Now
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
Jackson
It’s been a month since I found out I was going to be a dad, and I don’t think I’ve come down from that high yet. The prospect scared me at first because of our current situation. It’s not ideal, but like I told Evie, we can make it work.
She hasn’t been feeling her best since we moved here, and I’ve tried as much as I could to cheer her up.
But nothing has really been working, probably because I don’t have enough free time to fully invest myself in her.
But since we’ve decided to keep the baby, something has switched in her behavior.
Just like me, she’s looking forward to it.
She won’t be alone at home anymore, which is great.
I know she’s made a couple of friends in the past nine months, but she hasn’t formed any meaningful bonds yet.
Having a baby will help with that, because she’ll meet other moms-to-be during her prenatal classes, or her checkups, or later on, at daycare or preschool.
But of course, the greatest outcome of all this will be becoming parents. Together. I’ll be there for them as much as I can, but I’m not too worried about my busy schedule. Evie will be a great mom. I have no doubts about it.
As I drive my car to the pole position, I look up for her on the terrace on the right.
This weekend is the Belgian Grand Prix, which means the track is only ten minutes away from where we live.
So, of course, she’s come to watch me race every day.
Today’s weather isn’t great, though. The sky is dark and heavy with clouds, and it’s been raining steadily all morning.
It’s not a problem because I know this track by heart. It’s the one I’ve run the most, since the Altron facility is right down the road. I could probably race it with my eyes closed, granted I’m alone on it.
I find Evie just as I pull up to my spot, looking down at me from the balcony, protected from the rain by the canopy.
When I wave at her, she waves back, smiling.
In my mirrors, I see the others settle into their positions.
I stretch my neck and adjust my grip on the wheel, preparing myself for lights out. This one will be easy.
And when it’s over, I’ll take my wife on a surprise trip to Tuscany for a few days of celebrations.
I found us a perfect rental that overlooks the rolling hills in the heart of a beautiful vineyard.
It’s been negotiated and approved by the team manager.
It will be like a glimpse into our future.
A reminder of what awaits us in a couple of years.
Driving an open-wheel car has become so natural to me in the past four years that it’s hard to believe I ever struggled with it.
Especially when I fly through the tracks with ease like this.
This circuit is essentially my backyard, and I’m not letting anyone get ahead of me.
The soaked asphalt means any car ahead would worsen my visibility, spraying misty water in its wake.
I’m so used to this track in the rain that I’m far ahead of everyone.
I know exactly how fast I can go and how far I can push my car before it becomes dangerous.
Strategically, I decide to be the first one to make a pit stop. That will allow me to pass them all when it’s their turn to change their tires. As soon as the mechanics are done, I’m off again and back on the main track.
Three cars have gotten ahead, but they’ll all need to turn into the pit soon.
I hate being stuck behind them, though, so once I catch up with them, I seek an opportunity to overtake them.
The Kemmel Straight allows me to get into third position, passing one of them.
It’ll be harder for the other two, since the second one is right on the lead’s gearbox, looking for their own opportunity to take first place.
I can wait. I’ll let them sort it out, then overtake them both when they’re done.
It happens during the Stavelot turn, when the lead overshoots their curve and gives number two an opening to the right, which is immediately used.
Now that they’ve done their thing, I get closer, ready for my opportunity.
I should be able to pass them right after the chicane, on the straight where the bleachers are.
I wait for that, biting back the impulse to do it now. I could pull it off on dry asphalt with soft compound tires, but doing it now is too risky. I’m not getting into an accident. Not when Tuscany awaits.
We all have to slow down drastically for the chicane, and I position myself in a way that’ll allow me to sneak past them before they can see it coming.
In Formula 2, we all have the same chassis, same engine, and same tires.
It genuinely comes down to which driver is the best. And I’m the fucking shit. Especially on my turf.
The moment we’re out of the chicane, I speed up.
But I’m not the only one to do so. Nor am I the only one determined to retake the lead.
The driver that was just passed makes a maneuver I didn’t expect, swerving out of their line abruptly.
I adjust, instantly braking. But the current lead reacts too aggressively, swerving across to defend. It’s the wrong move.
Their wheels make contact, and chaos ensues.
The first car spins out of control, and the second one slams into it at full acceleration.
