Unthinkable
Lunch had been finished. My husband and I were still sitting at the table. I was thinking of getting up and washing the dishes to get ready for my afternoon classes. From time to time we expressed disbelief at the news on television about the corruption that seems to seep out from the government every day. My husband's phone rang. Short, quick words. It was his mother. A car was starting to burn and there might be someone inside, she wasn't sure. My husband drops the phone, picks up the extinguisher we have and runs out to his car. I run back, turn off the television, and pick up the keys to my car. On the way, I call the Spanish emergency number, 112. I'm put on hold. Three times on the tiny drive into the village, I am told the operators are busy. I hang up. I call the regional number, 061 and I am answered almost immediately. But they inform me they already know and firefighters and ambulance are on the way.
I park in front of my in-laws' house. The road is filling up with cars that can't continue; the road is blocked. On the right is a truck with a battered front. On the left is a fireball that had once been a car, the black smoke twisting into the sky. I get out of the car and walk up the road. Up ahead, my husband sees me and beckons to me. I walk up to him, he puts his arm around my shoulder and, with a tremble in his voice, he says he thinks it might be his brother, and that he's probably in the car. He asks me to call him. I say it can't be him, but I call. The phone rings, but my brother-in-law doesn't pick up. A recorded voice comes up and asks me to leave a message. It's inconclusive. The phone's not in the car, at least.
We walk to where it's burning. It's a sight difficult to forget. The car is unrecognizable. But I see from the wheel hubs that it's a BMW, the same as my brother-in-law's car. But that's all that can be discerned. The metal has turned white from the fire, and I don't want to think about the shapes visible through the crimson flames and thick, black smoke. The neighbors are talking about how fast it started to burn. One is angry with the fact that the truck's fire extinguisher is chained and padlocked into the truck, making it impossible to have used it at the first moment. Apparently, that's because too many have been stolen, and the company decided to padlock them. Kind of defeats the purpose of an extinguisher. Those standing there start to wonder just where the fire truck is that was supposed to "soon" be here.
My phone rings. It's my brother-in-law. He's just leaving work, and he's fine. I tell him there was a tremendous accident and that the road is closed. I tell him to come very carefully and take an alternate route. I hang up and feel my knees wobbly with relief. I tell my husband and he calms down, as well. Then, the firefighters show up, but it's late for the occupants of the car. The foam quells the flames, and the local police tells everyone to back away. A perimeter is set up with tape, and people are not allowed to cross. People begin speculating on who might have been in the car. The truck driver is taken to the hospital in the ambulance in a state of shock. The firefighters are rolling up their hoses. The car has been covered with a sheet. Now, the wait is for the funeral van and the judge to show up. Whenever there is an accident or other unnatural death, a judge has to come, look at the scene, and allow the body to be taken away.
I leave, though, because it's almost three and I have someone coming at that hour. But the scene stays in my mind. The poor person in that car. The family of that person. I don't want to think about the pain they will receive in a single phone call that will change their lives forever. The sunny, warm day will suddenly turn into the coldest and darkest midwinter's day.
The mother of the boys who come at four comes to the door when she brings them. She heard from someone that it was a couple from a village in our parish, and that, if so, it's the brother of a former school friend and his wife. I don't know. The online edition of the regional paper only has initials in its short article. They only use initials when the authorities don't want the identity known, or, in the case of a death, the family still hasn't been notified.
My husband arrives home. Identification has been made. It is who was mentioned. They are a couple around forty years old, younger than us and with a three year old child who happened to have stayed home with his grandmother that day. My God, my God. I know the family; a niece and nephew of theirs come to me for classes. They are from the same village as my mother-in-law, and they and my brothers-in-law grew up together. Thinking of them makes tears come to my eyes. To go out in the car one day and have life disappear in a flash of a second. The impact was so brutal, though, that our consolation is that they were either dead or so unconscious as to be in coma when the car started to burn.
How did it happen? No one knows yet, though there might be another car involved, one that wanted to pass the truck, but no one is sure, and the police are investigating. However it occurred doesn't really matter now. Two people are dead, and a family and friends are ripped into jagged pieces of piercing pain.
