Through the Windshield Glass

by Kristen Day

  Through the Windshield Glass

  Kristen Day

  Text Copyright © Kristen M Day

  All Rights Reserved

  To Hannah:

  For being my Maria

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  I died early on a Monday morning.

  I was named Alice Beth Patterson. That was the name on my birth certificate, my driver's license; and consequently, my headstone and death certificate.

  It was late, dark, and my timing at an intersection was poor. James, my older brother, told me the newspapers called my passing 'A tragic waste of youth', and 'the last act of a dying race of good Samaritans'. If I'd died while sneaking out in the same way, I still would have been called a waste of youth and my parents would have been heralded and pitied for valiantly trying to mentor a struggling teen.

  It's funny the things you remember about your own death. I've talked to some people who remember the exact time, a certain smell not associated with their demise, a long forgotten memory that suddenly came to mind. I remember how my hands looked on the steering wheel of my car. Frigid, clammy, and stark white against the black of the leather wheel; my hands weren’t shaking, but I was burning up in the cool of the night.

  Chapter One

  The message tone on my phone went off, shocking me out of a terrible nightmare. I rolled my eyes and laid back on my pillow again trying to chase off the dream and return my breathing to normal, while silently cursing whatever drunk had accidentally texted me about how wasted he or she was.

  I reached over to my nightstand to turn my phone off so that I would be blissfully unaware of any continued texts when I realized the text was actually from my best friend, Maria.

  Maria was outgoing, ridiculously attractive and the only person from kindergarten I still liked. We'd been through everything together, but it was still hard not to hate her for being so perfect. I figured her text was probably to let me know how her date had gone the night before. That was typical of Maria, she didn't mean to rub in how attractive and dateable she was, but I wished for her to try harder sometimes. Nature had been kind to her, and because of that, male nature could not resist her.

  Sighing, I opened the text just to make sure she wasn't in some kind of trouble or hiding in the tree outside my window, waiting for me to let her in as sometimes happened after a particularly horrible date.

  My mom needs me. I'm going to go be with her, I'm sorry.

  When you ride a roller coaster you feel an intense amount of anticipation as you slowly begin to move forward; followed suddenly by a jolt of adrenaline and terror as you shoot to the apex of the track before hurtling towards the earth at a death defying angle. That's how it felt reading that text, except in this instance I didn't stop safely at my original starting point. My terror kept shooting upward the longer I stared at my illuminated phone screen.

  I kicked the sheets off and rolled out of bed, landing in a heap on the floor, all desire to sleep gone. I scrambled around on my dresser for my car keys while trying to pull a t-shirt over my tank top. I slipped on a pair of flip-flops by my door and dashed out of my room, down the stairs, and out the front door. I knew my parents would be terrified and wonder where I'd gone. They'd probably even call the cops, but I didn't care about the trouble I would be in when they found me missing from my bed. Mrs. Cole had committed suicide over a year ago, either Maria was making a very macabre trip to the graveyard, or… I didn’t want to think about the alternative.

  I sped through an intersection and down a side road that led to Maria's house, horror building all the way. I barely took time to put the car in park before I was rushing into Maria’s house; as usual her door was unlocked. I met no one as I bolted up the stairs two at a time and flung open the door to Maria’s room.

  Maria turned to face me with a sad look on her face, her father’s 9mm already against her chest. Her wild red hair stuck out from her face at odd angles, as though it too were terrified of what was about to happen. She was wearing a white sundress, looking placid, emotionless.

  “Maria, don’t!” I screamed, "You don't have to do this, your mom doesn't need you!"

  A single tear slid down Maria’s cheek, magnifying each freckle in its path for just a moment. It looked as though she were about to put the gun down, the muscles in her arm relaxed, but then something changed in her eyes. Her pupils grew so wide her normally deep green eyes were completely black and her resolve stiffened again.

  “I’m sorry,” Maria whispered.

  Gun to chest and chest to gun

  The trigger is pulled

  Her life is done.

  My ears rang from the sound; the last split second of Maria’s life dancing merrily in the silence around me, laughing at my agony. Maria’s blood echoed from the whole in her chest, spraying me lightly and leaving bright red freckles scattered across my face. She hung there for a moment, suspended between life and death, like an angel falling from heaven, graceful even in death. Red moved across the white of her dress, spread down her side and collected in a languid pool on the wood floor next to her.

  “Maria!” I screamed. I rushed to her and pressed my hands against her chest, I didn’t know what else to do. Someone must have called 911 because sometime in the chaos Maria’s father appeared in the doorway with paramedics nearby. Eventually, my position over Maria’s body was taken over by gloved hands while someone else led me out of the pink-walled room. Even though I could hear my replacement trying to save Maria, I knew she was gone. My sight was stippled with the image of Maria’s blood flying around her.

