Autumn

That time of year is approaching again.

The sense of dread rises in me as I smell the approach of autumn. Four years ago, I picked up a series of voicemails. In a scattered order, they announced the story of Wizard's accident. Four were from his friends; each was more hysterical than the last. One was actually from the partner of a friend; he was calling to tell me to calm down and that it wasn't as bad as the general panic would suggest. One was from the ER: "This is Dr. X; we have your husband." When I checked my watch, I knew I couldn't make it to the airport in time to catch the redeye to New York; I'd be staying overnight in a hotel, miles away from home, alone, and freaking the fuck out.

I tried to reach Wizard, but the HIPAA rules had recently come into effect. The nursing staff couldn't prove that I was related to him; there was no way to speak to him. I threw a blue fit. As it turned out, it wasn't the first time I was going to be unmentionably rude. When we finally managed to get a word in edgewise, I knew that life was going to be pretty permanently changed.

The next months are a blur.

When I read the police report, I got the name of the person who had run him (and some others) down. I would spend hours on the internet -- into the wee hours of the night -- googling. I got to know the intimate details of his life: his past was there for all the world to read. And I read. Obsessively. History doesn't change on a daily basis, but I would come back from the hospital, get food, and sit there, reading. Night after night. Image search gave me details of his face. I would look at it, searching for signs of evil. Looking for traces of coldheartedness.

I was beyond angry (and probably a little over the line); I actually feel like I might have been able to hurt him. I certainly wanted him to suffer -- particularly as he never apologized, sent a card, sent flowers, etc. You can imagine my horror when about two months into this new life, I saw him at a local cafe. Neither trauma nor guilt were present in his visage. He sat down, ordered a cappuccino and a salad; he read the paper. I stared and stared and stared at him; he had no idea I existed and certainly no inkling of my connection to him. In another life -- the "before the accident" life -- I would have acknowledged him as one of my kind. A lover of certain pursuits, a traveller down similar paths. As it was, I held murder in my heart. Up until then, I'd always seen that feeling as a cliche, but it was real. I could (happily?) have hurt this man.

I knew I couldn't speak to him. This is America. He hadn't contacted us because he probably figured he couldn't admit responsibility, lest we sue. I knew I couldn't speak to him lest I did something for which he could have sued me. It was a stalemate that he didn't even know he was participating in. I watched. And I watched. Then, I left. Given the intensity of this experience, you'd think that I would now be able to remember his name; I can't. I have no idea what he looks like; I remember where his family is originally from; I remember how many degrees he has. I simply cannot remember his name or his face. I have a photographic memory, but I cannot remember his name or face.

It's that time of year again. I wonder whether I pass him in the streets without knowing it. I wonder whether, if I were to recognise him, I would run over his toes. Mostly though, I wonder if he's out there still inflicting harm on others.