Mile
Marker 257
It's a long, lonely drive out to the spot. Takes just under two hours. I try to distract myself somehow: radio, passing cars, anything. But I can't help it. On those long, lonely drives, all I think about is Lizzie. The dashboard of the car I drive melts into a projection screen where I recreate what might have happened.
At first, it was Ricky's fault. I can see him in the car, one lazy arm over the wheel, other hand pawing at the radio's knobs. Lizzie is in the passenger seat, just trying to get back to school, mindlessly enduring the ride. Ricky reaches for the glove box, for his cigarettes. His arm passes over Lizzie's long, thin legs. His other hand jerks the wheel and the car rolls into the ditch. Lizzie dies.
At the wake, Ricky looked like it really was his fault, ashamed of the arm length cast on his right arm. Those guilty, drooping eyes were painful. When he found the courage to come up to me, it was "I'm sorry" this and "I'm sorry" that; I wasn't sure if I was going to faint or throw up.
Fred was a help that day. He wrapped an arm around me and helped handle all the people; I couldn't believe how many people. He let me cry into his shoulder like we were still married and was considerate enough to not bring Janet. As much as I try not to, I kind of like her. I'm even happy Fred found someone.
The cops talked to Ricky after.
"I had cruise control on. I was looking at the road. Out of nowhere, the car slid sideways and flipped over."
It was as if some minor, random occurrence that no one could control. Every simple rendering of what happened was then inevitably followed by that insane chorus of the helpless:
"I guess these things happen."
Well, sorry to say, but no, these things don't happen. Not to girls like Lizzie. If your careful enough, no one just flips their car off the highway.
But Ricky didn't mean it to happen. Even he would have admitted he was lucky to be with her. He would have moved mountains not to mess that up. And, even though I forgave him long before he killed himself, my blame never went away. It just relocated.
That night it rained hard. I told Lizzie about the coming storm that Sunday morning.
"You guys better get on the road early, I just read online that there's a hell of a storm tonight."
"We'll try, Ma."
Suddenly, Lizzie was eating dinner with me and Ricky
didn't pull up until after
I gave her my umbrella and told her to be safe. Standing at the open front door, I waved to Ricky as she ran to the car. He waved back.
As Ricky navigated the side roads to the highway, I-57, the rain continued to steadily dampen his tires, filling every indentation with wetness. Once on I-57, the water crept deeper like an invading army under the cover of night. The saturated tires then fell into a rhythm with the puddles on the road. Splash, fizzle, fizzle. Splash, fizzle, fizzle. Splash, fizzle, fizzle. The tires, lulled to sleep by the gentle pattern, were caught off guard by an extended pool of water and lost traction. They squealed left and right in a desperate attempt to escape the clutches of the all-consuming liquid. Finally, resigned to their fate, the tires locked. The car's momentum brought the car end over end, flying off the road.
I blamed God for sending the rain that killed my daughter.
The first time I drove out here, it was weeks after. The wreckage had all been removed. There were only a few shards of glass glittering the side of the road. I looked for tire marks to see where the car had violently struggled to keep its course but failed. There were none. Even in broad daylight, on a dry, humid day, I couldn't find a single skid mark for a mile from where the car ended up.
That meant it was the car's fault. The car was a cheap, flimsy death trap that couldn't stand a little rain. It wasn't even powerful enough to leave skid marks. It was as if the car didn't even try.
The car had people behind it. Engineers, executives, salesmen; all human faces to judge as guilty. Con artists that sell a dangerous product that will trip and roll at the slightest tickle. All that steel and machinery an unsteady, high-powered weapon.
The insurance people were on the scene the following day, when the wreck was still fresh. Official report: No mechanical malfunction. I asked:
"Are you saying that when the car flipped over and flew into the air it was doing what it was supposed to?"
"Mam, all I can tell you is that the car didn't malfunction."
"So, what did go wrong?"
"Unfortunately, these things just happen, sometimes."
And they all say it like it means something. Like it's a good enough conclusion to just let it go and move on. But it only made me angrier. Only moved my blame in directions I didn't want. Once provoked, I made the sorry transition to thinking it was Lizzie's own fault.
She was the one who got in Ricky's car. She made no attempt to beat the storm. She wasn't wearing a seat belt.
In the darkness of the car, the rain falls heavy on all sides. It was a warm night, even with the rain. Lizzie had on jean shorts and a tee-shirt. She liked to roll the sleeves up to show off her slim, toned arms. She played volleyball in high school. Three years on Varsity.
Maybe she was staring into her phone, messing with some app, the illuminated face of the phone glowing like a candle in the dark of the car. She pokes Ricky in the arm.
"Hey, look at this."
Ricky slants his head to look. His
eyes struggle to adjust from the soft
yellow of the headlights to the harsh whiteness of the phone. They go fuzzy. Lizzie,
not satisfied that he saw, continues
pointing at some text or picture taken that weekend.
Ricky's eyes strain and cloud his head with
numbness. He searches the road for lane
markers, but can't find them amidst the blurry sheets of rain. The car slowly edges to the right before
tripping with the end of the pavement.
Ten miles from the exit to
Lizzie liked to come home on the weekends. Her freshman year, she stayed at school as much as she could, trying to get a full college experience outside of class, but still came home a lot. I'm sure it was tough for Ricky, with her away and him still home. That's probably why, by sophomore year, Lizzie was home just about every weekend.
They started going out in high school, but he didn't get into U of I. He enrolled at Moraine, just around the corner, to get his associate's degree. He was a sweet boy.
