Hoping to at least find the start of an answer, I go a little deeper. “It sounds like you didn’t have a lot of allies in this world as a kid, Donny Ray.”
He looks down again, says nothing.
“How did that make you feel? Having nobody you could turn to.”
“Alone.” His voice cracks on the last syllable. “Really alone. You know?”
And I do know, more than he realizes.
I push the feeling aside, smile sadly, and nod. But I’m also watching him carefully. Checking his demeanor. Trying to see through his outer layer. Yet, hard as I attempt to find even a shred of disingenuousness, I cannot. Donny Ray radiates vulnerable innocence. Then I think about all the people in his life—past and present—who seem to have mysteriously disappeared. My wrinkles of doubt. Adam’s comments about Donny Ray’s immaterial head injury. All of these troubling undertones run counterintuitive to the candor I’ve just witnessed here.
I’m stuck.
I look at my watch and realize that our session is drawing to a close. Evan waits at the door, ready to escort Donny Ray out.
“We have to stop for now,” I say, giving Evan a nod. “We’ll continue this in a—”
“Okay,” Donny Ray interrupts softly, then with a polite smile says, “Have a safe night, Christopher.”
An eerie sensation wriggles down my back.
12
I head toward the hospital parking lot and realize the weather forecaster wasn’t exactly wrong—just a day late. Those swirling clouds outside my window were indeed the first clue of an approaching storm, and now the moist air and hint of drizzle offer more tangible evidence.
Five miles up the road, the proof manifests in a thick curtain of downpour that drops on me suddenly, boosted by a powerful, ramping wind that kicks up loose gravel into my windshield. The horizon is dense and inky, trees bending to the threat of a vengeful gale. As I drive on, the storm gathers intensity, making my tires wayward and slippery.
Have a safe night, Christopher.
I can’t seem to let Donny Ray’s parting comment go. On its face, the statement would seem innocuous, and his manner appeared innocent enough. But there was something else enmeshed within his words. A tone that seemed to resonate with both insight and ambiguity. Almost like a warning.
Or was it?
I scrutinize my reaction. Am I exaggerating? Would I be so unsettled if another patient had made the same comment?
Do I really think he was threatening me?
Another strong wind forces the car into a shake, jangling my nerves and blowing the thought away. I fight for control of the wheel, but it does more harm than good. My tires hydroplane along flooded pavement with building velocity. Water blankets the windshield, creating instant road blindness that makes it nearly impossible to steer forward safely.
Out of instinct, I slam the brake pedal, but the engine grinds out an angry complaint, and my car jerks sharply to the right. My head rams into the side window, and for a few seconds I see stars. When they fade, I find myself midway into a dangerous skid.
Again, I struggle for control. About fifteen heart-stopping feet later, I manage to gain an upper hand as the wheels find traction, at last allowing me to slow. Just as my respiration starts to even out, reality settles, telling me I’ve just escaped what could have been a nasty smack-up.
My relief is short-lived. Several feet ahead, a rubber kickball rolls directly into my path, a teenaged boy in a red hoodie chasing after it.
Oh shit, oh shit . . . OH SHIT!
I yank the wheel to the left, trying to avoid the kid, but the wheel seems to have other ideas—it resists the effort and jerks out of my hands.
The boy freezes in my headlights, body rigid, eyes rounded by terror. My stomach roils, my pulse pounds, and I slam my foot against the brake pedal, but wet asphalt instantly counters the action, forcing the car into a screeching skid, propelling me even faster toward him. As a last-ditch effort, I wrench the wheel into a half turn that sends my car charging off the road. But now I’m hurtling toward a giant and unforgiving oak tree. I missed the kid but may end up paying for it with my own life.
I try to veer toward safety, but wet, slippery ground greases the wheels, fast-pitching my car right at the tree. I can’t get my breath. A speeding pulse hammers through my ears.
It’s over. Done.
A flash of light explodes with blinding fury, and the last thing I hear is glass shattering.
The last thing I see, a pair of eyes staring directly into mine.
Eyes so sharp, so evil, they could have claws and teeth. Eyes burning like the blaze of a hundred suns, waves of heat shooting out of them. Just below the eyes hangs a poisonous smile—I can’t see it, but I don’t have to. I can feel it.
Christopher, wake up. Can you wake up?
I have to wake up . . . Something’s telling me I have to wake up.
My body jolts.
I’m gulping air down a throat that feels thick as rope and coated with wax. My vision is soupy, my eyelids heavy. Everything is tilted, and I don’t know where I am. I’m not even sure whether I’m actually alive.
I see light.
My filmy haze clears enough to reveal the dashboard in front of me.
I’m in my car.
Then my mind kicks into gear.
The tree. I hit the tree.
I raise my head and peer out through the unbroken windshield.
No . . . no . . . that can’t be.
My mind fumbles for purchase as my gaze travels to the tree, then reality pitches me a wicked curveball, revealing exactly how close I came to losing my life—about seven feet, to be exact, the distance from where my car has stopped before a steep bank that drops into one of the deepest parts of Anderson Lake. The fear of God sweeps through me, because if this tree hadn’t done me in, the lake surely would have.
So, to what do I owe this miracle?
I open the door, stick my head out, and find the miracle itself staring up at me.
Saved by the ditch.
A look at the dashboard clock tells me I only lost consciousness for less than a minute. Then my memory comes out of hiding, and panic steams through me.