September Story - Chapter 1 by Anna Graham

She was ten and a half years old, the silence more than she had ever heard. So loud and she had no idea how long the car had been on its side, nor how long her father had been still. There had been sound, noise. Now only silence and she had never heard such a tremendous quiet, never in her life. Usually the din was from herself, full of chatter, a liveliness that made up for having no siblings. Her parents joked they needed no other children, as she provided for what did not come. Yet, now in the stillness, the girl was alone, the hush slowing her down, taking time to a place where she couldn’t know for how long it had been like this. How long the car had lain toppled over, how long she had rested against the back left door, her seat belt holding her secure. How long her father’s body uttered no noise, no movement, not even a whisper. For how long?

She breathed easily, no severe injuries. A scent of blood, but it wasn’t hers. She could wiggle her legs without pain, but the belt was stuck and her right arm hurt, along the elbow. The roof of the vehicle protruded down, Lolly hanging from a piece of broken metal. The girl couldn’t move, couldn’t reach Lolly, couldn’t get out. Being trapped wasn’t frightening, not really. Not even in the dark. It must be late, she assumed. Now it’s getting dark.

They had gone for a day out. Her mother was away, but would be home. Maybe she was home right now, wondering where we are. I know where we are, the girl thought; we’re here, in the quiet.

She tried to remember what had happened, but all that came was stillness. She tried to think of different words; silence, quiet, hush. Dearth of sound. She had just learned that word, dearth, her mother always offering new words. Dearth was new. There was peace, but peace seemed not right. It wasn’t peaceful, not since her father stopped speaking.

It was quiet. After the roar of the crash, going end over end that for a few seconds felt like a carnival ride, there was an age of aftereffects. The settling of the Range Rover took as long as the accident, rocking back and forth; were they on an incline? Not steep, but she felt as if leaning to the side, downwards perhaps? The ground was right beneath her, along the window that was cracked. She could see the cracks for a while and the green grass that lay under the car. Now there was little light and it was a dark space. If the belt had let her move, she could lay her head against the glass and go to sleep.

Like my dad, she wondered. Maybe he’s just gone to sleep.

***

She didn’t think so. At first, when he stopped speaking, that came to her; maybe he was asleep. It wasn’t for long she thought that, the noises that followed unusual, gurglings, as though he was trying to catch his breath. She had cried then, asking for him, for as scary as the crash itself was, this was worse. She was ten, would be eleven in a few months; young, but also smart. Those noises, that weren’t silent at all, sounded sinister. Again, not right, her father having never sounded like that.

His breathing moved in gasps, but that had been coming. In between his last words, which she still held within her head, were choppy gulps, as if he wanted to store up oxygen, like he was going underwater, needing all the air he could get. Saving it up and she asked if he was okay. He said yes.

That made her cry, thinking of his answer. He said yes, but continued with patchy, uneven breathing, telling her other things. Things that remained in her head for her, for her mother. Mostly he told her it would be okay. Yet, those breaths, so strange, so weird. It was weird.

Like the silence. So quiet, so so quiet.

***

After he stopped talking and after that odd gurgling sound, she noticed the hush. It was still light, the sun not setting until eight thirty. Even then, night wouldn’t fall until after ten. It must be late, but she had no watch to confirm. She could have read it, her left arm free where she wore a watch, but she had left it with her grandmother in New York. On the counter, in the kitchen, but not that she remembered leaving it there. Grandma wrote me, told me she found it. Told me it was because I wanted to come back. If you leave things behind, it means you want to return.

The girl thought about her grandmother; for how long, she wasn’t sure, time having ceased along with sound. It might have been for a few minutes or an hour, as she considered her grandmother’s gray thinning hair, her warm smile, skin that was smooth, brown, soft. The girl wondered sometimes if her grandmother was old. She didn’t look like most old women. She looked like any other woman.

She has my watch, the girl remembered. When I see her again, I’ll know what time it is.

***

There was no wind, no rustling of leaves, no chirping of insects, no passing of cars. Almost no light, yet the girl wasn’t afraid. Even though her father was still, he was there. She didn’t think he was dead, not then. Later, when her own voice had been stilled, she pondered how she had been with him for that time, time when he was no more. In the car, she wondered if he might try to speak again, but you can’t talk if you can’t breathe. She was young, but that was obvious, like the quiet, so quiet. She only heard herself. There had been sound for a bit. She returned to that; he had been singing at first, after asking if she was okay. He wanted to know that she was okay and could she get out?

She’d been stuck as he was and all of her father she could see was his left side, slumped over the passenger seat, the front of the car turned inwards, the windscreen broken and bent. While there had been light, she’d noticed the right side of the Rover caved in. Why her father was on the left, his side now gone.

Had that made all the noise, that part of the car crunched up like a soda can. Grandma calls it soda and that’s what the car looks like, a soda can all crunched together, the sound of the accident the same, like smashing aluminum cans along Grandma’s back step. Her father’s breathing was like that too and a few tears fell down her face. The girl had been keeping that from her head, but now with darkness around her, holding the silence like a duvet over the bed, it was there. Her father had been quiet for a bit, without words, then without breath. Like the car settling into the ground, her father had settled too.

***

She was getting tired, but remembered her father’s words; if you’re in a car accident, you need to stay awake. She wasn’t sure why, but that known, she began talking, asking him if he was okay. The silence soon hushed her. He said nothing.

It was then she felt her own voice disappear. Her head was full of his words, her father’s words; he wanted to get home to make the sausages. Bangers, he called them, and she smiled, bangers and mash. She loved his British vocabulary, phrases he used all the time, and here in England they seemed correct. In California, they sounded foreign, but where her father was born, those words and sentences flowed with ease. He was hungry and bet she was too, and then, her name. He had said her whole name and began singing. Signing a song she had known all her life, but not in English, and not the entire tune. Just the chorus, in French, only one line and she had no idea what it meant. From as far back as she knew, it had been his words to her, words in a song that were for bedtime, or when she was sick. Humming that tune came next, for his words were beginning to fade, like his breathing. He sang, then hummed. It got harder to hear him, but due to the quiet, she could make them out. Then a few words, the last words. The last words were coming and she took them, grasping them in her free left hand that could reach for him. Reach him, but not completely. He was two, maybe three inches from her, so close, she could see how close. After his last word, she pulled back her hand.

Then that noise, one never before heard. He was taking in air, but not exhaling. Trying, trying, then silence. For how long it had been silent, she wasn’t sure. A while, a good while, as it had been light and now was not. It was dark and getting cool. The combination of those elements cloaked her, the car, covering them all.

The sausages were on ice. We’ll be able to eat them when we get home. I’m not hungry, only a little cold, but I can’t go to sleep. Not until Mum comes.

This is when her tears fell. Her tears coming and her voice leaving; she wanted to speak, wanted to call for her father. As she opened her mouth, no sound. There was no sound. Not from her voice, but her eyes bled tears.

The silence, broken only by her tears.