by Various
“Shit.” He glanced at his watch. 3:01. His daughter’s game started in twenty-nine minutes, and the field was all the way up in the Mountain Lakes neighborhood. Even if he got on the freeway now, he’d be lucky to make the first pitch—traffic through downtown always sucked on Fridays. But the chiller installation had already been shoved back twice. If they didn’t get those frigging banes of his existence installed by the walkthrough next week, he’d have a shit storm of angry engineers on his hands.
Resigned, he headed for the trailer. At least Haley’s team was the home team. If he hurried, he’d be able to make her first at-bat.
Fifteen minutes later and with steam shooting out his ears, he punched the gas pedal to make the light at the I-5 entrance ramp. Giving a covetous look to the HOV lane, he wove his way north until the density of traffic and the size of his F-350 forced him to adopt the same snail’s pace as everyone else. Forty-five frigging miles per hour in the fast lane. Frigging Fridays.
Finally, the brick and glass of downtown Redding gave way to tall pines and expansive parks, and the exit for Mountain Lakes came into view. He checked his blind spot to merge, finding a tiny red Honda in his way. He hit the gas to zip in front, but the Honda sped up too.
That’s when he noticed the Honda’s turn signal blinking away. The driver also wanted to merge into the right lane, but wouldn’t pull the trigger.
Derek had to slam on the brakes as the traffic in his lane slowed. The Honda came up alongside him, all but invisible out his window except the tip of the antenna. “Goddamned idiot!” he shouted. If he didn’t get over right now, he’d miss his exit.
Pressure built in his lungs. No one was going to stand in the way of his getting to Haley’s game, especially some idiot who ought to have his license revoked. He hung back to give the traffic in front of him a chance to gain some ground. When he had enough room to work with, he hit the gas, trusting his 255 horses to power him past the Honda. The second his rear bumper cleared the nose of the matchbox car, he whipped his truck into the middle lane with a well-calculated yard to spare. Without wasting another thought on the driver in the Honda, he zipped into the right lane and exited.
A crash sounded behind him. His eyes darted to the rearview mirror.
The green Cherokee behind the Honda had rear-ended the little car and sent it careening into the fast lane. The Honda skidded sideways and a blue Outback smashed into the driver’s side without braking. The Honda lurched into a roll. The roof collapsed as it rolled once, twice, started a third roll.
“Jesus.”
The Honda’s windshield broke out.
He glimpsed the white of an airbag.
Cars swerved to avoid the catastrophe. The traffic behind the accident ground to a halt.
He’d come to a stop on the exit ramp, his boot grinding down on the brake pedal, a kneejerk reaction. The momentum of the crash brought it up even with his window. It looked bad.
He should get out and see if everyone was okay.
There was no way everyone was okay.
“Shit.” His foot moved to the gas. He floored it, heart pounding.
Chapter 2
“Dad. Dad! Hey, Dad! Did you see my catch?”
Derek blinked away the image of the rolling Honda and turned with open arms to Haley as she scrambled up the bleachers. She hugged him around his neck and he held her a little tighter and longer than usual. “Yeah, honey,” he lied—the crash had been replaying in his mind, blinding him to everything except the double Haley had hit in the third inning. “You were great out there. That hit was awesome! I’m so proud of you.”
“Too bad we lost, though.” She sighed.
He lifted her maroon ball cap by the bill and ruffled her hair, blond like his. Deidre’s was blond too. Not naturally, but the color looked good on her. They’d looked like three peas in a pod when they’d still been a real family. He kept a three by five of their last family portrait taped to his plans desk wherever the job site happened to be. It had been taken two years ago. They’d all dressed in jeans and white t-shirts that day before heading to Crescent City Beach to sift the cool sand between their bare toes and let the ocean breeze muss their hair. The only rich color in the picture had been Deidre’s fire-engine red toenails. He’d set the camera to take ten pictures, and they’d all made funny faces until the last couple of flashes. The picture taped to his desk was one with funny faces.
