Remember Me Part One, page 5
I fly past the guards.
“Get her!” yells Sheldon at the top of his lungs. “Kill the bitch!”
Not looking over my shoulder, I race to my car, fumbling for the key in my purse. I find it and unlock my Prius. Click. My fingers trembling, I yank open the door and jump inside without wasting a second to fasten my seatbelt. Panting, I start up the car, shift into drive, floor the gas pedal, and do a screeching hairpin U-turn out of the driveway, almost knocking down the two guards as they leap out of my way. Keeping my foot slammed on the gas pedal, I speed down the driveway at close to one hundred miles an hour. In my rearview mirror, I glimpse a black SUV careening down the driveway behind me. Fuck. They’re after me. My heart thudding, I reach the security gate.
“Open, open, open!” I mutter out loud. As if the massive iron structure has heard my desperate plea, its lotus wings spread apart, and I fly out of the property. I blow out a hot breath of relief when the gate closes behind me before the two henchmen can get through it. A little leeway!
My pulse in overdrive, I race down the private road and then make a sharp, screeching left onto Benedict. As I tear down the canyon, an unexpected obstacle suddenly gets in my way. A parked moving van clogging the middle of the two-lane road, blocking traffic in either direction. I blast my horn to no avail. No one’s inside it. Shit. Shit. Shit. My mind spins. Getting to Sunset is no longer an option. I have no choice but to do a quick U-turn and head back up the twisty, dimly lit canyon. Crap. I’ll likely pass my assailants. My heart slams against my ribs so hard it hurts. I’m fucked.
Sure enough, I tear past the black SUV. Will they notice me? I’m about a hundred feet ahead of them when they realize I’m going the other way. They whip around, and in hot pursuit, they trail me.
Without slowing down, I grip the steering wheel so tightly I can see my knuckles turning white. Adrenaline flowing, I navigate the sharp curves of the canyon like a stuntwoman. The goons are still behind me. Then, as I turn right onto Mulholland, I hear something that resembles firecrackers. A terrifying, vise-like reality seizes me. Gunshots! Oh God! They’re firing at me!
Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Bouncing off my car, shot after shot ricochets in my ears. Somehow, they keep missing. Maybe the sharp curves of the desolate, poorly lit road are my saving grace. God bless legendary Mulholland Drive. For a split-second as I zoom past one of its scenic lookouts, my mind wanders. It’s where Finn and I made love the first time we set foot in Los Angeles, beneath the starry sky, overlooking the twinkling lights of The Valley below. One of the most magical nights of my life. But tonight, a thick cloud of fog shrouds the earth, and my life hangs in jeopardy. Another shot is fired, and a fear like none other shoots through my heart. I silently pray to God that I’ll escape unscathed. After this is all over, I promise to spend more time with my husband and baby. God has a weird way of putting things in perspective.
Another shot is fired as I swerve around the next hairpin curve. But that’s not what makes my eyes pop and my heart almost stop. In the beam of my headlights stands a creature. Oh God, it’s a deer! As still as a statue. As frightened as a child. In all my years, I’ve never encountered one. His frozen wide-eyed gaze meets mine as I slam my foot on the brake. Everything comes to a screeching halt, but not soon enough. Time freezes.
“No!!!” I wail like a siren as my vehicle rams into the poor, helpless animal. Whack. He disappears. And then crash! The SUV slams into the back of my car, and before I can take my next breath, the road vanishes. My car rockets over the edge, flying into the air. My hands grip the wheel as if I can steer it to safety while my foot slams the brake, with so much pressure my ankle aches. Not wearing a seatbelt, I use all my strength to stay put. Every organ lurches forward, about to jump out of me. Terror fills my every cell, every molecule as the Prius plunges down the steep, jagged cliff. Somersaulting. At least three hundred feet. I squeeze my eyes tight, shuttering my horrible destiny. My ear-splitting screams clash with the grating sound of metal against rock as the velocity of the car accelerates with the force of gravity. A heavy metal symphony fills the air. The air I may never breathe again.
I want to cup my ears. Cover my eyes. Block it all out. But paralyzed, my hands stayed glued to the steering wheel as if they’ve been welded together. Then bam! The car hits rock bottom, tumbling over and over, my stomach rolling with it.
