Big Cloud, Wyoming
After the funeral, time floated by Emma like fog.
She’d lost track of it as she grappled with the emptiness.
She’d sit alone in Tyler’s room for hours, rocking in the chair where she had nursed him. Joe had made the chair for her from Canadian maple. Its rhythmic squeak comforted her as she held Tyler’s teddy bear while images of the crash whirled around her.
Each time Emma replayed the tragedy, she saw Tyler being saved.
Was she crazy?
Oh, Joe, tell me what to do. Please, tell me!
Emma could feel Joe pulling her back to that day.
“You’re one of the most fearless people I know. Woe to anyone or anything that comes between you and Tyler.”
That was her answer.
Emma could not allow a lie to come between her and their baby. Emma needed proof, evidence that what she saw, that what she felt with all her heart, was wrong. And until she had it, she would never ever let go of her belief that Tyler was alive.
Never.
She found the binder holding papers from the funeral director and snapped through it, coming to the documents she needed.
“What is it, dear?” Aunt Marsha asked.
“I need to go out, to see to matters.”
Emma showered, dressed, made phone calls from the bedroom, then collected her purse and files.
“Are you sure you’re up to going out alone?” her uncle asked. “What matters are you talking about? Maybe we can see to them for you?”
“Thank you, Uncle Ned, but this is something I have to do myself.”
Emma got into her Chevrolet Cobalt and caught her breath.
Tyler’s car seat and some of his toys were in the back. Joe had insisted on getting a car seat for each vehicle so they weren’t constantly moving one from the Cobalt to the SUV.
Emma touched it, then turned the ignition and headed to Deer Creek Road and the office of the chief deputy coroner.
“Emma Lane. I called,” she told the woman at the desk.
The receptionist’s eyes went briefly to the scrapes on her face, a subtle verification that this was the woman who’d lost her husband and baby in the crash. “Hold on, I think Henry’s free.”
Henry Sanders, M.D., was in his forties. He was wearing a white smock with a pen in his breast pocket. His thick, dark-framed glasses had slid to the end of his nose when he came out from behind his desk to greet her.
“I’m deeply sorry for your loss, Mrs. Lane. I’ll try to answer your questions.” Sanders shook her hand. “May I get you a glass of water, coffee, maybe some tea?”
“No thank you. Dr. Sanders, what proof do you have that my baby died in the crash?”
Sanders’s face dimmed and he nudged his glasses.
“It was a terrible accident,” he said.
“Dr. Sanders, I was there. Now, according to my documents from the funeral director, you signed the death certificates for Joe and Tyler.”
“That’s correct.”
“And I understand that you filed them with the state.”
“Yes, with the local registrar.”
“I would like copies, please.”
“You can order them through vital statistics, but we’ll get you copies.”
“What did you list as the cause of Tyler’s death?”
“In Joe’s case, cause was attributed to a broken neck. In Tyler’s case, given the circumstances, I concluded fire was the cause of death.”
“But how can you say that without evidence? You didn’t find any of his remains.” Emma stifled an anguished groan. Keep going, she told herself. Keep moving. “No teeth, no bones. Just his shoes, which I had removed during the trip and put in the front seat with me.”
“Mrs. Lane, I know this is a traumatic time when people cannot conceive of the reality of what has happened.”
Emma noticed the framed degrees and certificates displayed on the wall behind Sanders.
“Did you find any remains belonging to my son? Any bones or teeth because-” Emma’s chin crumpled “-I understand teeth can survive fire?”
“No, Mrs. Lane, no remains belonging to your son were found.”
“Well then, how can you say-”
Sanders removed his glasses.
“The impact of the crash situated the baby’s seat upon the fuel tank, so that at the point of ignition it was akin to being at the hypocenter of a powerful explosion where the heat and gasses are the most intense. I am so sorry, but Tyler was incinerated. And under the regulations of this state, I am authorized to reasonably conclude that death occurred as a result of this event. Again, my condolences, Mrs. Lane.”
“But I saw someone rescue him.”
Sanders blinked sadly.
“Mrs. Lane, I understand the monumental loss you’re facing. Acceptance is difficult, denying the tragedy is understandable. Perhaps-”
“I’m not denying it. I know my husband is dead, I just-”
“Perhaps,” Sanders continued, “if you haven’t done so already, you should consider seeking counseling. There’s someone in Cheyenne I could recommend, if you like.”
Emma cupped her hands to her face and shook her head slowly.
“No, thank you.”
After leaving the coroner’s office, Emma drove across town to Blue Willow Park, where she used to bring Tyler. She stared at her copies of the death certificates until deciding to drive to the Big Cloud County Sheriff’s Office on Center Street, to see Darnell Horn, the deputy who’d brought Tyler’s burnt shoes to her in the hospital.
Horn had been the first officer on the scene.
“Is there something I can help you with, Emma?” Reed Cobb, Darnell’s supervisor, asked at the front counter, concern rising in his eyes. “Darnell’s out. But I expect him back any minute.”
“I want to see the reports, pictures, everything on the crash.”
“Emma, geez, I don’t know. It’s a terrible shame what happened, but it was a bad crash. One of the worst we’ve-I don’t think you want to look.”
“I want to see them.”
Glancing at her bruises, Cobb reasoned she had a right to see the file.
“Come around this way.”
He led her to a small room, left, then returned with a folder.
“Everything we have is in there, and we shared it with the Wyoming Highway Patrol.”
Emma took a breath, opening the folder to a collection of reports and photographs. There were color prints of charred metal, the contorted remnants of their family SUV on its roof. This was the car Emma used to load with their groceries, the car she’d dreamed in, the car she’d taken on class trips; the car Joe had driven when they went to the County Hospital where Tyler was born.
Now it was twisted metal and melted plastic, a grotesque headstone to her life. Emma’s vision blurred as she searched for proof that her son had survived.
She found none.
The reports were clinical. Phrases leaped out at her.
Single Vehicle Fatal Accident
Fatalities: Lane, Joseph, Age 34. Lane, Tyler, Age 1.