Every weekend Ricky would drive the two hours to pick her
up after she finished class on Friday, and then take her back on Sunday. It was lot of driving, but I-57 was a
straight shot from
Once home, Lizzie and Ricky would go out somewhere Friday night: to dinner, a movie, a friend's house, whatever. Saturday they'd stay in, lounging on the living room couch all day, watching TV. Neither of them talked much, and as I'd busy myself in the other room cooking, or using the computer to do some work at home, I enjoyed their comfortable silences. There's little need to talk when you truly love the person your with.
On Sunday, Lizzie had to head back for class on Monday morning. It was a long to and fro for Ricky, and I was never surprised he liked to put it off until the last minute. Plenty of times, I'd offered to take his place, but he'd just smile and shake his head.
"No thanks, Mrs. B. I've got it. It's no big deal."
Each Sunday, just as she walked out the front door, I'd say the same thing:
"Call me or text me when you get there."
She'd then stop, turn around, and give me a hug and kiss on the cheek.
"Sure thing, Mom."
I never would have told her this, but those next two hours were torture. I'd nervously clean or try to distract myself with TV, but all I could think about from the time she promised to call were the elongated minutes until the promise was fulfilled. I'd clutch my phone tightly, checking it every minute.
My phone would finally vibrate with a gentle ding, to signify a message: Just got here See u soon. Relief would fall all around me and I could get back to my life, replacing my concern for her with concern for everything else.
On that night, the text never came. The call instead came from the highway patrol.
Before that call, I had gotten nervous once the two hour mark had passed. Ricky was probably taking it easy in the rain, but with no message, Lizzie's promise hung in the air, unfulfilled. At two hours and fifteen minutes, I lost my nerve.
Are you there
yet? Are you alright?
My thumb had hovered above the send button, hesitant. Lizzie didn't like when I was too nosy, but she hated when I didn't trust her. It wasn't the first time I had sent out a worried text. Previously, I had jumped the gun before even two hours had passed and received angry responses:
I told you i'd text
when we got there Relax
But, I sent the text that night anyway, and when I could no longer find anything else to blame, I blamed myself. It wasn't Ricky, or the rain, or the car, or Lizzie. It was my fault.
Ricky is driving the car with both hands on the wheel, staring intently out at the road. He notes the mile markers as they tick down towards his exit. At about ten miles away, he was probably glad to have his trip almost half over, but sad at saying his weekly goodbye to Lizzie.
Lizzie is nodding her head along to the radio, feeling comfortable with the hum of the engine and the patter of the falling rain, maybe with vague thoughts of unfinished homework. Suddenly, the phone in her lap illuminates.
Are you there yet? Are
you alright?
She reads the text and starts to laugh. She turns to Ricky:
"Like clockwork. Look at this."
Ricky turns briefly to examine the phone. In this short moment, the car slips out from under them. The force of the twist ejects Lizzie from her seat, sending her crashing through the windshield, landing ten feet ahead, on the side of the road. The car's bouncing momentum focuses into an upside-down, spark-filled slide. It joins with Lizzie once again before falling into the ditch where it finally comes to a stop.
I kept the text thread I had shared with Lizzie in the
months prior to that night. Sometimes, I
read through it. I like to see the stuff
she sent me before: bragging about a good grade on a paper or the trip
to
Are you there
yet? Are you alright?
Finally, I pass mile marker 257 and slow down, veering to the side of the road. The pavement ends only a couple of yards from the right lane, so I have to edge into the grass. There, I put the car in park and turn off the engine. I grab the bouquet from the passenger seat and wait for a break in the steady stream of cars. Utilizing a gap, I get out and make my way to the other side of the car.
There is a grassy slope leading down into the ditch. After I make my way down the embankment, I look out at the cornfield just beyond it. It's planting time. There are endless rows of freshly-tilled soil. I like this time of year best, just before things begin to grow, when your vision isn't crowded with the obstructing crops of summer or the snowy drifts of winter.
I walk a few paces to the left and see the spot. The roses I brought last time had shriveled, crinkled, and taken off with the wind. The wooden cross is still firmly in the ground, but bent forward, beaten down by the weather, and almost obscured by the tall grass. I lay the bouquet in the grass and kneel down next to the cross. I grab it with both hands and yank it from the ground. Then, I claw at the dirt to widen the hole. After I jam the cross back into place, I refill the hole with the loose dirt. I press down on the dirt and mat it into a solid base. The cross cooperates and retains its posture. I stand back up and wipe the dirt off my knees and legs.
I bend down to pick up the bouquet: purple roses. It was always purple roses. That was the color of her prom dress. Her and Ricky and a few other couples hand lined up on the lawn and posed for pictures before piling into the limo. That purple dress shone the May sunlight like a glittering rose in full bloom.
My eye draws a line from the road, down the grassy embankment, to the cross. It was a four or five foot drop spanning about fifteen feet. Somewhere in my mind, I struggle to think of one of those equations I learned in my high school physics class. The same equations I would later fail at helping Lizzie master. Somewhere in there would be the speed, the angle, the distance covered, and the weight of the car. That would equal the force. Put one of those "greater than" things next to it, and then on the other side of that, put Lizzie.
I come here a lot, to the spot where they found her. I could have passed this spot a thousand times and it never would have occurred to me that it meant anything. Now, it means everything.
As the cars continue to speed past on the highway above, I place my purple flowers at the foot of the cross, and appreciate them as the only beauty I have left in my life.
I take out my phone. I have no signal out by this cornfield, but I don't care. I open a new message. I type a few words and send it to Lizzie.
Are you there
yet? Are you alright?