Chapter 1

A Chapter by FKRoss

The beginning....

It was just beginning to get dark as my dad started the engine and turned the car towards home.
'You were great tonight, Dad,' I said, as we turned out of the parking lot and left the main campus buildings behind, the last light of a late summer evening fading quickly behind clouds. It was still warm, with no sign yet of the approaching season. Heavy rain over the past few days had brought forth a riot of green, like a second spring.
'Thanks, it was nice to have you there,' he mumbled, slightly embarrassed and probably noting the reassuring tone of my voice. He would know that he had, at best, winged it. Dad had never quite got used to the public-speaking part of his role as Professor of Anthropology.
That evening, a fund raising event for the department had been held, at which he was obliged to make a speech about the department's work. I had come along for moral support. Dad was a quiet man; his words could be animated and captivate a listener when they came from the heart, but speeches, prescribed words to be delivered to a large audience, they weren't his thing.
We drove on in silence. The road rolled out before us. I gazed out of the passenger window at the buildings that straddled the campus sliding by, occupied with thoughts about the new semester that was fast approaching. I was studying English Literature, being far more right-brained than Dad. In every other respect though, we were exactly alike. Even through my awkward teenage years we were more like old friends than father and daughter. Maintaining that closeness, being able to see him every week, not just college holidays, was mostly my reason for choosing to study at the same college that he worked at.
I wound down the window to let in some air. I didn't catch my breath. The car swerved. I could feel my body pinned to the seat as the car spun for what seemed like hours, but was probably no more than seconds. The safety belt bore down across my chest. I was screaming in my mind, but nothing left my lips. The air was expelled from my lungs by the sheer force of the motion. I could vaguely sense Dad beside me, frantically trying to regain control of the car. I lurched forward as it slammed to a halt, moulded across the bough of a tree at the roadside. For a moment I felt the full weight of the mangled wreck crushing down on my lower body, wedged between the seat and the crumpled metal of the front of the car.
I couldn't move. I couldn't feel a thing. My eyes rolled left across the shattered windscreen. I could see blood where the point of impact must have been. Each fracture line traced its way outwards from that blood-spattered point. Perhaps it was a bump to my head, or shock, or some trick of the failing light, but at that moment I fancied I saw a pure white moth fluttering out into the evening through a chink in the fractured glass. I gasped. The air injected my lungs with a sharp stab; the pain left me reeling. I don't remember fear or panic beyond that point because, at that moment, I let go and slipped into unconsciousness.
I came round just long enough to hear faint voices, a hurried exchange, then, 'Martha Valen, female, 20 years'. A ventilator was placed over my mouth and I didn't remember any more.
It was some weeks before I was aware of the full extent of the damage done to me in the crash. Time passed as a morphine and grief-induced blur. At first, the hospital staff refused to tell me anything about my dad's condition, but I didn't really need them to tell me that he was dead.
I hadn't escaped the crash unscathed. My left leg had borne the brunt of my impact with the tree. It was slow to heal; four surgical pins held it together at various points, and most of the time I was constrained to my bed or the sofa, except for physiotherapy sessions, first twice weekly, then every fortnight as my body slowly began to recover its strength.
I spent two weeks in hospital, after which I went to stay with my mum in Lincoln, New Hampshire, to recuperate. She and Dad had separated when I was eight, and two years later she had re-married Pete. I got along well with him, probably because Mum and Dad's separation was so amicable and Pete had always treated me like his own child, even after the twins, Daniel and Luke, my half-brothers, arrived when I was eleven.
At first, I lived with Mum, Pete and the boys, but as I approached high school it was decided I would be better off in a quieter, less chaotic environment, in spite of my mum's concerns about a teenage girl 'needing her mum around'.
I moved in with Dad the summer before I started high school. We had always had a good relationship, but I became much closer to Dad during those years. There was none of the father and teenage daughter awkwardness I saw with some of my school friends and their dads, probably because Dad was so easy-going and I was never one to act up. We were perfect living partners.