  Despite my shock, I knew I looked like someone straight out of a horror movie, I felt like it too. My hair was still ratted and sleep mussed, I probably had bags and mascara smears under my eyes, all that combined with my carefully coordinated outfit, terrified demeanor, and blood-soaked hands I probably looked half crazed. My appearance though, was nothing compared
to Richard Cole’s, Maria’s father. Dressed in a gray t-shirt and long navy pajama pants, he was standing just inside the door, watching with a lost expression as the paramedics tried to bring Maria back. Mr. Cole didn't look as bedraggled as me, but he was broken; the shattered pieces of his life hadn't quite reassembled from the devastating death of his wife. You could see it in every wrinkle and dimple on his face. He had been stripped of emotion and stood before us, raw and ghost-like, unsure if he could even continue breathing. The shock of his wife’s suicide crumbled the fragile remains of the man who used to be the definition of 'put together', Maria’s had kicked the fragments into the air and laughed in the face of the stony man.

  I, along with Maria's twin brothers, had been escorted downstairs so that we were out of the way. We watched quietly as a stretcher was rushed up to the bedroom and then held back tears as the same stretcher, occupied now by a black body bag, slowly descended the stairs in the hands of tired EMTs. Two quiet sobs burst forth from the boys’ mouth, but they stifled their anguish, held each other, watched, and listened.

  “We did everything we could,” a woman paramedic told Mr. Cole. She wouldn’t look at the boys; it would have killed her to see Hunter and Trevor staring at the cocoon holding their sister. It seemed like a reverse metamorphosis; Maria, a butterfly in her own right, had been reduced to a caterpillar by some unknown force.

  “Wait!” I cried desperately to the paramedics who were wheeling Maria out the door. They stopped and allowed me, with Mr. Cole’s nodded consent, to unzip the body bag.

  Maria’s familiar features filled my gaze. Her vibrant green eyes that had depicted love so often to so many, her mouth that had laughed more heartily than any, and her crooked nose, her only imperfection that somehow made her more perfect, were all still for the first time since I’d known Maria. There was nothing left of the radiant soul that had once inhabited this body, it was an empty house, devoid of life, and mercifully devoid of feeling. It was eerie, but I still couldn't believe it was Maria. This person was too empty, too quiet to be the girl I knew.

  Despair stirred the meager contents of my stomach; all at once I was vomiting and sobbing with no sign of ceasing.

  One of the paramedics came over to comfort me and held my hand as I purged anything and everything in my stomach. My head hurt, my eyes stung, my throat screamed for me to stop, but I couldn’t. I needed the emotional hurt to go away and the physical pain was cathartic. I was in control of that pain, unlike the pain emanating from my heart. I couldn't move, I could barely breathe; for a moment I considered holding my breath forever, but in an instant the thought was gone. I knew I could never do such a selfish thing. Besides, the paramedics wouldn’t have let me get away with it.

  My paramedic stayed and helped me clean the blood off my hands and face then told me I was not to leave the Cole's house until I had talked to the police. I should have listened, I pretended I was fine, but as soon as the paramedics began tending to Maria's brothers I slipped out, to this day I’m not sure how I did it. All I knew was that I didn't want to be around when Mr. Cole had to hold Hunter and Trevor and try to comfort them even though there would be no comfort for him.

  I really did feel fine as I was driving home. There was no dizziness, no confusion, I just felt hollow. Hollow and sick, but I pushed those feelings aside and focused on my driving. I came to yet another red light, and let my car roll carefully to a stop. I waited quietly and patiently for the light to change. My heart was beating slowly and steadily now, constantly reminding me just how alive I was. Rain began free falling from the gray abyss above me, as though the sky itself were mourning along with me. The light changed. I slowly inched forward off the line.

  The moment I was completely in the intersection, I knew that something was wrong. I looked to my left, and watched as something came at me so fast I didn't even have time to scream. I watched my hands, calm and ghostly pale, fly off the steering wheel. The airbag deployed painfully against my chest, oxygen rushed from my lungs and the air around me was too thick with debris for me to draw breath again. The car circled in the air, my neck cracked backward from a second impact, pain erupted magnificently throughout my entire body; then mercifully, everything was silent.

  Chapter Two

  I knew that was the end for me, and it should have been, but then I started hearing voices. It took a while to sort out what was being said, and even longer to decide if what I was hearing was coming from an actual conversation or the disturbed mutterings of my damaged brain.

  Someone was talking to my parents, "Alice was hit by a drunk driver in a large truck," the voice told them quietly, "She's in a coma now, but it's unlikely that she'll ever wake up, and even if she does, she won't be the same Alice. There's an overwhelming chance that she will be a vegetable and have severe lasting brain damage. I'll leave you alone so you can decide what to do."

