Tamberlin's Account (5 page)

I never meant to leave them.

I didn’t know I wouldn’t be going back.

But I always have on me the things that I
can't
leave. Except when I'm washing up, but I keep it nearby.

I'm looking at a picture of my grandma. I'm a baby and she's holding me. The back says I’m a month old.

I don't think she was ever young.

Anyone else would just throw these pictures away.

So I guess I never finished telling you what happened to me on the way from the reunion with my friends.

I probably would have known sooner if I hadn't been where I was at the time—there were vehicles, but not a lot of towns. It was the middle of the night during most of my trip to the resort. I remember the towns gravely still, like I was the only person awake to see the hours. Like I owned the night.

On my way back, there were more lights and in the dark it seemed like the shadows were squirming.

I didn't keep track of how many times I pulled over for emergency vehicles to pass- it was a lot. But the first time was the worst and, this time only, flashing lights weren't to get me out of the way.

I have been pulled over twice in my whole life.

Ever since I was little I've felt guilty. I felt guilty because Jesus died for me. I felt guilty when I needed to go to the dentist or eye doctor because I knew my parents were reluctant to take me. I'm sure I broke a rib and I told my dad that I hurt. He sighed and said, "son-of-a-bitch" then looked at me—I thought he looked pissed and he said, "Well, if you're not better in a couple weeks I guess we'll have to take you to a doctor." So I never brought it up again.

Once, after church—I would have been 6 or 7—we had to stop for gas. It was full service and my mom (dad never went to church) told the boy, "Twenty dollars." when she took the bill out she smoothed it and held it up and stared at it and—just like dad did—sighed hugely, unignorable as she reluctantly passed it off.

This was the same sigh I heard when I needed things for school—every year—especially if I outgrew my coat or shoes. I fell in love with thrift shops, at first out of obligation, because that cut down on a lot of sighs that were my fault. Everything seemed to be my fault. I swear, the mortgage bill would come and they’d be furious at me.

There was no such thing as a little anger—any little thing, from the smallest disagreement to something being out of place was met with
rage
. There was no such thing as sorry.

A lot of kids wore hand-me-downs from their brothers or sisters. I wore hand-me-downs from my parents.

I never complained. I didn’t complain, until now, I guess.

I tried to be good.

My existence was inconvenient—I became apologetic for everything. Nervous about everything. I didn't have a strong sense of self value. Maybe
any
sense. And my minister said that Jesus died for
me
?? That made me feel like shit.

So, many years later, when I was first pulled over because I had a taillight out—I was sick with fear that I'd done something wrong but I just didn't know I had.

Are you still with me?

So it’s June, on the road between Hill City, South Dakota and Rhinelander, Wisconsin. My home.

The red and blues light up my car for the first of many times that night.

2:02am

8 ½ hours from home.

Lindsay always told me that you ask a cop to show you their badge before you roll down your window to make sure they are really a cop. I thought about that both times before when I'd been pulled over.

I couldn't. Complacent was my nature. When exactly do they consider something like that obstruction? Would they be good natured about it?

I thought it would take a minute for them to get out because I assume they always run tags and numbers or whatever. But it only took a sec before I saw his silhouette cut into the strobing lights.

I turned on my interior lights, rolled down my window and waited.

"Where are you headed?" he asked. He was a state trooper. I thought I would remember his name, but I can't. Maybe later.

I told him, "Wisconsin."

"Well you can't go this way."

I picked up my Google maps print out as if it would show me alternate routes.

I was about to ask why.

"You don't want to go this way," he amended.

"Okay," I agreed—I was okay to change my route—something was wrong in town. "How do I reconnect with this road?"

"Have a road map?"

"Not of South Dakota," I said. "I haven't left Wisconsin in years."

That wasn’t exactly true. But my out of state trips were to places I knew by heart and didn’t need a map.

He sighed. In a nice way.

He pulled out his ticket book and wrote on it for a moment. Then he gave me the directions I hoped he was writing.

I thanked him and told him how much I appreciate that.

"Sure thing," he said in an easy way.

Headlights appeared some distance off in my rear view. He noticed too. Time to go.

"Well I hope they open up the roads for you soon," I said.

The faintest line appeared between his eyebrows and vanished as quick. I didn't understand what the look meant, yet.

I assume he wondered if I knew or not.

He waited in front of his headlights until I took the left turn that his directions said. By then the other car was close and he'd be dealing with them soon.

I was some distance on this road when I had to swerve for a suitcase and braked for the car that birthed it.

Luggage and its contents were strewn over about 15 feet of road. There were a few totes left haphazard and spewing. The lid for one was in the ditch, illuminated by my headlights. The station wagon’s gate was open into the left lane.

I didn't want to run other their things.

I didn't want to go out in the dark—especially because it didn't look safe. It looked ransacked, robbed. Where were the people who were in it before? They didn't run out of gas—most people, I think, actually make it to the side of the road.

I took out my cell phone. Only a tiny bar pulsed. I dialed 9-1-1. When my signal held long enough to ring, a computer told me that all available dispatchers were on other calls—blah, blah, blah.

I swore and thought about going back and seeing if I could find the officer again. But what if someone was hurt? I couldn't see around the vehicle—there might be another vehicle. I didn't see any debris that might indicate an accident, but that might be why the hatch was open and all their things were thrown out on the road.

That settled it.

I took my flashlight out of my purse, a penlight. It's bright—for the first time it didn't seem bright enough.

When I was getting out I was torn between locking up—which I'd
always
do if I couldn't keep the car in sight—and leaving the doors unlocked and maybe even the driver's door open a little.

I decided to lock all the doors and keep the car running. I would keep my remote entry key in my hand. Then I got out.

