“CHEYENNE!” I shout and hobble forward.
Her truck rocks with the impact and jolts to the side, topples, and then momentum and weight take over and the vehicle rolls over onto the roof. I watch the cab crumple. Smoke rises from the hood.
I can see that her driver’s door is smashed in, crumpled.
“CHEYENNE!” I’m trying to run, but I can’t. I can barely walk, but I somehow make it out into the street, knee throbbing and protesting.
The Mustang is a few feet away, the hood accordioned, smoking.
I get to her overturned truck, just now remembering my cell phone is in my pocket. I dial 911, my heart hammering, fear ramming my pulse into overdrive.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“A car…it ran the light and slammed into her.” I don’t know how to make sense. “The truck…I think she’s hurt…”
“Sir, can you tell me your location?” Her voice is calm, smooth, emotionless.
I glance at the street names and relay them, and then I’m awkwardly, painfully lowering myself to one knee at the driver’s side window, which is smashed out.
There’s blood on the road.
She’s not moving. Her head hangs; her braid is dangling over her shoulder.
“Cheyenne. Talk to me. Hey. Come on. You’re okay. Talk to me.” I reach in and tap her shoulder hesitantly. She doesn’t respond. “No. No. Cheyenne? Come on. Fuck. Fuck.”
“Sir?” I’d forgotten about the 911 operator. “Sir, are you there?”
“She’s not moving, she’s not—she’s not—”
“Help is on the way, sir. We have your location and paramedics are en route. Just stay calm and don’t try to move her…”
But it’s no good. I can tell.
They won’t be able to help.
And when they show up and check her pulse and vital signs I know from the minute shake of a head…
She’s gone.
My gaze falls upon the lock screen of my phone: 2:36 AM.
FOUR: “Whiskey Lullaby”
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to mourn the tragic passing of our dear friend, Cheyenne Leveaux.” The minister is a big, bearded bear of a guy wearing a black suit and white collar despite the Texas heat. “She was taken from us too soon, much too soon indeed. A beautiful life was cut short by a tragic accident, and I know we who are left behind are so often wont to ask God why. Why? Why do these things happen, God? We cannot know the mind of God. We cannot know His will, or foretell His plan. But we can know that He is with us, especially in times of heartache such as these.”
I’m leaning back against a headstone, at the back of the tiny crowd gathered around Cheyenne’s grave. There’s her mother and father, frail, hunched, tear-stained eyes. Half a dozen friends, Dr. Lane and a few other former co-workers from the hospital, and three women about Cheyenne’s age, beautiful, lithe, dancers for sure. They are mothers now, but are clearly Cheyenne’s friends from her days as a dancer.
And me.
In the back, hoping my guilt doesn’t show on my face.
There’s one other person here, a young woman about my age, standing nearest the grave. I can’t see her very well, since she’s got her head down, her shoulders shaking now and then. Black dress, blonde hair falling in a loose cascade around her slim shoulders. In profile, at least, she is the spitting image of her mother.
Cheyenne’s daughter.
“I knew Cheyenne, actually,” the minister says, his voice shifting from preacher to friend. “She was…a beautiful person, in every way. I suffered a heart attack some years ago, a very sudden one. I thought I was healthy, but apparently my body thought otherwise. And Cheyenne? She helped me get in shape, helped me find a healthier lifestyle. She was…the kindest woman I ever knew. Patient, encouraging. But she never gave up, and never let me give up, even when I wanted to.”
Everyone is nodding, including me.
“So…I don’t know God’s reason for taking Cheyenne from us so unexpectedly. I’m sorry if that’s…if that’s not what a man of God in my place is supposed to say. But I can’t and I won’t spout the usual clichés about God’s plan, or about celebrating her life rather than mourning her death.” He pauses, lets out a harsh breath. “Those are true, though. God does have a plan; we just don’t know what it is. And she did live a wonderful life, touching many, many lives in her forty-three years. So we should celebrate her life, remember the beauty of her soul, and we will. But I also believe we who are left behind are granted the right to mourn the loss of someone we loved. We have that right. We must give ourselves permission to be sad about her death. We are here, and she isn’t, and that’s hard. But let us not lose ourselves in mourning, for God isn’t done with us, any of us. Let us pray.”
Cheyenne’s daughter is sobbing, now. Her grandmother wraps a thin arm around her shoulders, and they cry together.
I’m sorry, I want to say. It’s my fault. I let her drive away. I’m so sorry.
But I can’t move, and I know the words won’t come out.
And I couldn’t tell them anyway. Even though nothing happened, the circumstances would lead to questions I don’t know how to answer. Why was she there so late?
I tune out the prayer, feeling only anger toward a God who may or may not exist, and if He does, how does He get off letting shit like this happen? Cheyenne’s death, or my leg, or any of the horrible shit that occurs every day.
“Excuse me?” I hear a soft voice, and a small, feminine hand touches my shoulder.
I realize I’ve got my eyes closed, and I’m fighting my emotions. Cheyenne should be alive, but she’s not and it’s my fault, and…now what?
I blink, startled, and look down at the person who just spoke to me. My heart seizes, and my guilt is almost too hot and hard and thick inside me to bear. It’s her, Cheyenne’s daughter. And fuck…she looks just like her: blonde, perfect ripe-wheat blond hair, the color of honey and sunlight. Wide eyes somewhere between gray and brown and green, slices of stone and streaks of rich soil and patches of moss. She’s an inch or two taller than her mother was, and curvier in build, not as tautly toned.
Guilt strikes even harder, now, because I’m checking her out. I mean, no, it’s not checking out per se. It’s noticing her beauty, but in these circumstances it feels like one more ton of guilt on the pile.