Silverlighters (revised version as I edit)

3

                                              3

Following my father’s highly detailed instructions – go north – I drove for hours while he slept.

At least, I thought he was asleep. He might have been trying to avoid my relentless onslaught of questions, none of which he would answer.

For a long time I was torn, wanting to go against his wishes and take him straight to the emergency department. But when his color started to return, I relaxed, poking him sharply in the shoulder every so often to make sure he wasn’t unconscious.

Most times I was lucky to get a grunt. But at least it meant he was still with me.

By then my eyes were getting heavy and I knew I couldn’t drive for much longer, so I poked him again.

“Would you quit doing that,” he said.

“I need to know you’re okay.”

“You’ll know I’m okay when I ground you.”

“Ground me from what?” I snorted. “The car?”

But really, I was that pleased it wasn’t funny at all.

I really thought I was going to lose him, too, as memories of my mother’s death taunted me. Especially when he refused to let me check him over. I knew nothing about bullet wounds – I just knew they were scary. I had no idea how much blood a person could lose before they didn’t have enough.

Or how many people you could lose before you could no longer go on.

I pushed the thought away – my hyperactive imagination had already outdone itself. I still worried he’d been shot more than once. I couldn’t help but notice the way he seemed to be favoring his right side. 

I had no idea how right I was at the time.

He mumbled something under his breath, turning away from me.

I was wide awake again, the relief keeping me going. But it didn’t last long.

Sucking back an energy drink, I flicked through the radio channels to see if there were any more updates on the explosion.

Apparently, only two people died (my father and I) after an apparent gas leak.

Now I know why they use that word.

I yawned, one of those yawns that just wants to keep on going. The sort of yawn that makes your eyes water and the back of your throat seize up.

Blinking rapidly, I knew I’d have to pull over soon. But first there was something I had to do.

I glanced over at my father. “Dad?”

No answer.

I waited a bit longer. “Dad?”

Still no answer.

Slowing the car down, I carefully reached over to slip my hand in his pocket, pulling out the crumpled newspaper article he’d jammed in there.

Unfolding it with one hand, I tried to watch my father and the road at the same time.

In the end I had to pull over I was shaking so badly.

You see – the headline on the article had changed. And the date at the top belonged to tomorrow.

Father and daughter die in explosion

“So now you know,” my father’s voice was soft.

Apparently he wasn’t asleep, after all.