She had summered on Nantucket for years. She was
in a suspended state--too heavy for ballet, too young for graduate
school. She did not want to marry an engineer and live in a suburb of
Philadelphia. She was clear about that. I offered a possible
alternative: an honest life built one stone at a time.
We put out the fire and walked along the beach. Fog blew in, softening
the lines of the horizon and dune, thickening as we reached the truck.
We drove back happily involved with each other, unconcerned with
anything else. A telephone pole appeared directly in front of me. I
whipped the steering wheel to the left and almost missed the pole. The
right headlight smashed and I was thrown against the wheel, striking it
with my shoulder and bending it nearly double. Jamie went through the
windshield. After the crash, there were only hot sounds of metal
uncrinkling and moans from Jamie. Don't let me die, she was saying over
and over.
I pulled her back on to the seat and reassured her. Her hair was bloody
and glinted with broken glass. She was half-conscious. I took her in my
arms and walked away from the wreck. We were at a tiny unmarked traffic
circle with a house nearby. Lights were on in the house. I carried
Jamie to the front door which was opened by a woman who had heard the
crash. I waited while she spread newspapers on the floor, and then I
brought Jamie inside. An ambulance came within a few minutes and took
her to the hospital.
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