Chapter 43
Alyssia
“Can I ask you something?” I question Mrs. Townsend, while I help put the dishes away after dinner.
She and Annalise remained here with me while Travis’ father traveled with him for his Belgium race.
We watched qualifying for a little bit, and Annalise seemed somewhat anxious, even as we went to the market and did some shopping.
She’s gone back to her apartment after dinner with promises to return tomorrow for the race.
“Anything,” she says, tossing the dishtowel over her shoulder.
“Travis told me that during his first go-kart championship when he qualified poorly, he wanted to drop out. But it was you that stopped him. How come? Weren’t you terrified of him in this sport?”
I’ve wondered this ever since Travis told me the story.
While his mother is always supportive, it’s his father that has the obvious fervor for the sport in general. Mrs. Towsend watches all of his races, but it’s his dad that tracks the stats and talks strategy with Travis when they’re around one another.
“Surprising, huh?” She chuckles.
“I hope I didn’t offend you—”
She holds up her hand. “It’s a logical question. I never wanted any of my kids to be a professional athlete.”
My brows spike.
She shakes her head, half-smiling. “Sports are great for mental and physical discipline, but it also takes a toll on the body over time.”
I nod in understanding.
“And yes, it can be dangerous. With speeds of over hundreds of miles an hour one has to think about potential consequences. But I wasn’t thinking about any of that when Travis came to me, wanting to quit.”
“What were you thinking?” I ask.
“Up until then, he’d never lost a race. He didn’t need to work super hard to win. His natural talent took him a long way. And I knew that if he walked away from that race just because he was starting from the back, it would set him up for a lifetime of quitting.”
She shrugs.
“Our family is extremely privileged. Growing up with the comforts he and his siblings had, it’s easy to never reach your full potential because you’re not pushed to perform—to outperform due to need.
“I wanted to foster that in my kids. So, when he came to us and said he was thinking of dropping out of the race, I knew that was a pivotal moment in his development. I knew he had the passion for the sport, but he needed to learn to be able to lose and still keep going. Even in the face of heartbreak.”
Unconsciously, my hand moves to my belly as I think over her words. It must’ve taken a lot for a mother to put her own fear aside to think about what’s best for her child.
Could I be that strong?
As the baby in my belly moves, the biggest urge to wrap my arms around my stomach and protect this child from anything that could ever happen to it, overcomes me.
Mrs. Townsend watches my movement. “The feeling never really goes away,” she tells me.
She squeezes my arm, and we finish the dishes together before she heads to her apartment for the night.
Once alone, I find myself in the nursery. I smile at the picture of Travis that I bought in Silverstone.
We’ve added golden stars and a moon around the baby’s crib to create a starry night theme.
From the other room my phone buzzes.
I race out to grab it from the charger.
“Hey.”
“Why are you out of breath?”
My eyelids fall closed in relief at the sound of his voice. It’s crazy how much I miss him when he’s away.
“I was in the nursery.”
“You weren’t running, were you?” There’s chastisement in his voice.
“What if I was?”
“I can’t put you over my knee,” he comments, regretfully. “But I can make you beg.”
I squeeze my thighs together as I take a seat on the edge of the bed.
“How’re you feeling for tomorrow?”
“Qualifying didn’t go the way I wanted.” He grunts.
“Neither did it during your first go-kart championship,” I say, remembering the conversation I just had with his mother. “You managed to pull out a victory then.”
He chuckles. “Not quite. I came in fourth.”
“Which, according to you, was somewhat a victory from starting in nearly last position.”
“You’re right.”
I hear the smile in his voice, but there’s a heaviness in his tone. I didn’t watch qualifying rounds since we were out, but I checked once we got back from the market. He had the third fastest qualifying time.
“What did you do today?” he asks.
“We went to the market. Oh, Gunther Bachman was there,” I say, suddenly remembering. “Apparently, he’s looking for an apartment in town.”
“Looks like it’s true.”
“What’s true?”
“He might be returning to the grid.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“Almost five years.”
“That’s good news.” I infuse my voice with cheer. “I bet he’s happy about it.” I recall the smile on Gunther’s face earlier. I don’t know the man, but he looked enthused about something.
“I suppose he is,” Travis answers. “Baby, I have to go. I’ll see you in the morning. I love you.”
He pauses.
“Uh, okay. I’ll see you in the morning.”
The I love you, too remains silent. But Travis doesn’t mention it before he hangs up.
I stare at the phone for a few beats before grabbing my laptop. Though the voice at the back of my mind is screaming for me not to do this, I allow my curiosity to get the better of me.
This Gunther situation makes me feel like I’m missing something. Like the people around me know more than I do or are intentionally withholding information from me.
I felt it from Alyssia earlier when she quickly moved on from the topic once I asked a question about Gunther.
I open my laptop and type his name into the YouTube search bar.
It doesn’t take long for videos with thumbnails of the fiery wreckage of a car to pop up. I click on the first one that has over two million views.
The six-minute video starts off with highlights at the start of a race. But with each passing second, my heart rate speeds up. The grim voices from the drivers and sportscasters who were there that day discuss their thoughts and reactions.
It’s not shown on camera, but about two minutes in, the crash happens.
The aftermath steals my breath.
Half of a white and blue F1 car split in half sits next to a barrier. But on the other side of the metal barrier is a ball of flames. There’s nothing else visible. Just orange and red flames completely engulfing Gunther and what’s left of his vehicle.
“No, no, no,” I say over and over.
My brain can’t reconcile what I’m watching on the screen with what I know to be true. Yes, Gunther is alive. I met him today, years after this crash.
But the flames …
Firefighters and first aid staff rush to the fire to extinguish it. For a long while there’s no other movement besides that of the firefighters. I ignore the additional commentating from the staff and drivers.
All I can wonder is, How could anybody survive this?
It throws me right back to being fourteen years old, hearing my father scream for help, calling my name, my mother’s name. Me crying for my mom, my left shoulder searing in pain, having been pierced by glass and metal, preventing me from getting out of what’d become a death trap.
My vision blurs as I continue to watch the screen.
What feels like an eternity, but is less than a minute, movement from within the flames can be seen on the screen. The firefighters aim their extinguishers at the dark form that fights through the fire and the wreckage to get out.
Somehow, Gunther frees himself from the car.
Firefighters help pull him to safety, away from the car.
I recall the firefighters who pulled me from the wreckage of the accident. Their voices were firm and soothing as they tried to keep me calm.
Seconds later, there’s a shot of Gunther hobbling, arms wrapped around two paramedics, with singed hands waving furiously in the air for relief, toward the ambulance.
A screaming sounds in my ears, and suddenly it’s not coming from the video still playing on my laptop, but from within the depths of my own psyche.
I blink, trying to correct my vision. But it’s no use.
All I see is Travis.
The father of my baby, the man I love, fighting but unable to break free of a car and flames that are hungry for nothing more than everything in its wake.
Including his life.