Bright Lights at Night - short story first line challenge 2 - week 8

 The flashing lights in his rear view mirror were the first sign of the kind of evening it would be. But Evelyn hadn't noticed and asked, "Kurt, why are you stopping?"

 "Just be a moment," said Kurt, gathering his thoughts. He wasn't aware of anything he'd done wrong; stopped at the stop sign before moving on, checked the traffic, turned into the right lane. And his car was okay, all its lights bright and clear last night when he tested them.

 "Daddy, why you being a Christmas tree?" his little son, Davie, had asked. He was watching through the kitchen door, and explained that the flashing lights in the garage were just like those on the tree Mummy used to put up. Emma shushed him, and Kurt had pretended not to hear.

 The police car pulled to a halt and the driver walked slowly forwards towards Kurt's car.

 "What's wrong?" asked Evelyn, glancing in the mirror.

 "Just be a moment," said Kurt again. Cold air blew as he opened the window; icy water trickled down his spine. The last time a police car had stopped him Kurt was driving his wife Amy to the hospital, racing too fast through busy streets as fear blinded him to danger. The policeman used his lights and sirens to help, and traffic parted like the Red Sea to give him passage, but too late. Then Kurt had cried tears like the sea returning to flood, and little Davie asked, "Daddy, why you all wet."

 "Just be a moment," he'd said. It was his mantra against infinity.

 "License?" said the policeman. At least, that's what Kurt thought he'd said, so he shuffled the papers from his wallet, tugging the plastic from the window that wouldn't let go.

 "Kurt Johnson?" said the policeman, and all Kurt could think was how does he know my name.

 "Yes," said Evelyn. "He's Kurt."

 "You need to follow me."

 "Kurt," said Evelyn softly. "Kurt, you need to follow the police man. Kurt, d'you understand?" But Kurt's world had frozen, the ice water sluggish as slush in his veins and his thoughts and movements turned to stone.

 "Shall I drive?" said Evelyn's voice from a great distance. A far-away hand guided Kurt into the passenger seat, moving his body and legs while he made no conscious effort, didn't care where he sat.

 And so the bright lights in the rear view mirror became bright lights ahead. Kurt watched them, thinking of Christmas trees, of Amy and how she'd loved to decorate, and little Davie and Emma with their matching winning smiles. The lights were merry and Kurt began to laugh, though his body felt cold and his face stiff like a mask. And beside him Evelyn drove.

 Wasn't she supposed to be offering him a drink or maybe listing the specials from the cart? And she'd spilled a little wine on Amy's dress, but Amy didn't mind. "Really, don't worry. It'll wash."

 In another memory Kurt was spilling tears on Evelyn's dress. She was telling him not to worry too.

 "It'll be okay," she said now. "We'll find out what they want."

 The Christmas tree lights resolved into red white and blue. The policeman knocked on the passenger window and Kurt wound it down without thinking.

 "You need to come with me sir," said a voice resounding with distant remembered authority.

 "You need to come with me sir," said the doctor when he told Kurt his wife was dead. And the baby too.

 "You need to come with me sir."

 Kurt turned around in the car. Where were the children? And why was Evelyn the waitress sitting in the driver's seat?

 "This way."

 Then his legs and feet began to move though his mind had come unmoored, water in his veins and steam hissing and roaring from the vents of his heart.

 Bright lights were hospital corridors, glaring strips, stripes, building bricks, blank sheets of paper lined and waiting for words. And the doctor-no, not another doctor, thought Kurt-was saying "Come with me."

 "Amy. Evelyn. No."

 Warm hands wrapped themselves round Kurt's flapping wrist. "I'm here." He didn't know who. There was the comfort of an arm resting at his waist, of someone guiding his steps. "This way."

 "Daddy," cried the sweet small voice of a child. "Daddy, Daddy, you came!" And little Davie was lying, so very small, so thin and frail, with wires and lines and lights flashing on the machine. "Daddy, Daddy. I'm sorry I broke your ladder."

 Kurt rushed to the bed, warm blood beating in his heart and his ears and his blank stare turned to care. He wrapped himself gently, so cautious not to hurt, round the figure that lay on the bed. And he spared an arm for the sister to hold her close in the same embrace as tears rolled down his face.

 "What happened?" Evelyn asked, her voice so near and far, filling the gaps that Kurt couldn't fill because he couldn't be father and mother both at once. Was he being Amy, and Evelyn being him? Or were they both one?

 "From what the sister says, this little chap decided it was time to get the Christmas tree out. Took the ladder upstairs all on his own and then he must have fallen, halfway into the loft."

 Evelyn asked was he okay.

 "Just a broken arm. He's a lucky little man."

 "And how did he get to the hospital?"

 "This young lady. Big sister. She dialed 911."

 "You're my hero," Kurt was whispering to the crying girl. And, "You're my dear little fellow," he whispered to the boy. "I'll get the tree out for you, and decorate, just like Mummy did."

 Then he whispered to Evelyn, the waitress whose dress he had stained with his tears, whose love had sustained him and waited while months went by and healing hid, and whose capable arms had steered him through the night. "You're my sweetheart Evelyn. Will you marry me?"

© Sheila Deeth, January 2009