My air bag explodes in my face, but not before my head goes crashing through the windshield. Splat! The glass shatters into a million tiny pieces. My face on fire, my head cracked open, every rib in my chest smothering my lungs, my pelvis crushed, I experience the most horrific, bone-crushing pain I’ve ever felt in my life. The car, no longer moving, is upside down, the fog peering at me through my cracked window like a peeping Tom. The insipid taste of rust seeps through my mouth. Warm liquid leaks from the corners, drizzling down my chin. Blood. Am I bleeding internally? I roll my tongue over my teeth, dipping the tip into wet, gummy chasms and over ragged enamel. Shards and daggers. I’ve lost several teeth and broken others. I attempt to spit out the pool of blood in my mouth, but it hurts too much to purse my lips. I think my jaw is fractured. A groan stays trapped in the back of my throat while bitter bile rises and mixes with the metallic blood. I can’t swallow and I can barely breathe.
With the last ounce of strength and consciousness I have left, I peel off the tattered airbag from my skin, then feebly reach for my door handle and crank it open. Leaving behind the rancid smell of gunpowder, I tumble out of the car and claw my way along the rough, prickly terrain on my elbows as far away from the battered vehicle as I can, my limp, useless legs dragging behind me, my lacerated purse trailing alongside me. The cruel earth scrapes my broken body. Tearing my skin. Shredding my dress. My breathing labored, desperate, I battle the excruciating pain that consumes every inch of my being, from my head to my toes. Hot tears, like acid rain, scald my burning, raw cheeks, then salt the earth. Oh the pain! How I wish could magically make them stop falling! Make this whole night go away!
Then, boom! A deafening blast bellows in my ears. A burst of flames surges behind me. The navy-gray sky lights up as a fiery heat sears my flesh. The nauseating scent of burning rubber, gasoline, and metal wafts in the damp night air. One more heartbeat, one more breath. Stretched out, anchored on one elbow, I clutch my treasured good luck locket—the one with the three of us—that still dangles around my neck. Oh God, please take care of Finn and my beautiful baby! Please!
Another thundering explosion. Embers fly, dancing in the dim sky like the fireflies I remember from my youth. My life passes by as if it’s a slideshow projected against the screen of dense fog. My childhood with my parents traveling from country to country. Their untimely death. Then, fast-forwarding to my college years . . . my marriage to Finn . . . then our baby. Without warning, darkness cuts the memories short. Claims me. The screen fades to black. All the pain goes away.
I remember it’s my birthday. My last?
Finn . . . Maddie, I love you.
The world subsides and so do I.
CHAPTER 8
Unable to sleep, I turn and glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand. It’s almost three a.m. Why the hell isn’t Skye home? Yeah, she said she was working on a story, but doubt seeps through my veins. The past few weeks haven’t been easy. She’s been consumed by this mysterious story, and I’ve been focused on finishing my triptych. My wife’s career is soaring; mine has been at a standstill up until today. Maybe I’ve been a disappointment to her. She’s the breadwinner, me the sporadic contributor. Maybe she’s had enough of it. Enough of me. The image of her in that skimpy black dress flashes into my mind. Hell. She’s never looked that hot for me when we’ve gone out. I dwell on the fact that she wasn’t wearing her wedding band and replay her words in my head. I’m about to break a story. What story? In retrospect, I don’t believe a damn word she said. A gut-wrenching reality eats at me. She must be having an affair. Landing Kayla Phillips as my manager may be after the fact. There’s nothing to celebrate. I’m losing my wife.
My desolation finally succumbs to sleep, but shortly after I doze off, Maddie’s wails awaken me. Groggily, I roll out of bed and pad over to the small room, her nursery, adjacent to ours. I lift her out of her crib. The fury of her cry tells me she’s hungry. Cradling her in my arms, I reach for the nearby bottle of formula that Skye left for me. I put the nipple to my princess’s lips and she sucks it vigorously. When she’s halfway done, my cell phone rings. Still holding Maddie, I dash back to our bedroom. The phone’s on the nightstand. I blindly accept the call and put it on speaker expecting or should I say hoping to hear Skye’s voice.