Debris flies around as the cars crash together, and I’m right behind the mess.
My tires lose their grip when I brake harder, not warm enough from having just been changed, and my own car smashes into them, sending even more pieces flying.
Everything seems to go in slow motion, but it all goes down too fast at the same time.
Before I can realize what’s happening, I’m fucking airborne, my cockpit upside down.
Pain reverberates through my entire body as the car returns to the ground sideways before slamming down on its tires. My grip on the steering wheel is useless as I spin over the wet track. I can’t see fucking shit. I think my visor is broken. And my eye hurts. Why the fuck does it hurt like that?
When everything stops moving, I try to assess the damage.
My engine’s on fire behind me, flames licking at my sides.
I can vaguely hear the voices in my ear.
My team is panicking, trying to get me to respond.
But it’s like there’s a ringing covering everything.
I can’t make out what they’re saying. And I can’t see out of my right eye.
Instinctively, I bring my hands to my helmet. That’s how I realize there’s a sharp piece of debris that tore through the visor. Right over my eye.
Fuck. No. No, no, no.
I can’t lose my fucking eye. They won’t let me race without it.
I open the visor and blink. I can’t see. It’s all black. Or red. I can’t tell. I unbuckle my harness, but when I try to pull myself up, a sharp pain tears through my side hard enough to force me back down.
“Fuck!” I groan.
“Jackson, don’t try to move!” someone shouts in my ear. “They’ve just red-flagged the race. The marshals and the medical team are on their way!”
Between the pain, the disorientation, and the ringing, I completely lose sense of time.
I can’t tell how much of it goes by before they reach me.
Probably seconds that feel like a lot more.
The marshals get to me first, one kneeling beside the cockpit while another immediately sprays the fire with an extinguisher, making quick work of it.
“Can you hear me?” the one near me asks.
I nod weakly.
“Any neck pain?”
“My eye,” I rasp. “I can’t fucking see.”
“Okay. Stay with me.”
Blood keeps dripping into my mouth. Or maybe it’s coming from inside it. I can’t tell.
When I instinctively unclasp my helmet to remove it, the marshal catches my wrist. “Don’t take it off yet.”
“Did I lose my eye?”
He leans in to look, but it’s dark and rainy, so he can’t see clearly. “I can’t tell. There’s blood everywhere.”
Nausea rolls through me. I let my head fall back against the headrest and glance toward the grandstands through my good eye.
Fuck. Evie …
She saw everything. She must be so fucking scared for me. “My wife,” I tell the marshal. “She’s on the rooftop. Tell her I’m okay.”
“We don’t know that yet. Here are the medics. They’ll take a look at your eye.”
A woman and a man rush to me and kneel. He asks me a bunch of questions, and I try to answer the best I can while she feels the back of my neck, all the way to the base of my helmet. When her colleague hands her a neck brace, she takes it and carefully passes it around.
Once it’s secure, she says, “We can remove it.” Carefully, they tug the helmet off and discard it.
When she comes closer to check my pupils with a small flashlight, I ask, “Did I lose my eye? I can’t see anything out of it.”
“Blink for me.”
I do it until she says, “Your eye seems okay. It’s just blood from a cut in your brow. There’s also one on your cheekbone. But you may have a concussion.”
“Can you tell my wife I’m okay? She must be so scared right now.”
“Let’s focus on you first, alright? Can you tell me your name?”
“Evangeline. It’s Evangeline Reyes.”
“No, your name.”
“Oh, Jackson Mitchell Reyes.”
“Good. What day is it, Jackson?”
“Sunday.”
“Are you hurt anywhere?”
“My ribs. Left side.”
“And your back?”
I move carefully at first, then stretch more. “No, I’m good.”
“That’s great. Can you move your feet for me?” She looks down to make sure I do it right, then refocuses her attention on my face. “We’ll put you on a stretcher and drive you to the medical center for a full scan.”
“Can Evie ride with us?” I insist.
“No, she can’t come on the track.” She turns to a marshal and asks, “Can you go find his wife and take her to the medical center? Evangeline Reyes.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Then, she’s back to me to say, “Okay, stay with me, Jackson. Tell me about your wife.”
“We’re having a baby,” I say with a smile. Then I remember. “But no one knows yet, so you can’t tell anyone.”