“Da-ad! I hate when you do that when I have a ponytail in.” Huffing, Haley yanked out her hair tie and redid the ponytail. She bounced off to chat with her teammates, waving at her mom as she went.
Deidre made her way over from the other side of the bleachers, looking expensive in designer jeans and heels. Her tablet rested in the crook of her arm—she’d probably been working during the game. If he’d tried that, she’d have nailed him for it. “Everything okay?” she asked. “You looked distracted the whole game.”
She hadn’t been working too hard to judge him for not paying attention and any number of other old sins. Same old Deidre.
“Fine. Just a long day at work.”
“Well, thanks for coming out. It means a lot to her.”
“I hate when you do that shit.”
His ex-wife’s eyes went from cordial to icy. “Watch your language. You’re at a Little League game. And no cursing this weekend. I caught Haley saying ‘Dammit all to hell and back’ the other day. Sound familiar?” Her red lips pressed together in the smug expression she’d mastered over ten years of marriage to him. “And do what, Derek? What did I do by thanking you for coming to your daughter’s game that bothered you so much?”
“Are we going to do this?” he asked her. “Here? Now?”
“You started it. You and that hair-trigger temper of yours. You take everything I say and make it some kind of judgment. I’m not judging you. I’m not your enemy.”
“Oh, I am sick of your holier-than-thou sh—Hey, sweetie! You ready to go?”
Haley skipped to his side, saving him from trying to put into words how Deidre always made him feel like he was trying to do her and Haley some kind of favor by acting like a dad. He didn’t care what Deidre thought of him. He didn’t come to the games for her thanks. He came because he loved his kid and wanted to see her play ball.
“Time for floats,” Haley informed him.
“You heard the lady,” he said with a smirk at Deidre. “We’ve got to run. Root beer and ice cream awaits!” He gestured dramatically, like a superhero in a cape, earning a giggle from Haley and an eye-roll from Deidre.
Mother and daughter hugged their goodbyes, and he had his Haley-girl all to himself for the weekend.
“Buckle up, sweetie,” he said after she’d scampered into the cab of his truck. Seeing her sitting there so small in the cavernous space made his throat tight. She looked so vulnerable with the big strap of the seatbelt slashing across her body. What if she’d been with him today when—no, he wouldn’t follow that train of thought. Besides, he hadn’t been hurt. His truck hadn’t even gotten a scratch. If Haley had been with him, she’d have been okay.
But she’d have seen the accident. She’d have known he was partly responsible.
Or was he? He’d been careful. He’d known he had the room to merge. It wasn’t his fault if other drivers on the road didn’t pay attention.
That’s right. It was the other drivers.
The indecisive idiot in the red Honda. The tailgater in the Cherokee. The driver in the Outback, who had probably been on his cell or something.
But still. Haley would have been scared to see something like that. Thoughts of what could have happened if she’d been with him sapped the joy he usually had when he got to spend time with her.
Great. Now the idiot driver in the Honda was ruining his time with his daughter.
“Frigging timid drivers,” he muttered.
“Da-ad, mom says you’re not supposed to say that word.”
Shit. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “Sorry, hon.�
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“S’okay,” she said with a shrug.
He vowed to watch his language for the next forty-eight hours. He also vowed to be more wary of idiots on the road. He had precious cargo to protect. “Ready to roll?”
“Yup.” She mimicked his super-hero gesture. “Root beer and ice cream awaits!”
* * * *
“Night, Haley-girl,” Derek said with a kiss on her forehead. “I love you.”
“Night, Daddy-man. Love you, too. Sleep tight.”
“You sleep tighter,” he said, closing the door to the office-slash-guest-room, where she slept on a futon on Friday and Saturday nights.
Normally he’d stay up for a while and watch the end of the A’s game or a boxing match, but an uncharacteristic fatigue dragged at his limbs. He didn’t even feel up to his usual bedtime workout. Instead, he pulled on some old sweats, took a beer to bed with him and listened to the A’s on the radio.
