Page 19 of The Beachgoers
eight
— Then —
10 Years Ago
Hours Later, That Same Day
The Crash
THE SKY ABOVE IS BLUE, as blue as blue can be.
There are subtle variations to the shade of blue, giving the sky dimension—much like a deep blue sea spreading to the horizon. But rarely is there a more beautiful, sweeping sky above.
The man below must see it, every bit of it. He lies partially on scrubby roadside brush, partially on pavement. His body, though, is askew. Something’s not lined up right. It’s apparent in the way he’s lying there, on his back—but with one leg bent wrong. His clothes are shredded in places, too. His black tee. His dusty denim jeans. That T-shirt is twisted tight around him, exposing some of his taut belly. Ripped tee fabric hangs in jagged swatches near his shoulder. There’s blood there, too, coating that shoulder. And his jeans? Much of the fabric on his left leg—the one oddly turned around—has been slashed open. So the misaligned leg is clearly visible. Bone protrudes through the bloodied skin, beneath the knee. And his arms, long and lean, are motionless. They’re lacerated, scraped, and limp in the brush.
But the man’s face looks up at the sky. Road dirt—bits of sand and grit—is embedded in his cheeks, his forehead. There’s a vicious gash running along his jawline. That gash looks as shredded as his tee. Blood streaming from his sliced-open jaw pools on his neck and in his ear. His dark hair is sticky with blood, too.
Looking at the young man, you’d have to wonder if he’s even alive. Especially seeing the mangled wreck of a motorcycle further down the road. And seeing another man flat on the pavement nearby. A black denim jacket hangs half offthatman. His wavy hair is a mess. His chest rises and falls, rapidly. And his breathing—there’s a harsh rasp in it. Almost a gurgling sound. There’s a car, too. It’s spun around backward against a guardrail; the car’s hood is crumpled; the bumper, hanging. The driver, an older man, leans to the side with only his seatbelt holding him upright. It’s hard to tell if he’s conscious.
Amongst it all, debris litters the hot summer pavement. Pieces of twisted metal, and crushed silver chrome, and plastic bits and clothing scraps and glass shards are strewn everywhere.
Everywhere.
But that first man, lying on his back in the roadside brush? Heisalive; there’s no doubt now. You can tell by the way his eyes open and take in that endless blue sky above. He doesn’t move, except for his eyes. They look at the sky for long moments, then drop closed. A moment later, they open—almost panicked in their focusing as he looks only at what’s before him: the immense sky. It’s as though this man’s unable to even move his head, the way his eyes stay locked on that blue, blue sky. Every now and then, though, his eyes slowly drop closed. You’d imagine that, watching that blue sky—a sight giving some sense of goodness, of hope—well, you’dimaginethat as his eyes fall closed, it would seem like a black curtain coming down on that sky.
But he persists. He opens his eyes again.
Does he know? Does he know that he was driving that motorcycle? That the traffic light was red, and he and his passenger were stopped there as the bike idled? Does he know that a car then careened into him and threw his world off its axis? And that the man who’d been hitchedbehindhim on the bike was flung over his back and sent airborne before crashing into the pavement? Does the man looking at the sky know that upon impact with the car, the motorcycle on which he rode spun incessantly? Does he know that his jeans hooked onto something—keeping him attached to the bike? That his leg twisted up then, in the endless spin? Does he know that once the denim fabric ripped through, his body was flung skidding across the hot pavement to the roadside brush? Does he know that when his back met that pavement, the force alone disintegrated his tee there and burned his skin ragged?
Does he know he’s lucky to be alive and opening his eyes?
Or did his mind treat him kindly and block out the half-minute of downright hell he just passed through?
It’s hard to tell, because when the sound of distant sirens approaches, he closes his eyes once more and doesn’t open them again—not once—that August day, beneath a hot sun shining down from that blue, blue sky.
* * *
When he does open his eyes again, it’s another day. His eyelids are swollen from the beating his body took. Anyone can see, too, that it’s not easy lifting those eyelids. But he does it. And his eyes, they slowly take in the new view. The machines attached to him. The tubes. The nurses in scrubs walking past. The monitor screens covered in jagged lines. The bedside tray. The ceiling lights. A pale early dawn pressing against the window. The weary-looking man in his mid-fifties, maybe, sitting close.
The injured man’s one whispered word then is hoarse. “Dad,” he somehow manages.
“Shh,” his father says, quickly leaning over from where he sits beside the bed. “Don’t talk, Jason.”
Jason’s eyes stay locked on his father’s face. Even when his father pulls his chair closer and holds his son’s wired arm, Jason doesn’t look away.
“You’re okay. You’re in the hospital,” his father’s low voice says. “And you’ll pull through this, son. You’re strong.”
A few moments later, Jason’s eyes close. Fatigue overtakes him. It runs roughshod over every function of his body—thoughts, movement, speech, memory—leaving him nearly unconscious.
When he wakes again, he just slightly turns his head. It’s difficult, obvious in how slowly it happens. It looks like the bandages might pull on his bruised face, on his stitched-together jaw. So he gets agitated, too. His body moves as he tries to sit up.
But his father stops him. He clasps an arm over his distressed son. “No, no,” he whispers, half standing and practically leaning his body on his son’s. “Be still. Come on, Jason.” His grip across his son’s body doesn’t loosen. The father bows his head, maintaining that grip.
Minutes pass when neither moves. When one finally does, it’s the father. And it only happens once Jason’s eyes close, once his body goes limp with sleep. That’s when his father loosens his hold and sits back, slumping with his own debilitating fatigue.
When Jason next wakes up, hours have passed—though he’d have no way of knowing. He wouldn’t know that his father eventually left. Or that two women, one older, one Jason’s age, came and quietly sat in the room. They identified themselves to the nurses as Jason’s mother and sister. One nurse asked the visiting women to wait in the hall, or maybe get a coffee, as she tended to Jason’s critical care. Doctors, too, did the same. When Jason’s father later returned, he again pulled a chair alongside the bed and sat there watching his beaten son.
Which is when Jason opens his eyes once more. Now the light in the hospital room has changed. Outside the window, the sun has risen higher in the sky. Time has passed. Maybe he notices; maybe not. You can’t really tell by what he does next. With almost a lurch, he again attempts to sit up in the bed. His arms press against the mattress; his body moves to the side.
