5. Paige
5
Paige
I forgot how fun driving is.
It’s been a while since I’ve sat behind a wheel. Rhodes, or one of my family members, has been driving me everywhere since the wreck that shall not be remembered.
I lost a headlight and a good deal of my front bumper, though. Repairs that made it worth saving up for a new vehicle. Even if said new vehicle is actually a very old one with a few rips in the upholstery and has a bed and sink in the back.
But this is nice.
Three hours into my drive, and “If I Had Eyes” by Jack Johnson blares through the speakers while I sing every lyric, and Cleo sits in her specially designed catseat. Really, it’s just a cat bed with a small leash that attaches to her harness and the headrest in the passenger bucket seat that swivels forward and back. Safety first. She seems to be enjoying the sunbeams bursting through the side windows while we traverse through a winding stretch of concrete and tan rolling hills in every other direction.
It’s perfect.
So perfect that I forget I’m on cruise control when it happens.
I forget a lot of things.
Like how thankful I am for Cleo’s catseat.
Or how I’m at least a half-mile behind the car in front of me.
I definitely forget which pedal is the gas and which is the brake.
Not until after I scream and grip the steering wheel with the force of an iron clamp while my life flashes before my eyes when a bird swoops too close, too low, too late.
Cleo doesn’t make a sound while my horror movie screams fill the entire van. I’m sure my high pitch isn’t helping keep her calm. It isn’t helping me, either.
I finally slam on the brakes and swerve, hoping to avoid getting rear-ended. The only benefit to driving this stretch of Washington is that there are more wind turbines than vehicles. No one is behind me when I check my mirrors.
My breathing is ragged and uneven as I clutch my chest, firmly parked in the middle of the lane, trying to make sense of what just happened.
I’m alive.
Cleo’s alive.
Vincent VanGo is alive.
The bird that flew in front of me…TBD.
With a shaky hand, I turn down Jack, who is in the middle of singing one of my favorite lines about people being together but lonely.
There’s no time for introspection now, Jack !
“Oh, God. Oh, God.” I slowly navigate to the side of the road with jittery hands and flashbacks from my last accident. “Oh. My. God.”
I close my eyes and open them again. Still here. Which means the bird is probably…not. But I can’t just leave it. The bird…its family…other cars could—
A car whooshes past, rattling my vehicle with the wind impact.
“I have to go back,” I say to myself. “The bird. It needs my help.”
I throw Vincent in reverse, the awful sound still loudly–and proudly–screeching like a pair of mating coyotes.
Cleo meows from her throne, doing her best to warn me, but I’m already unlocking my door and peering behind me for any traffic. There are no cars, so I get out and slam the door behind me, looking a few paces back for the slaughterhouse I just erected in the middle of the highway.
But that’s not what I see.
“It’s—” I don’t have time to finish my sentence when a wing flaps and is raised perpendicular to the road.
I start jogging back, holding my glasses so they don’t fly off my face and retracing the skid marks I created when I hit the brakes.
The bird is… “Alive!” I scream out loud.
A smile splits my face until I realize, yes, it’s alive, but I’m in the middle of nowhere. What am I supposed to do? Its other wing looks badly injured from my place on the side of the road, but I don’t know the extent of its injuries until I get closer.
I have to get closer.
Looking both ways again, I confirm I’m in the clear and tentatively walk closer. The bird isn’t making a sound apart from its wing flapping. That isn’t good.
“Hey, birdie…”
The image I’m met with is one I’ll never be able to unsee.
I rear back, covering my mouth and looking anywhere but the ground. It’s not dead, but it’s struggling. There is red and feathers, and possibly a spleen on the cement that certainly belongs inside the bird’s body.
“Paige, you have to do something!” I practically yell at myself. “You can’t leave this poor bird here to die. You did this! Fix it.”
I glance around me again just as another car on the opposite side of the road passes by with a velocity that flips my hair into my face. I brush the shoulder-length strands away from my mouth and yank my phone from my pocket as I walk toward the side of the road again.