It was some weeks after the crash before Dad's body could be released for a funeral, and longer still while we waited for the legal process of his estate to wind up. The funeral was a small affair and mostly attended by friends and colleagues. Dad's was a spread-out and loosely-tied family, and those of his relations Mum had been able to contact didn't make the trip from Norway, his native country.
I wasn't in any hurry to leave Mum and Pete's house, and it was a comfort to have the normalising effect of being around eight year old boys. But, four weeks after the crash, it was time for me to try and get back to the normal life, which now seemed uncomfortably distant and unfamiliar.
'I'm only a phone call or email away,' Mum had told me at least a dozen times on the drive back to Plymouth. 'Call me if you need anything.'
'I'll be fine,' I lied. I had no idea if I would or not. I hate to feel like a burden. And I knew a time had to come when I must accept life without Dad. I felt the sooner I made peace with that the better. Besides, I had Jack, Ashleigh and Charlotte, my housemates, and Patch, the house cat, for company and plenty of college work to keep me occupied, so I wouldn't be left much time for brooding.
After she'd fussed about, making sure I was stocked up with more than enough of everything I'd need for the entire year, let alone the rest of the semester, and had interrogated my housemates (much to my chagrin), Mum was finally ready to leave. I stood on the doorstep of our tiny student house and waved her off.
'Don't forget to message me as soon as you get home,' I called after her, as the car pulled off from the kerb.
As soon as the car was out of sight I hobbled upstairs and threw myself on my bed. A sinking feeling in my stomach reminded me of the inevitable return to normality that I wanted so much to postpone for just one more day. Tomorrow, I would, without a doubt, have to pass by Dad's faculty building, which stood adjacent to the School of English Literature. It was going to be tough.
I forced myself up off my bed and hobbled to the window to close the curtains. Rain had begun to drizzle down the window pane and the sky was like lead.
'I guess that's what they call a pathetic fallacy,' I muttered to myself. I shut the curtains and climbed into bed. I didn't wake up again until the following morning.
It was fortunate that Charlotte had insisted on taking me to college for my first day back, or I might have been tempted to pull the duvet over my head and stay in bed. I could drive by now, but I hadn't been behind the wheel since leaving hospital. That ordeal could wait for another day.
I was relieved to be just on time for my lecture, having timed it so that I would be neither early, therefore having to endure well-meaning questions on how I was doing from my friends outside the lecture theatre, nor late so that I would have to sneak in after the lecture had started and invite at least a scowl from the lecturer. And I left promptly afterwards to avoid any conversation.
Charlotte and I had arranged to meet for lunch, as our schedules roughly coincided with each other's. She was already sitting at a table when I arrived at the canteen, hot and breathless from the exertion of the walk across from the English building. It reminded me how weak I had become through lack of regular activity, and it depressed me somewhat, after thinking that I had done rather well so far.
'How was it?' Charlotte enquired, as I slung my bag on the floor and took a seat opposite her.
'Okay,' I replied. 'It's good to be back'
Charlotte was matter of fact and never one for small talk, and so was in fact the best person to be around today. But it was inevitable that I would have to face at least some sympathetic enquiries into my recovery and emotional state. Various friends and acquaintances took the opportunity to wish me well and slap me on the back throughout lunch. I was more than relieved to disappear off to my final seminar of the day.
Charlotte's schedule over-ran mine by about almost two hours, so I decided to take the bus home. I made my way across campus to the shelter, opposite the parking lot, where the little college bus stopped.
I shuddered as I passed it, remembering my last care-free conversation with Dad. I felt my eyes burn with warm tears and my lip begin to tremble. It alarmed and even annoyed me slightly, as I had so far been very controlled in my grief. I blinked away the tears and perched on the edge of the bench inside the bus shelter, trying to keep my eyes from wandering across to the parking lot while I watched out for the bus.
As I gazed through the approaching traffic, I became aware of a man at the opposite bus stop across the street. He didn't seem to make any secret of the fact that he was staring directly at me. As I caught his eye, I looked away, pretending not to have noticed.
