why?

The last Tim had been behind the wheel of a car there had been a terrible accident. His six-year-old daughter had died. His dear sweet Julia. Dead. It had been his fault. He wasn’t sure what had gone wrong. It had been a nice day, he hadn’t been drinking, never did around the children. The traffic light turned yellow as he was approaching it so he slowed. There was sand on the road. Just a little. But enough. His back left tire skid on the sand and the car turned lazily to the left. He corrected slightly to the right and something went wrong. The car swung too far back, he recorrected, out of control, smashing the brakes to just stop them. His life slid with the car, his existence fading into a never-ending waking nightmare as his vehicle slid sideways into the intersection. He screamed.

They told him immediately when he regained consciousness in the hospital. Julia hadn’t made it. As if she hadn’t been able to finish the trip for some other reason then the fact that she was dead. The nurse who told him couldn’t conceal all the venom in her voice. She thought it was his fault, and she was right. He rested his head back on his pillow and refused any further visitors except as necessary to facilitate his release from the hospital.

They had not pushed him. No non-hospital staff had visited him. Until Rachel.

Tim didn’t know what to do.

He stepped down from the car, cautious of the fact that his door opened him scant feet from cars rocketing down the highspeed lane. Tim was afraid any further inaction would provoke Rachels further ire. She was calm now, if pushy, and he’d prefer to keep her that way. He’d deal with the looming problem of making the journey solo in the future, his immediate concern was now figuring this out.

“Hurry up! You said you’d do this, lets go!” Rachel had barely let his feet touch the grass before she was prodding him.

He walked the long way past the back of the car, shutting his door halfway lest it get torn off, taking a short and petty victory walk.

Rachel rolled her eyes and walked towards the front of the car, standing dead center of the windshield, about four feet ahead of the grill.

“Don’t get any ideas.” Said partially muffled through lips that pursed around a cigarette. “I’ll give you a minute to get settled.”

A minute to smoke and mock me more like it, Tim thought. Either way it seemed fate was forcing his hand, this was happening. He walked up to the car and put his left hand on the door frame, just below the top. He looked into the driver’s seat and battled the memories in his mind. The ghosts had always won before, specters he had created. That he clung to.

As soon as Tim sat in the seat, he banged his knees, both simultaneously somehow. Rookie mistake, he didn’t push the seat back before sitting, especially considering he had a good foot of height on Rachel. He cursed and adjusted the seat, pushing it down all the way and backwards as far as it would go. Better.

Rachel watched him as she smoked, her face uncharacteristically devoid of emotion. She threw her cigarette into the north bound highway and raised her face to the falling sun. Tim glanced at her as he adjusted the mirrors, safety first. He was forced to admit in that moment she was right about life. About God. About it being obvious. The sun played off her features, casting shadows under her cheeks and darkening her eyes. Her hair shone in the sunlight and the big picture became clear to Tim, as it did once in a while, so seldom he forgot about the revelation by the time he had it again. The sun, a star, poured billions of tons of energy into space. There the earth, a small clod of dirt with a molten core turned this energy into life…it was awe inspiring. The beauty that even his aloof heart had to wonder at. His ability to perceive light and color, taste and music. The smell of his wife’s hair as she nestled in his arms at the end of the day that was uniquely hers. The heat and weight of his daughter in his arms as she slept, a world where it was just the two of them. It seemed an awful lot to chalk up to coincidence. Sometimes anyway. When he felt this way he wanted to live.