I’ve never done this before. Been this person who hits an animal only to leave them helpless. Probably because I’ve never hit anything. I’m shaking violently while I cradle my head in my hands, thinking of what the hell I’m supposed to do about this.
Mom will know.
But she doesn’t answer. Not uncommon during the middle of the day since she works as a financial advisor in the area and often works weekends, so I dial Dad.
No answer.
Don’t they know I’m out on the open road right now, and anything could happen?
Yeah, like you mutilating a poor, helpless bird.
It begins to squawk, but it sounds strangled and hoarse, like its vocal cords were injured in the accident, too.
“I know; I’m trying to help you. Hold on!”
Another car approaches, so I step back in case I’m not visible— impossible —and start wildly waving my arms and jabbing my fingers at the bird in order to warn them not to hit it. That’s the last thing I need to witness.
Instead, I seem to have alerted them that I’m in trouble since they pull to the shoulder as well.
There’s a woman and man through the windshield, but they’re far enough back I can’t tell if they’re friendly or murderers. Maybe the third option of friendly murderers.
I’ll call Amber. She’ll know what to do about the bird and the friendly murderers.
But she doesn’t answer either.
Hours into this journey, and I already need someone. I cradle my forehead again, wiping away beads of sweat and regret. I’m going to have to call Rhodes. This was supposed to be my break-out act, where I got to figure things out on my own. Where I become a self-sufficient human who knows what to do in the face of trouble and who doesn’t solve every life problem with a new boyfriend, but I can’t even handle this.
“Yoo-hoo!” a voice calls.
I snap my attention back to a woman who looks to be in her mid-sixties, complete with a silk scarf around her head like she’s driving a convertible and not a Mini Cooper. Her small car reminds me of—
“Answer the phone, Rhodes!” I say out loud, cradling the phone to my ear.
The woman looks kind, but that could all be a ruse. My phone just keeps ringing as she gets closer.
I peer at the bird, still flapping around in complete distress.
Answer. Answer. Answer .
He doesn’t answer.
“Miss?” the woman asks hesitantly. “Are you alright?”
I end the call just as Rhodes’ voicemail recording ends with a beep. “I’m…”
Alone .
I swallow and address the woman. Her smile sure is convincing enough. I mean, who stops for a stranger waving their hands around, looking like they’re ready to throw rocks at their vehicle? It’s probably safe to drop the murderer part of this equation.
“H-Hi, I’m Paige.” I point to the road again. “There’s a bird—”
“Oh my good golly gosh!” The woman squeaks like the bird is trying to. “What happened to this sweet soul?”
I immediately pick up on her Southern accent. It makes me want to curl up in her lap while she pats my back and calls me honey .
“I…hit…it.” The words are hard to admit, but I don’t have time for pride when there’s a life at stake. “With my van.”
I mime the blunt force impact of my front bumper and the bird with added explosive noises for effect. My swallow is hard, and I have to wipe my brow again, either from the heat of this late evening sun or my stress.
It’s definitely both.
She stares blankly, then removes her sunglasses. “Well, seems like this is your first.”
“My first?”
She nods with understanding and crosses her arms in front of her at the wrists. “Your first roadkill.”
I look back at the bird. “I…this…we have to help it!” I start talking fast. “Do you know any vets around here? It looks like there was a lot of…trauma. I have a couple of towels to wrap it up. Maybe you or your husband can pick it up and put it in my van?”
There’s no way I want to touch it.
She simply places a gentle hand on my arm. “Honey, it’s time this bird meets Jesus. That’s all there is to say about it.”
My mouth gapes. “What? No, I’m positive we can save—”
“What seems to be the problem, Winnie?” the husband asks as he approaches.
He’s wearing a plaid, short-sleeve button-up with tan cargo shorts and boat shoes, wholly out of place for the agricultural area we’re in, but surprisingly very stylish for a man his age.
“She ran over a bird.” She adjusts her scarf and addresses me. “This is Archie.”
“What?”
“A bird,” Winnie says. “She ran over a—”
“What did you say?” It takes him minutes to close the distance between their car
and where we’re standing.
“The bird!” She points to the middle of the road.
“What?” he asks again.