Instead, a solemn male voice drifts into my ears.
“Finn Hooker?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Officer McGowan from the LAPD. I’m afraid I have bad news.”
My pulse instantly quickens as panic trickles to my gut. The bottle shakes in my hand, and falls out of Maddie’s mouth. She bawls as trepidation rises inside me.
“Your wife has been in an accident.”
My heart stutters in my chest. “What do you mean?”
“She hit a deer on Mulholland Drive . . . ”
“And . . . ” My voice trails off.
“She lost control and the car skidded off the road.”
“She’s okay, right?”
“Mr. Hooker, I’m sorry to inform you . . . ”
My heart practically stops, anticipating the officer’s next words.
“The car exploded on impact.” Pause. “Your wife is dead.”
The bottle falls from my hand and rolls across the floor.
In a state of shock, I clutch our baby who hasn’t stopped crying.
It takes several long minutes for the devastating news to sink in. When it finally does, it hits me like a knife to my heart. I fall to my knees, still clinging to our baby. A raw feral sound, half sob, half roar, explodes from my throat and wracks my body, tears of despair joining Maddie’s.
She’s now mine to raise alone.
CHAPTER 9
The next couple of days are a total nightmare.
I was supposed to be spending the weekend celebrating my wife’s milestone thirtieth birthday, but instead I’m preparing for her funeral.
To make things worse, I’m in a state of denial, confusion, and rage, all compounded by emotional and physical fatigue.
In my haze, I try to put two and two together. It’s so unlike Skye to lose control of a car. Hell. She trained as a racecar driver! And could handle any speed and the sharpest of turns. Something doesn’t sit right with me. The racy outfits. The late-night meetings. Was she having an affair? Drinking too much with her secret lover?
My mind plays games with me. A bitter cocktail of love, loss, and doubt wrestles with my sanity. Thank God for Maddie. My precious daughter is the only thing that keeps me grounded. And accountable. Virtually overnight, I’ve had to learn to be a single parent, attending to her every need.
One week after Skye’s tragic accident, a memorial service is held at the church where we belong. Her body wasn’t recovered. The car exploded upon impact, taking her with it. I’ve had sleepless nights replaying the accident, those awful last minutes of her fall from the earth. Hearing her screams. Wondering what her last thoughts were. Did she cry out for Maddie and me? Or a lover? Then other nights, I’m tormented with: What if she survived the fiery crash? Mutilated or burnt beyond recognition. Or both. How would I have been able to live with her like that? Could she have gone on being my wife and the mother to our child? There are no answers; only sadness. My only blessing is that I get to remember her as the beautiful, brilliant woman she was.
The sanctuary is packed, filled with friends and colleagues from Conquest Broadcasting. I sit in the front row, holding Maddie in her little black romper. Amazingly, she hasn’t uttered a peep, perhaps in deference to her mother.
An easel displaying a blown-up photo of Skye stands in front of the pews. Dozens of bouquets of white flowers surround it. Tears back up in my eyes as one Conquest Broadcasting News colleague after another goes up to the podium to share stories about my late wife and shower her with accolades.
“She was fearless and a great friend and reporter.”
“She loved the impossible. No story was too challenging for her.”
“She championed the underdog. Stood up for the rights of minorities, the oppressed, and women.”
“She was like a family member. Remembering everyone’s birthdays and special life events.”
“She was a ninja. A kickass woman in a male-dominated world.”
“She met death’s eyes over and over again. Never flailing on the battlefield or wherever she was.”
I’m in awe. Despite the suspicions I harbor, my heart swells with pride. My late wife was a dynamite reporter respected by all. I glance around the sanctuary. There’s not a dry eye in the house. To my surprise, Emmy winner Nicole Farrell is seated in the back row. Though she’s wearing oversized dark sunglasses to mask her identity, I recognize her immediately. Her face is pale and tears fall from beneath the shades. I wonder how Skye knew her as I don’t recall them doing a celebrity interview together. The announcement of the next eulogist thwarts my attention back to the podium.
