From September Story
Prologue - July 1996
She was ten and a half years old and the silence was louder than she had ever heard. She had no idea how long the car had rested on its side, nor how long her father had been still. There had been noise, terrible noise, but now only silence; never in her life had she known such tremendous quiet. Usually she created the din, her parents joking they needed no other children. In the stillness, the girl was alone, the hush slowing her down, taking time to a place where she couldn’t identify how long the car had lain toppled over, how long she had leaned against the back left door, the seat belt holding her secure. How long her father’s body offered no noise, no movement, not even a whisper. For how long?
She breathed easily. The scent of blood hung in the air, but it wasn’t hers. She could wiggle her legs without pain, but the belt was stuck and her right arm ached along the elbow. The vehicle’s roof jutted inward and Lolly dangled from jagged metal. The girl couldn’t move, couldn’t reach Lolly. Being trapped wasn’t overly frightening, not even in the dark. It must be late, she assumed. Now it was getting dark.
They had gone for a day out. Her mother was busy, but would be home. Or maybe she was out looking. I know where we are, the girl thought; we’re here, in the quiet.
She tried to recall exactly what had happened, but all that came was stillness. She tried thinking of different words; silence, quiet, hush. Dearth of sound. She had just learned dearth, her mum always offering new words. There was peace, but peace didn’t seem right. It wasn’t peaceful, not since her father stopped speaking.
They had rolled end over end in what felt like a carnival ride; then came an age of aftereffects. The settling of the Range Rover took as long as the accident, rocking back and forth; were they on an incline? Not steep, but the girl felt as though they were leaning downward. The ground was right beneath her, along the window that was broken. For a while she could see cracks and green grass. Now little light remained. If the belt had allowed, she could lay her head against the glass and go to sleep.
Like my dad, she wondered. Maybe he’s just gone to sleep.
§
But she didn’t think so. When he first stopped speaking, unusual gurglings followed, as though he was trying to catch his breath. She had cried then, calling for him; as scary as the crash was, this was worse. She would be eleven in a few months; she was young but smart. Her father had never sounded like that. She asked if he was okay. He finally said yes.
Thinking of his answer made her cry. He had said yes, but continued with that patchy, uneven breathing, as if going under water, storing all the air he could get. Then he told her things, some for her, some for her mother. Mostly he said it would be okay. Yet, those breaths were strange, weird. It was weird.
Like the silence, so very quiet.
§
After he stopped talking and after that odd gurgling sound, she noticed the hush. It was still light, the sun not setting until eight thirty. Night wouldn’t fall until after ten. It must be late, but she had no watch to confirm. She could have read it, her left arm free, but she had forgotten it at her grandmother’s in New York, not that she remembered leaving it there. Grandma wrote and told me she found it. Told me it was because I wanted to come back. If you leave things behind, it means you want to return.
The girl thought about her grandmother’s warm smile, charcoal hair, cocoa brown skin soft and smooth. The girl wondered if her grandmother was old. She didn’t look like most old women. She looked like any other woman.
She has my watch, the girl remembered. When I see her again, I’ll know what time it is.
§
There were no rustling leaves, no chirping insects, no passing cars. Almost no light, yet the girl wasn’t afraid. Even though her father didn’t move, he was near. She didn’t think he was dead. Later, when her voice had been stilled, she considered how she had been with him for that time. In the car, she wondered if he might try to speak again, but you couldn’t talk if you couldn’t breathe. That was obvious, like the quiet, so quiet. She only heard herself. There had been sound, for a while, and she returned to that; he’d been singing after asking if she was okay. He had wanted to know that she was okay and could she get out?
Both were stuck; her father was slumped over the passenger seat, the front of the car turned inward, the windscreen busted. While light remained, she had noticed the caved-in right side of the Rover. Her father was on the left, his side demolished, which had that made all the noise, much of the car crunched like a soda can. Grandma calls it soda and that’s what the car is like, a soda can all scrunched-up, the sound of the accident like smashing aluminum along Grandma’s back step. Her father’s breathing had been like that too and tears trickled down her cheeks. The girl had been avoiding that notion, but with darkness encasing her, the silence hovered. Her father had been without words, then without breath. Like the car settling into the ground, her father had settled too.
§
She was tired, but remembered his words; if you’re in a car accident, you need to stay awake. She wasn’t sure why, but began asking if he was okay. He said nothing.
As her voice slid away, her head was full of his words; he wanted to get home to cook the sausages. Bangers, he called them, and she smiled. She loved his British vocabulary, phrases he used all the time, and here in England they seemed correct. In New York or California they sounded foreign, but where her father was born, those words and sentences flowed with ease. He was hungry and bet she was too, and then he said her name, her whole name, singing a song she’d known all her life. But not in English, only the chorus in French, just one line, and she had no idea what it meant. Those had always been his words to her, at bedtime or when she was sick. He hummed that tune, his words fading, like his breath. He sang, then hummed, but it was hard to hear him. Due to the quiet, she could make it out. Then a few words, the last words. She grasped them in her free left hand that could reach him, almost. He was two, maybe three inches from her; she could see how close. After his last word, she pulled back her hand.
Then a noise never before noted; he was taking in air, but not exhaling. Trying, trying, then silence. For how long, she wasn’t sure. A good while, as it had been light and now was dark, growing cool. Those elements cloaked her, the car, covering them all.
The sausages were on ice. We’ll be able to eat them when we get home. I’m not hungry, only a little cold, but I can’t go to sleep, not until Mum comes.
Her tears began as her voice departed; she wished to speak, wanted to call for her father. As she opened her mouth, no sound escaped.
The silence was broken only by her tears.
