Annie coughed. The next right was blocked off as well, pushing me another block out of my way.
“Don’t you dare come,” Annie said. “If it’s the flu, I don’t need you. If it’s anthrax, you can’t help me. Go home and lock your door.”
“I can’t leave you there alone. I’m coming,” I said.
“Finn, there’s no point. I don’t feel that sick. I probably have the flu; I visited my sister last weekend and my little nephew was sick. I probably caught what he had.”
“Should I call 911? Just to be safe?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m calling,” I said. “I’ll call you right back.”
I punched 911 and got a recording. All lines were in use. I waited thirty seconds, called again, and got the same recording. I called Annie back.
“How do you feel?”
“About the same, I guess.”
I wondered if I could circle around, try to get in on the minor roads coming from the west.
“Listen.” Annie’s voice got low, to almost a whisper. “I was thinking. If I’ve got it, it’s okay. Living is so hard for me that I wouldn’t be that disappointed if it stopped. You know?”
I didn’t know what to say. Annie suffered from such terrible anxiety and depression that it seeped from her pores. She was on tremendous doses of SSRIs and other anti-depression meds. Was it really so bad she wanted to die? “I didn’t know it was that bad.”
“It is. I’m really not afraid to die. I’m just afraid it’s going to hurt. You know?”
“Yeah.” I choked back tears. “I still don’t think you should be alone. If I can get close, I’ll cover my face with a sweatshirt.”
“Why don’t we wait an hour, see if things calm down?” Annie suggested. “Just stay on the phone with me?”
“Okay.” That made sense. I could stay on the phone with her the whole time, try again in an hour when things had hopefully calmed down.
“My throat hurts, so you talk, I’ll listen.”
“What should I talk about?”
“I don’t know.”
I tried to think of something happy. I heard a gurgling from Annie’s end. “Are you okay?”
“I’m just drinking. Drink lots of fluids and get plenty of rest, right?”
“Absolutely.”
Annie laughed a little.
“The two of us are going to laugh about this over drinks in a few days, after you’re over the flu,” I said. “It’s the flu. Even if there was an anthrax outbreak, people still get the flu this time of year.”
“You’re probably right.”
I tried to drive with tunnel vision. I didn’t want to see what was happening outside. Every block seemed crowded with people trying to get help. A woman wearing a head scarf flagged me from between two parked cars. I didn’t stop; I felt like shit, but I didn’t want to contract anthrax. Could it get into the car through the vent? I turned off the heat, just in case.
“Would you say your life has been mostly happy up till now?” Annie asked.
I wasn’t sure how to answer. “Yes and no. I’m happy when the universe isn’t dropping giant shit-bombs on me.” I was going for an ironic tone, but it came out dripping with self-pity.
“How old were you when your twin sister died?” Annie asked.
“Twelve.” I had a flash of memory: sitting in the Buckhead diner, holding Lorena’s hand, Annie sitting across from us in the booth, tears rolling down her cheeks as I told her the story of how Kayleigh drowned.
I made it to the 75/85 interchange. It was crowded, but so far the traffic was moving.
Annie started to say something, but it tripped off a coughing jag. “You still there?”
“I’m here,” I said.
“Someone on CNN said anthrax. Maybe terrorist attack. Not confirmed.”
“They’re probably hearing the same rumor I heard.”
I drove in silence, the phone to my ear, digesting Annie’s words. Terrorist attack? They were just sensationalizing a bad flu outbreak for ratings. That had to be it.
My chest felt tight, and for a second I wondered if I was infected. Annie had said the breathing difficulties came later. This was just anxiety.
I made it to Collier and got off at the exit. It wasn’t mine, but the parkway was bogging with traffic.
I tried to think of something else to say—something that didn’t involve terrorists, ambulances that sounded like a pack of wolves. I was flying along Howell Mill Road, with the reservoir on my right. Almost home now— another fifteen minutes. Almost safe. “I’m on Howell Mill Road. Have you ever heard the legend about this road?”
“No,” Annie said.
“There’s a local legend that this road is haunted, that if you put your car in neutral at a certain spot and let it coast, a ghost will pull you uphill. When I was a senior we would come here all the time. Everyone had a different opinion of where the spot was, and none of them—”
There was a woman kneeling in the middle of the road.
I hit the brake, jerked the steering wheel to avoid her. As my wheels screeched and the car skidded toward the guardrail I wondered what the hell she was doing there, down on her knees like she was praying.
The impact was deafening. I squeezed the wheel, my teeth clenched, as my car flipped over the guardrail.
For a moment my car was airborne and there was silence, except for Annie calling my name, her voice tiny and far away.
Then the car hit, front-end first, and cartwheeled down the embankment. My head slammed into the window and I heard something crack. There was a loud pop; I couldn’t see anything, and realized the airbag was in my face.
Something slammed against the roof like a giant fist, and everything stopped.
Then there was Annie’s voice again, asking what was wrong, imploring me to answer.
Water surged into the car above my head. For a moment I didn’t understand what was happening, then I grasped that the car was upside-down in the reservoir. I reached for the buttons to close the windows, but they were already closed—the water was coming from somewhere else. It didn’t matter; I was sinking and I needed to get out. I fumbled with the seat belt, unable to locate the release as freezing water washed over my face. Shocked by the cold, I lifted my face up out of the water, but it followed. A second later my entire head was under.
I panicked. I thrashed in my seat as if I could bust myself out of the seatbelt, realizing too late that I should have taken a deep breath before the water rose over my head. My arms and hands clenched as the numbing water rushed over them.
All I could think was, this shouldn’t be so hard. I should be able to get out.
I followed the seatbelt up to my lap and found the release, felt a jolt, then I was floating free. The water had stopped churning—the car was completely filled. I clawed at the door, seeking the latch, and instead found the buttons for the windows.
They didn’t work. Or maybe I wasn’t pushing them right. My fingers were so numb I couldn’t tell if the buttons were moving.
There was a gentle thump: my car had hit bottom. The thought of it horrified me. I was at the bottom, my head inches from the mud.
I pushed feebly at the window. My chest hitched, resisting my lungs’ insistence that I breathe. I went back to searching for the door latch.
I finally found it, down lower than I’d thought. I was so disoriented from the cold, the upside-down car. I jammed my fingers into the cavity and pulled the latch, sensed rather than heard the door pop. I pushed with my shoulder; it eased open in slow-motion.