The rest of the day was atypical. Something had changed. The air felt softer, and there were more scents. The antics of the kittens outside made us giggle more, we were more playful with each other. We spoke with our daughter when she messaged us she was staying in Santiago to better study for exams. With every horrible event like this, life seems more precious and more beautiful. Mundane things matter much less than the simple act of being alive and being conscious of the world with each of our senses. The saddest thing is that it takes such an unthinkable tragedy to help us remember that.
I park in front of my in-laws' house. The road is filling up with cars that can't continue; the road is blocked. On the right is a truck with a battered front. On the left is a fireball that had once been a car, the black smoke twisting into the sky. I get out of the car and walk up the road. Up ahead, my husband sees me and beckons to me. I walk up to him, he puts his arm around my shoulder and, with a tremble in his voice, he says he thinks it might be his brother, and that he's probably in the car. He asks me to call him. I say it can't be him, but I call. The phone rings, but my brother-in-law doesn't pick up. A recorded voice comes up and asks me to leave a message. It's inconclusive. The phone's not in the car, at least.
We walk to where it's burning. It's a sight difficult to forget. The car is unrecognizable. But I see from the wheel hubs that it's a BMW, the same as my brother-in-law's car. But that's all that can be discerned. The metal has turned white from the fire, and I don't want to think about the shapes visible through the crimson flames and thick, black smoke. The neighbors are talking about how fast it started to burn. One is angry with the fact that the truck's fire extinguisher is chained and padlocked into the truck, making it impossible to have used it at the first moment. Apparently, that's because too many have been stolen, and the company decided to padlock them. Kind of defeats the purpose of an extinguisher. Those standing there start to wonder just where the fire truck is that was supposed to "soon" be here.
My phone rings. It's my brother-in-law. He's just leaving work, and he's fine. I tell him there was a tremendous accident and that the road is closed. I tell him to come very carefully and take an alternate route. I hang up and feel my knees wobbly with relief. I tell my husband and he calms down, as well. Then, the firefighters show up, but it's late for the occupants of the car. The foam quells the flames, and the local police tells everyone to back away. A perimeter is set up with tape, and people are not allowed to cross. People begin speculating on who might have been in the car. The truck driver is taken to the hospital in the ambulance in a state of shock. The firefighters are rolling up their hoses. The car has been covered with a sheet. Now, the wait is for the funeral van and the judge to show up. Whenever there is an accident or other unnatural death, a judge has to come, look at the scene, and allow the body to be taken away.
I leave, though, because it's almost three and I have someone coming at that hour. But the scene stays in my mind. The poor person in that car. The family of that person. I don't want to think about the pain they will receive in a single phone call that will change their lives forever. The sunny, warm day will suddenly turn into the coldest and darkest midwinter's day.
The mother of the boys who come at four comes to the door when she brings them. She heard from someone that it was a couple from a village in our parish, and that, if so, it's the brother of a former school friend and his wife. I don't know. The online edition of the regional paper only has initials in its short article. They only use initials when the authorities don't want the identity known, or, in the case of a death, the family still hasn't been notified.
My husband arrives home. Identification has been made. It is who was mentioned. They are a couple around forty years old, younger than us and with a three year old child who happened to have stayed home with his grandmother that day. My God, my God. I know the family; a niece and nephew of theirs come to me for classes. They are from the same village as my mother-in-law, and they and my brothers-in-law grew up together. Thinking of them makes tears come to my eyes. To go out in the car one day and have life disappear in a flash of a second. The impact was so brutal, though, that our consolation is that they were either dead or so unconscious as to be in coma when the car started to burn.
How did it happen? No one knows yet, though there might be another car involved, one that wanted to pass the truck, but no one is sure, and the police are investigating. However it occurred doesn't really matter now. Two people are dead, and a family and friends are ripped into jagged pieces of piercing pain.
The rest of the day was atypical. Something had changed. The air felt softer, and there were more scents. The antics of the kittens outside made us giggle more, we were more playful with each other. We spoke with our daughter when she messaged us she was staying in Santiago to better study for exams. With every horrible event like this, life seems more precious and more beautiful. Mundane things matter much less than the simple act of being alive and being conscious of the world with each of our senses. The saddest thing is that it takes such an unthinkable tragedy to help us remember that.
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