The accident had replayed in his mind all evening, distracting him from Haley’s enthusiastic stories about her week. She hadn’t seemed to notice, but the memory had kept him from fully enjoying his girl on one of the two precious nights per week he got to spend with her.
Taking a swig from the bottle, he wished that frigging timid driver were here so he could give him a piece of his mind. That’s what the problem was; he was a verbal kind of guy, and he hadn’t been able to tell that asshole off. If he’d had that chance, he’d be over the inconvenient memory by now.
Sometime after the start of the ninth inning, he nodded off. He hardly ever dreamed, but tonight, he got a front-row seat to the accident. Only this time, he found himself behind the wheel of the Honda.
He sat rigidly forward in the bucket seat. His hands clamped the steering wheel like they were welded on. They looked unnaturally small to him but he couldn’t think about that now. He had to merge or he’d miss his exit and be extra late getting to Mrs. E.
Mrs. E? The only Mrs. E he knew had been his second grade teacher, Mrs. Espinoza. He had one of those moments where he knew he was dreaming, but for some reason, the knowledge didn’t relieve the anxiety bunching his muscles and fraying his nerves. Nor did it quiet the refrain of, Stupid, stupid, stupid, what was I thinking? going through his head.
His gaze darted between the mirrors. He craned his neck to check his blind spot again.
Did he have room to merge, or not? That black car looked to be coming too fast. Better to play it safe and wait.
Okay, the black car passed. Now? He checked his blind spot again. Another car surged forward. Why was everyone going so fast? Wasn’t the right lane supposed to be the slow lane?
A flash of white slid in front of the windshield, blocking out the highway. The blue oval of a Ford logo looked as big as a road sign. It couldn’t be more than a couple of feet from his bumper.
Oh, God! It’s too close!
A scream caught in his throat as he tapped the brakes, but adrenaline made the tap more of a stomp. The front end of a Jeep zoomed up to fill the rear window.
Crash!
The wheel jerked in his hands. His car skidded sideways into the fast lane.
Terror flooded his mouth with the taste of pennies. He should have known better than to take the highway. He didn’t belong here, in this fast world of dangerous moving metal.
Crash!
The world turned upside down. Screeching brakes raked his ears. White stars filled his vision as the airbag hit him in the face. Something hard and heavy smashed into his head. Pain lanced his skull. Deafening crashes punched into his consciousness, one after another as the car rolled.
Dizzy. He was so dizzy.
Someone shook his shoulder. He swatted the hand away, frantic, afraid. Then he was alone, his body strung tight and covered in sweat.
He was sitting up in bed, propped up with pillows. An ad for one of those second-rate insurance agencies grated from the radio. Someone was breathing heavily nearby. He turned his head toward the rasping sound.
Haley. Pale. Eyes wide.
He clicked off the radio with a shaky hand. “Hey, honey,” he tried to say, but the terror of the nightmare made his throat tight.
“Who was she?” Haley asked, her voice a scared whisper.
He licked his lips. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he became aware of the empty beer bottle between his thighs. He’d promised Deidre he wouldn’t drink in front of Haley.
He really ought to start setting a better example for her.
He put the bottle behind the lamp. “Who was who, honey?”
“The woman who tried to wake you up.”
He frowned. “Just a dream, hon,” he answered automatically. Yes, that sounded right. Haley must have been dreaming, like he had. “Just a dream,” he repeated, finding comfort in the words as the echoes of groaning metal and crunching glass faded away. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Want me to tuck you in again?”
She nodded. “Why were you crying?” she asked as she took his hand and pulled him from the bed.
“I was crying?”
“Uh huh. Like a little girl.”
“Hey, you’re not allowed to say that. You’re a little girl.”
She stuck out her tongue. The nightmare faded. He could almost convince himself he hadn’t had it, and hadn’t glimpsed rich waves of auburn hair and concerned, ocean-blue eyes when he’d woken.
* * * *
Fog. Nothing but cottony, silent fog. Where am I?