  I heard my mom stifle a sob. I fought against the morphine drugging my system. I knew it was keeping me out of physical pain, but I wanted to see my parents one last time more than I wanted comfort. I was conscious while at the same time, completely unconscious and unable to force myself into wakefulness. I passed hours like that, fighting against the medicine, but to no avail. I knew each second I struggled against it I was shortening my life exponentially, but I didn’t care. I knew I wasn’t going to want to live if I would be trapped in an immobile body for the rest of my existence, and if I were going to die I had to say goodbye.

  Finally, after what seemed millennia, the voices started again. My mom was crying heavily while my dad explained to the doctors they felt it would be best for me if I were to be taken off life support. That did it, I had to see my parents before they did that, I had to make sure they knew they weren’t taking my life away from me and that it was my choice to leave so they didn’t have to deal with the fear that they had taken away any chance I had to get better.

  It shouldn’t have been possible, but I was able to force my eyes open. My dad was holding my mom tightly against his shoulder. I could see her shaking with sobs and softly saying, "Why, Andrew? Why?"

  "I don't know, Linda," my dad replied softly. I knew my dad was crying too, but he wouldn't let my mom know that, not for the world. I struggled to open my eyes wider; the glare of the artificial lights on the too-white walls of the hospital room blurred my vision until I could only make out my parents as two, bleary, angelic shapes.

  “Daddy," I asked. It took more effort than I thought it would to push air past my vocal chords.

  The sound of my raspy, sick sounding voice startled my parents. Both of them stared at me, dumbfounded, unsure of what to do.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but Maria, she--” tears spilled from my eyes, and the painful knowledge that Maria had died constricted my chest. The tears fell fast and hard like the rain on my windshield, I couldn’t summon the energy or desire to wipe the tears. I sniffled and blinked away the pain and tried to muster up a smile for my mom, but it hurt. Everything hurt. My body begged for me to fall back under the spell of the morphine until I was unplugged, but I kept fighting for my mom.

  My mom rushed over to me and attempted to take my hand, but it was so covered in tubes, and bandages that it was impossible. She settled for resting her palm on my right cheek. It seemed to be the only part of me that wasn’t hurt. Her hands were cold and wet from her own tears, but it felt good to have something so alive and loving near me. My back throbbed painfully and realized it wasn’t just my lack of motivation that was keeping me from moving, I physically was unable to move a muscle and something else was breathing for me. I knew I didn’t have long.

  Up close I could see how bad my mom looked. Her mascara was running, her gray streaked hair stuck out of her normally tight bun at odd angles; she looked about twenty years older.

  “Don’t apologize, you did what anyone would do,” my mom whispered, “Are you going to be okay?”

  “Of course, Mom, yeah, I’ll be okay,” I replied. It was a blatant lie
, my dad knew it too, but he kept nobly quiet for my mom's sake. That was Andrew Patterson at his best. He'd always reminded me of the rocks at Easter Island, he stood taller than most, reeked of authority and wisdom, and yet everything about him was unexpected. He didn't become the way he was, he was just born stoically strong, wise, and rock solid. It made him a phenomenal lawyer and an even better father.

  My dad joined my mom in placing his hand atop hers on my cheek.

  “Where’s Lacey?” I asked, “And James?”

  “I’m right here,” I hadn’t seen Lacey until that point, she was sitting out of my sight and must have been asleep until she heard the talking, “James is on his way.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry I left,” I said. My throat was tight with emotion and tubes, giving my voice a huskier quality than ever before. I wanted to see James, but I knew he wouldn’t make it in time.

  Lacey choked on a sob while shaking her head, she tried to smile but couldn't.

  Lacey didn't look her best either. Her face was sans the minimal amount of makeup she normally wore, her black hair was knotted into a bun, messier than my mother's, and she was still wearing her pajamas. I felt bad, immensely guilty for what I had done to Lacey, I shouldn’t have left her, I should have called Maria’s house, but I hadn’t been thinking. I’d cost myself my life and given my sister the grief and possible guilt she might feel for not being awake to stop me.

  Lacey shook her head; she didn’t seem capable of speech as she tentatively placed her hand on my cheek as well. My family's hands were heavy, but it felt good to have them near me; their pulses beating through each other and into me. I could feel my heart straining to thrum; my dad knew first, followed quickly by Lacey, and finally my mother. My heart rate monitor started to slow, while all the other machines I was hooked up to began to shout warnings. Within moments doctors and nurses were pouring in, all looking ready for a fight.

  Sterile hands began working on me, I mouthed ‘I love you’ to my family and tried to ignore my failing body. It was all I could do as the throes of death took hold of my body. Tears streamed down my face, salting fresh wounds and tickling my neck. In unison, my family crossed their arms over their chests, held up their fingers in the 'I love you' sign, and finally blew me one last kiss. The last thing I saw as death embraced me were three flying kisses, communicating all the love my family had in their hearts for me. I imagined myself being zipped into a body bag and placed in the morgue next to Maria. We would lay there in our cocoons, like dormant caterpillars waiting to break free but forever bound; one last slumber party.