My inclination was to shoot him a glare for his rudeness, but something about him made me uneasy. He was tall and broad, foreign-looking I thought, with floppy black hair and olive skin. His dress- scruffy jeans with holes in the knees and a black jacket zipped up to his chin, as though he was trying to disguise his face -made him look shifty in my mind, and it was possibly that, in contrast to my mild, somewhat timid nature, which made me uncomfortable.
I sneaked another look at him from behind my hair, as I let it fall across my face, pretending to be rifling through the bag at my feet. He was still staring.
As the bus pulled into the stop, I took a seat in the aisle furthest away from his side of the street, so as not to be so visible from outside. I glanced out the window as it pulled away. He had disappeared.
The walk from the bus stop to the house was only a short one and it was only 3pm, but I was vigilant as I made my way home. I inwardly cursed the crutch and my weak leg for slowing me down.
Back home, the house was empty. I went into the kitchen and slung my bag on the counter. I jumped as my phone began ringing from somewhere inside, the sound muffled by the papers, books and other items that had accumulated inside my bag. I rifled through, laying my hand on it just in time before it went to voicemail.
'Hello?' I answered, sounding rather more hasty than I intended.
'Hello, is that Martha Valen?' came the familiar male voice.
'Yes,' I said trying to identify the voice.
'It's Officer Sam Fisher,' came before I had chance to. 'I need to speak to you about the accident, are you at home?'
'Yes,' I said, confused. 'Come now.'
I hung up, wondering what there was to talk about and worrying that my incredulity may have sounded brusque. I glanced at the clock. I had a shift at the restaurant I worked at part-time starting at six. I hoped this wouldn't take long.
Officer Fisher and an older detective had visited me in hospital to question me about the accident. I didn't remember much of what was said, being in something of a morphine-induced daze. I did remember the detective having a somewhat abrasive manner, though, and I was glad that Officer Fisher hadn't mentioned him coming too.
As soon as I hung up, I realised the kitchen was a mess and set about hurriedly stacking dishes in the sink. Within half an hour there came a knock at the door.
Officer Fisher was a young man, no more than late-twenties, with a pleasant, easy-going expression. The high cheekbones and slight sepia tone of his skin indicated his native descent. I felt anxious as I ushered him into the kitchen, but his friendly smile put me at ease.
'Can I get you a drink?' I asked, trying to make up for my curtness on the phone.
'A coffee would be great, thanks,' he said, taking a seat on one of the kitchen stools.
As I busied myself with the coffee, he began. He was formal and matter of fact.
'The investigation into your father's vehicle has been completed. There was no evidence of mechanical failure. The heavy rain in the days before, plus the standing water at the scene suggested that the car most likely aquaplaned, causing your father to lose control.'
'Oh,' I said, not really sure what else to say. 'Well, thanks for letting me know. And I'm grateful for all you've done.' It seemed like the appropriate response, for me at least. Perhaps it was something to do with my heritage, a type of Nordic gloominess resulting from lifetimes lived in a land under darkness for half the year, but formality was a default for me, and I was never quick to smile.
Officer Fisher smiled, out of cop-mode now and perhaps a little taken aback by my formality.
'And how are you doing, Martha?' His voice held genuine concern, it took me by surprise.
'I'm okay, I'm back at college,' I replied a little stiffly.
My stand-offish manner was evident, it seemed, as he made his excuses to leave, leaving his coffee three quarters un-drunk. I felt bad and irritated with myself.
'You take care,' he said quite tenderly, as he stepped out the front door. Again, his obvious sincerity surprised me.
I nodded and watched him climb into the police car, parked on the street outside. He raised his fingers slightly from the steering wheel by way of a wave as the car moved off.
I shut the door, went back into the kitchen and sunk onto the stool. I felt deflated and utterly depressed. It had clearly just been a formality, but I wished he hadn't come round to tell me what I already knew.
I sat with my head resting in my hands for a good while, mulling over the day's events. When I looked at the clock, it was nearly half four. I was ready for the day to end.

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