When she tried to remember where she ought to be instead, she came up blank.
Who am I?
There was no answer. Her memory was as empty as the fog.
Before panic could do more than flash her skin with the briefest chill, the fog rolled away to leave her standing in the corner of a softly-lit, unfamiliar bedroom. A commercial played from a radio, and a man she didn’t recognize sat up in bed, whimpering and thrashing his head from side to side.
Forgetting her own predicament, she rushed to help him, finding him in the grip of some terrifying dream. She shook him by the shoulder until his eyes flew open, pupils drowning all but the barest sliver of warm brown irises.
A creaking sound made her look toward the door. A girl of about ten or eleven gaped at her.
Afraid the girl might suspect her of attacking the man, she let go of him and raised her hands to show she meant no harm. The girl blinked and looked all around as if she’d lost sight of her.
“I’m sorry,” she said as she backed away from the bed. “I was trying to help.”
But the man and the girl, father and daughter, talked over her as if she weren’t there.
“Hello? Can you hear me?” She waved her arms. “Hello! Who are you people?” For that matter, who was she? She couldn’t remember her name or anything about herself.
They continued to ignore her, talking back and forth as they left the room.
She put her hands on her hips. “Okay,” she said to the empty room.
Was she dreaming? Maybe, but how weird to have a dream about waking someone else up from a dream. Psychotic episode? Doubtful. Didn’t crazy people usually believe they were someone famous or important like Jackie O or Jesus? She might not know who she was, but she had no delusions of grandeur. Dead? Ugh. She wasn’t prepared to go there.
She glanced around the room, hoping for enlightenment. Hardwood floors, off-white walls, white plaster ceiling and a bare window made up the unimaginative shell of a Spartan space containing a king-size bed with no headboard or footboard, two simple end tables, and a matching dresser with a calendar pinned to the wall above it. The only personal item was a baseball mitt on the dresser. No family photos or artwork on the walls. Nothing to help her place this room, and no clues as to why she was here.
Should she make a break for it? Try to run from the house while the man tucked his daughter back in? If she did, where would she go? She wracked her brain for where she might live or who she might turn to for help, but no names, faces, addresses or phone numbers came to h
er.
She couldn’t even remember what she looked like. The mirror on the closet door offered no help. She stood right in front of it and only saw the reflections of the rumpled bed and the window behind her. She wiggled her fingers experimentally, but the reflection didn’t so much as waver.
“Creepy.”
Looking down the line of her body, she at least knew she was slender, on the busty side and wearing a dark blue sleeveless top, white shorts and flip-flops. Fingering her hair, she could feel thick layers a little longer than shoulder-length. When she lifted the tips to the lamplight, the strands winked various shades from strawberry blonde to deep auburn. It smelled like melon.
Before she could decide what to do with herself, she heard the man say, “Goodnight, Haley-girl,” through the wall.
“Night, Daddy-man.” The sleepy reply made her smile.
The man padded toward the bedroom.
She stiffened. The impulse to hide made her grab the closet doorknob. The brass felt cool and solid in her palm, but it wouldn’t turn. Wouldn’t even wiggle.
Her heart hammered with the fear of being discovered. It might have been smart to dive under the bed at the last second, but in a panic-induced fit of optimism, she kept yanking at the closet door. It wouldn’t budge.
The man came into the room, and she froze with both hands on the knob and one foot on the doorjamb. He didn’t spare her a glance as he shuffled in her direction, stopped a pace away, and peeled off his t-shirt to toss in the hamper beside the closet.
Ah. Mystery solved. That torso was the stuff of dreams.
The man’s chest looked like molded armor covered with tawny velvet. Soft-looking hairs nestled in the cleft between his pecs made an inviting trail to the waistband of his sweats. His stomach was firm with muscle, but a healthy layer attesting to a moderate appreciation for food and drink muted the six-pack that might have doubled as a cheese grater ten years ago. He was probably in his thirties, which appealed to her. That narrowed her age down to somewhere between twenty and Cougarville.