Aaron turned the knob only slightly to the left. Back to ’94, direction Half Moon Bay. His heart pulsed in his ears and his hands shook. The familiar fog rose from beneath the machine and enveloped him in mist. Before he knew it, the air cleared.
He landed in the clear air of a June morning and saw it at once – the twisted guardrail, police vehicles and two E.M.T. vehicles flashing their lights, a KRON-TV crew nearby. Waves crashing against the rocks drowned out their sirens. Aaron leaned over and saw the Lexus lying on its side, crinkled up like used Reynold’s Wrap, smoke coming from the engine like a forgotten cigarette. Aaron remembered the car – summer weekends in Sonoma, drives down the coast to Big Sur on this very road, going across the Golden Gate Bridge to Sausalito, playing Categories (favorite: movies) and Twenty Questions (invariably: Winston Churchill) when they went to Mendocino for the day.
The E.M.T.s navigated two gurneys up the narrow path up the hill – one concealed by a white sheet, the other holding a woman stabilized by planks of steel and wood. Aaron let out a cry.
“Penelope and Austin Aardvark,” Aaron heard a policeman tell the reporter, “about thirty minutes ago. He’s dead, she’s critical. No evidence of foul play. Preliminary alcohol analysis, male occupant at 0.7, female at 0.3.”
Aaron turned his head, looking around for tire tracks. Skid marks, one hundred feet before the guardrail. The vehicle itself, broken windows, roof smashed in, sheet metal twisted and bent. Maybe his parents did die in an accident – but something told Aaron otherwise. Call it a hunch.
No comments:
Post a Comment