Winnie looks like she wants to throw something at him. “Oh, for the love—”
Before she can finish, a large semi-truck barrels by us at a speed that could kill. Thankfully, we’re all on the side of the road. Except…
I cover my mouth with both hands.
Winnie points at where the bird was once flapping its wing while we all stare in disbelief and horror.
Lots of horror.
She’s the first to speak. “That takes care of that.”
I drop my hands, staring at the nearly flattened animal I half-killed.
Archie, still unaware of everything that’s happened, simply says, “What?”
Winnie and I both turn blank stares on him.
My phone screen still only touts the time and date, which are now burned into my memory forever, with a photo in the background of me sandwiched between Amber and Rhodes.
And still no missed calls or texts.
This was quite possibly the worst moment of my life, and no one was there except for two people whose first names I’ve only just learned.
It feels wrong in many ways.
Tears push at the backs of my eyes, a sudden urge to cry the biggest, ugliest tears I’ve ever experienced because I realize I’m the killer.
Winnie clears her throat. “Darling.”
My eyes are glazed over, seeing her, but not really. “Yeah?”
“We all have our firsts. I’m going to do what my mama did for me once. It’ll help to think of when you go to bed tonight.”
I nod, agreeing to whatever comes next.
Maybe I should have asked a question.
Or two.
“WE ARE GATHERED here today to remember this sweet soul,” Winnie begins, Bible open and perched on a nearby fence post. “A life that was cut too short.”
I nod in agreement, holding fast to Cleo’s leash so she doesn’t dart out into traffic and become the next victim of mile marker 104. Winnie, Archie, Cleo, and I are all circling a mound of dirt where Russel Crow is buried twelve inches under. Roughly, of course, because I didn’t have anything to measure with, and I used a cup to dig the hole.
“Let’s all hold hands,” Winnie says, holding hers out.
I slip the loop of Cleo’s leash around my wrist and grab both of their cool, wrinkled hands in mine.
She continues. “We release this life to your eternal care forever and ever. Amen.”
Winnie is still looking skyward, so I follow suit and look up, too.
Cleo tugs at the leash. There’s no way Archie doesn’t feel the jerk of my arm, but when I crack an eye open to check, his head is bowed in reverence. He’s so still and peaceful, he truly doesn’t seem bothered.
Or awake.
I quickly close my eyes and bow my head like him, hoping it’ll affect me in the same way. There is clearly a moment happening, and I already feel guilty enough for killing the poor bird, I don’t want to mess this up either.
Cleo doesn’t stop.
She yanks and pulls until, finally, I can’t take it. I open my eyes and locate her speckled body on the end of the leash.
I wish I hadn’t.
One of Russel Crow's feathered wings juts up from the dirt, thanks to Cleo, who is trying to unearth the body. Her once-white paws are now covered in dirt, and is that blood?
My head whips side-to-side to see if Winnie and Archie have noticed, but their eyes are still closed. Winnie starts to sing Amazing Grace, and I take the opportunity to loop my leg around Cleo’s leash to pull her back.
She’s too fast and darts under my leg before I can shorten her lead.
I jerk my hand. Archie doesn’t move, and Winnie starts up verse two in a louder falsetto.
I try kicking dirt at Cleo, but she’s locked in. Bird is her favorite meal, and I’ve basically done all of the hard work for her.
With one final tug, I yank her leash back. Hard.
Unfortunately, this rattles Archie from his comatose state, and his head jerks up.
He was definitely sleeping.
Winnie opens her eyes and sees what Cleo is doing. Instead of gasping or screaming like I expect her to, she starts laughing. So hard, she’s bent at the waist while I frantically pull Cleo away from her twice-murdered feast.
“What are you laughing about?” Archie asks, peering around.
I scoop up Cleo, but she jumps out of my arms to make the five-foot drop. It only makes Winnie laugh harder and Archie scratch his head more.
I’m laughing now, too, which isn’t helping as I step backward, dragging Cleo like a ragdoll as I go.
Winnie wipes the tears in her eyes and looks at me with big brown eyes when I finally get my cat mostly under control. “Let’s go get some lunch.”