Wicked Restless

“What are you doing? Andrew…no…”

“Shhhhhhhh,” I interrupt her protest, holding her head to mine as I kneel in front of her. “Listen to me. You. Were not driving. Tonight—you never touched the keys. This car, you never drove it. Not once—ever. I was driving. Do you understand?”

“Andrew…I can’t let you…” I look up and see lights reflecting in the distance, an ambulance and fire truck on the way. Police will not be far behind.

I leave her in the seat and rush over to the ignition, pulling the key out and wiping it with my shirt then shoving the keys into my pocket. I run back around the front of the car to her, and hold her in place as she tries to step out from the car.

“Emma, I’m going to be fine. He’s hurt, and we didn’t do anything but have a horrible accident. He was walking on a dark road at night. I didn’t see him step into the roadway, and I hit him with the front end of the car. I called for help right away, and you hit your head on the dashboard.” I repeat myself three times, and she shakes her head and mutters no the entire time. I see the police cars trailing behind the medical help, and I know I only have seconds to get her on board with my story.

“Emma, I drove this car tonight,” I say with more force, my teeth gritting. She needs to embrace this—she needs to let me lie. “I’m going to say this to them, and I need you to back up everything I say. I need you to!”

She gives me a slight nod, her eyes never once blinking, and her gaze looking over my shoulder at the emergency personnel now rushing in all directions.

“Sir, are you all right?”

There’s a flashlight in both of our faces, and I stand to talk to the firefighter at my car.

“She hit her head on the dash. I think there’s a cut,” I say, and he flashes his light on her immediately. I move out of the way and let him work on cleaning up Emma as I step away to the man on the road. By the time I get there, three men and a woman are working on him, checking vitals and stripping away his bloodied clothing. My sweatshirt has been tossed into a biohazard bag along with the man’s shirt. His injuries don’t look life threatening, but I can tell he’s not fully aware of what’s happening.

“Is he going to be okay?” I ask, getting a variety of short responses—the gist always to let them work and they don’t know enough yet.

I step away to give them room and move toward my car, where two firefighters are now working on Emma, walking her to the side of the car and checking her for more injuries. Two police officers have also started circling my car, and I notice them ask her a few questions.

Come on, Emma. Lie for me, baby. Please…just this once—tell a lie.

She shakes her head no, then her eyes flit up to me—our gazes lock, and I know she’s done as I asked. She looks so ashamed, but I nod and close my eyes, so thankful she followed through. Whatever has her terrified of this—whatever she thinks this will ruin—is in the past with that one little lie.

I walk slowly toward the car, and as I get to the front, where the damage is, the second officer moves from my back seat leaving the door open.

“Is this your car, sir?” he asks.

“Yes,” I nod.

“Were you driving this vehicle tonight?”

Yes, this is what I was hoping for. I’ll explain everything; there will be some processing. Insurance is going to suck, but the man…he’s going to be okay. I know it. I’ll be fine. Emma will be fine.

“Yes, I was. It was dark, and he stepped into the roadway after that bend, and—”

“Place your hands on the roof of the car, please,” the other officer says. I do as he asks, and open my mouth to finish my version of what happened, when I feel him kick my feet farther apart as his hands pat down the front, sides, and back of my body.

“I’m going to put these cuffs on you, sir, and they’re going to feel a little uncomfortable, but if you don’t resist, it won’t hurt,” he says, jerking one arm behind my body, then the second.

The cuffs are more of a giant zip-tie, really, and he pulls them tight, then leads me backward a few steps, pointing me so I’m looking at his partner.

“Is this your marijuana, Andrew?” the officer says. I look at the bag, the same small fucking bag of weed House dangled at me as payment to buy him a cheeseburger, and I feel overwhelmed with the need to throw up.

“That’s not mine,” I say, realizing how typical every word I just said sounds. That’s what everyone says. And it’s never the truth—except this once. This isn’t the lie I’m telling. But it’s the only one they’re interested in.