensed, shuddered, and then shrieked. Lightning ripped the sodden, sleeting clouds like they were pieces of two-dollar fabric. The icy sheet crackled beneath the load of the helpless tires on the terrified girl’s car.
Carter’s chin lifted. His shoulders broadened. He inhaled an encouraging breath.
The car was sliding, shaking, sliding, as she gripped frantically at the steering wheel like a drunk grappling for his last drink—but it was too late.
He cracked his knuckles, flexed his fingers, rested them comfortably again on the anxious keyboard.
Through the black night she could make out the cliff’s edge, and in a remorseful second, she realized that all that separated her from an agonizing death was a small grouping of trees.
Carter edged closer to his screen. His eyes were barely slits. He could no longer hear the incessant background music. He had forgotten the fabric that draped his cubical, ignored the ugly carpet spread beneath his shoes, overlooked his lifeless office walls.
Carter was writing.
Beep!
An error box opened. It told Carter that the description field had reached its character limit. To continue, he had to tab his cursor to Addendum A.
He tabbed. He continued.
“So this is how it ends,” Abby thought as time slowed, as she felt the throb of each heartbeat, as each moment propelled her closer and closer to the cliff’s edge. In the remaining seconds, her storied life flashed before her eyes, and then, just before impact, as if she instantly understood that everything would be okay in the end—Abby smiled.
“Carter!”
Carter’s fingers quit typing. It wasn’t the voice of Lenny calling from over his shoulder, a notion that, for the first time ever, brought sadness.
“You’ve got exactly fifteen seconds to get into my office to explain what on earth you’re doing!”
The gray-suited man wearing the tie that didn’t match, the man with flushed cheeks and thrashing hands, the man who was currently squawking furiously at Carter, was Harold Rotterdamm.
Mr. Rotterdamm was Carter’
s boss.
The veins in Harold’s neck pulsed like a Def Leppard migraine. Beads of sweat crawled out of his hairline. Had it been ancient Rome and Harold’s office the Colosseum, Carter would already be missing an arm . . . or worse.
Carter waited in a chair while Harold brought up the offending file on his computer. The man clenched his computer’s mouse so forcefully, Carter thought he heard it squeal.
Harold opened the file, dragged the cursor to the description field, and highlighted the text so the men could read it together.
“I don’t know if you think you’re Mark Twain, or Stephen King, or . . .” Harold froze. His mouth was round, but no sound rolled out. It was obvious that his brain was searching desperately for another famous author—
anyone—but he was drawing a blank. Apparently, Harold wasn’t much of a reader.
Carter didn’t keep him hanging. “No, I don’t.”
He could try to explain why he’d been so . . . descriptive, but he wasn’t sure he could articulate the reasons himself. Besides, what would be the point? He was talking to a man who didn’t just love his job, his idea of an office party was to sort paper clips and link spreadsheets. Instead, Carter twisted the truth.
“Harold, I’m writing the accident descriptions with a little more flair for the benefit of those who read them later, to keep their interest. Is that so bad?”
Harold’s shoulders spun sideways as he wound up. His confident smirk announced that he could hit this one out of the park blind. “Read them later?” His eyes almost popped. “I’ve told you! Nobody is ever going to read them later!”
Harold coiled and swung again. “Carter, you used Addendum A! Nobody in the company’s history has ever used Addendum A!”
Carter wondered why it was there, considered asking, but thought the better of it.
“And another thing,” Harold added, raising a finger to match his voice. “You wrote that right before impact she smiled. Smiled? Why on earth would she smile?” His stare was a sword. He raised it, pointed, and then plunged for Carter’s heart. “That is just terrible writing!”
Christmas by Accident Page 2