Jim Hartley. The slick, silver-haired head of Conquest Broadcasting News gives a short speech, praising my wife for her contributions and pursuit of the truth. His cool tone and terse words make it sound more like a broadcast than a tribute. To be honest, I never liked the prick. He always gave me the cold shoulder whenever I encountered him. Like I was some inferior species. Even now, he doesn’t make eye contact with me.
Hastily returning to his seat, he’s followed by Blake Burns, the head of the network, who gives a heartfelt eulogy that brings the crowd to tears, praising my wife’s dignity, brilliance, and passion. A short video montage of some of her groundbreaking stories plays. At the end, he addresses the crowd, his voice choked.
“Skye Collins.
Journalist. Activist. Wife. Mother.
She lived by her words: Dig deep, then dig deeper.
You will be missed.”
My heart is cracking as he steps down. Finally, my turn. I take Maddie up to the podium with me. To be honest, I have no speech prepared. I couldn’t sit down and write one, with all the mixed emotions that have whirled through my head over the past week. I’m an artist, not a writer. I paint words.
My throat constricts as I stare out at the crowd. Silence. Dead silence. Finally, a few words spill out. “Thank you for being here.” Tears well in my eyes and then sobs overwhelm me. I can’t say another word.
My knees weak, I stumble back to my seat. I know at this moment how much I still love my wife. Despite any indiscretion, how much I will miss her. Maybe this was all my fault. My sweet little girl meets my tearful gaze. I see so much of Skye in her. With her tiny hands, she wipes away my tears of shame, and I vow to be the best father I can be to her. To make Skye proud of me. Wherever her soul now lies.
CHAPTER 10
I am trapped in my own body. Like a corpse buried in a coffin.
I can’t move.
Not a finger. Or a toe.
My legs are paralyzed.
I try, but can’t pry my eyes open.
I’m living in darkness.
Every breath hurts.
I can’t move my mouth.
My throat is as dry as a desert and so unbearably sore.
Like I’ve swallowed glass.
Sometimes, I can’t feel a thing.
That only lasts for a short while.
Until screaming pain seeps back into my bones.
I can only hear.
Fear fills me.
Rhythmic beeping sounds ring in my ears. Beep, beep, beep.
Around me, muffled voices. Male and female.
“How is she doing?”
“No improvement.”
“She’s still in a coma.”
“It’s been more than a week.
“What are her chances?”
Silence.
Please talk to me. Someone!
I don’t know if I’m dead or alive. Or why I’m here.
I belong with my husband.
Finn. Beautiful Finn.
And my baby. My precious Maddie.
I love them with my heart and soul. With all I still have.
A glimmer of hope.
Maybe I’m alive. I can think with my mind. I can feel with my heart.
Visions of our life together dance in my head.
Or perhaps it’s all an illusion.
I drift off into a neverland, not sure if it’s heaven or hell.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.
The voices: “She’s flatlining!”
“She’s going into cardiac arrest!”
“We’re losing her!”
“Code blue emergency!”
Then, a white light.
CHAPTER 11
Seven a.m. I’m in the kitchen, making coffee. Hoping the caffeine will pour some life into me. Another sleepless night in my empty bed, I feel like a zombie. Only my heartbeat lets me know I’m alive. The timer dings, and almost simultaneously, the doorbell rings.
I hate the doorbell. All week along it’s been constantly ringing, neighbors bringing over food and flowers. The bell rings again. It must be yet another neighbor, checking in on me or bringing me a frickin’ fruitcake or some other do-gooder crap to cheer me up. Don’t these people know that I just want to be left alone, mourn the loss of my wife, and take care of my child? Fucking sweets can’t sugarcoat my aching soul. Or bring back my Skye.
Maddie’s still in her crib, sound asleep. I hope the doorbell doesn’t wake her. She used to wake up with a gleeful coo. Now, she wakes up crying. She misses her mother. I know it. I do too.
The bell rings again and this time it’s followed by a rap, rap, rap, rap. Dressed in sweats and a ratty old T-shirt, I take a quick sip of my coffee and hurry to the front door, hoping to get to it before the fracas gets to be too much. I unlock the deadbolt, expecting to see another neighborhood matron with cheap store-bought flowers or a Saran-wrapped platter of home-baked cookies. Wanting to come in to offer their condolences and make small talk about my wife when I know they’re here to ogle me.