I dialed 9-1-1 again and closed the door with my freehand. I pressed the lock button on the remote. Inside the speakers throbbed—I didn't realize I was listening to the music so loud. I remember it really bothered me that I couldn't tell what song was playing, but I knew the rhythm. I remember now. It was
The Red
, by Chevelle. I love human memory's queue.

The night air felt great, but that was the only good in being out there.

I'm sure there are plenty of people who’ve never smelled anything dead, much less a dead person. Unless it was at a funeral. But an embalmed person smells a lot different than someone who's just dead—and rotting. I found out what death smells like when I was pretty little from animals hit on the road. I knew the difference between road kill and human decay by the time I was a teenager. You never forget it.

So I knew it wasn't that these people hit a deer and hiked away from their accident—I knew I wasn't going to like what I saw.

No bars on the phone.

I reached out for the end of the gate. I was about to swing it closed when something cut through the light behind me. I turned to it—her, I guess, because I could see the shape of a skirt in the silhouette. Her steps were soggy. She must have been in the ditch.

I asked if she was okay. A high, thrilled kind of whine squeezed out of her throat. It sounded relieved. It kind of sounded like someone with emphysema airily delighting in a surprise.

I asked again.

Then something grabbed my foot. I instinctively yanked it and it came free. I looked down just in time to see a small hand recoil under the open station wagon gate.

I gave the door a shove to close it.

There was a child there—no more than 9. I'm guessing he was naturally that skinny. But he seemed too tiny to me. Like a board. With a head.

He reached out again. I stepped around him so I was at his side. That's when I noticed the blood. He was hurt really bad. His side looked like he'd slid on a giant kitchen grater. He couldn't talk.

By my left foot was a brown paisley printed faux leather purse. All its contents were scattered around my feet. I was sorry for stepping on, what I assumed, were her things. I lay my left hand between the small boy’s shoulders to calm him. I dialed 9-1-1 again.

I asked if this was her son. She'd come within arm's reach and covered me in her shadow. The boy was struggling weakly.

I was about to tell him he should lay still, when she lunged at me.

I stumbled back, only because she was in my personal space. The boy was making sounds like a pissed off cat. Roww Roww Roww. There were other garbled sounds involved, but these were the strongest.

I said "hey" or something, when she reached for me again.

Her arms didn't drop. They just kept reaching.

I backed up enough on ground level so I could stand without being right in her face.

"I said, are you okay?" I said. I heard alarm in my voice. I needed to get back to the kid.

So I went around the other side of the car and she started to come over it.

In the headlights I saw blood in her hair and on her flailing legs. And on the scrambling hands that looked like big bloody spiders tap dancing on the car hood. She'd got most of the way on top before she started to slide back.

"Watch out for the kid!" I yelled. "Sweet Jesus!"

I thought I'd hear her feet land softly—land softly on the kid. I was relieved when I heard them touch the pavement.

I got around to the back of the station wagon again. With the gate closed I could easily see the boy. But he'd pulled himself under the car and was starting under it very slowly. The woman just stood there—like when I first saw her. I dialed 9-1-1 again. I heard the computer.

"Are you okay?" I said firmly. I asked what happened. She kept wheezing and started out into the light. Her eyes were wrong. Really wrong. The boy was emerging from under the rear license plate. His eyes were wrong too.

I can't describe it. I probably don't have to, unless this was found well after this is over. If it's ever over. But I can't describe it anyway so it doesn't matter.

I'm not happy about what I did next, but I'm going to tell you.

I got back in my car and locked the doors. I dropped the remote in the cup holder behind my soft serve cup. I pressed on the brake and put the car in reverse when she slammed her face into the window beside me. She broke several of her front teeth out and kept chomping against the glass. Her tongue was free to flop where the teeth had been and in the chomping, she was licking and her bloody spider hands slapped the body between the driver's side window and the windshield. I heard her pull on the door handle.

I looked over my shoulder and stepped on the gas. I remember my neck felt so vulnerable--I imagined her breaking through the glass with her face. I imagined a mouth much bigger than hers clamping on my neck. I imagined the wound and texture being like that of a giant celery stick. All sinew and tissue. I didn't imagine blood. Just the feel of the bite.

I braked and put it in drive when I had room enough to do a U-turn.

My headlights ran across the two of them. She was running at me.

I was making my way back to where the state trooper pulled me over. I saw headlights in front of me and soon I saw the police car in the approach between the road and the everlasting plains.

I drove past, did a U-turn again and pulled onto the shoulder. I turned on my interior lights and got out. I didn't want to walk up to his car so I waved at him with both arms.

The International Distress Signal, as I was taught in
Open Water
.

The officer got out. This time I saw his partner. He looked "no bullshit" for sure.

Before he could say anything I yelled that I needed help. His partner must have heard because he pretty much jumped out. They both did a strange thing. They drew their guns. I assume that's strange to do to someone who's just called for help.

"Bit?"

I think I started to say, "What?"

"Are you
bit
?" the "easy speaking" officer yelled.

I just thought I heard him wrong so I took the opportunity to talk. My heart was racing. My blood pressure was making my ears ring—I felt a cold heavy pressure behind my ears. My upper arms were tingling. I felt ice water in my veins. I felt needles in my chest—the contrast in my vision was getting intense—his gun leveled with my head.

"There's a woman and child up that route you gave me. They must have been in an a—”

He yelled the question again—moving the gun with emphasis on each word.

"Bit? No-not bit. I couldn't get through to 9-1-1 so I didn't know what to do. The lady is moving around all right, but I'm worried about the boy," I explained.

He held a flashlight up over his gun and it seemed like forever until he said anything.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

I told him, "No."

"They need help. I don't know what happened to them—but they're hurt," I added.

The gun and flashlight lowered. He looked like he was seeing me for the first time.