Linwood Barclay - The Accident

“Your father died the same day Sheila did. I remember telling Sheila on the phone, just before she was going out, that your dad had passed away. She said we’d have to think of something to do for you. But the minute she hung up, she must have decided to take you the rest of the lasagna. That’s what she did. When people died, she’d always take food to the family. Even people she didn’t know all that well. Like her business teacher.”

“Honestly, Glen, you’re starting to scare me here.”

“She came here, didn’t she?” I said. “She came here to see you, to comfort you, and that’s why she didn’t go into the city. That’s why she didn’t have the money with her, why she hid it in the house.”

“What money? What are you talking about?”

“She didn’t want to be carrying it around. She came here to bring you a lasagna, to help you deal with losing your father. That afternoon. She thought it was more important to look after a grieving friend than run an errand for Belinda. If she came by here that day, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Glen, Jesus,” Sally said, and with the pan still in one hand, pointed with the other to the Tylenols on the counter. “Take those. I think there’s something wrong with your head.”

It was pounding more than ever as I tried to figure out why the baking dish was here. I looked away from Sally, just for a second, at the pills, then thought of something else I wanted to say to her.

I turned back and said, “I was going crazy, trying-”

All I saw was the baking dish, coming at me. And then everything went black.

I was at the doctor’s, getting my flu shot.

“This isn’t going to hurt a bit,” he said as he put the needle into my arm. But the moment it pricked my skin and he found the vein, I shouted out in pain.

“Don’t be such a baby,” he said. He injected the serum and withdrew the needle.

“Now,” he said, producing another syringe, “this isn’t going to hurt a bit.”

“You already gave me my shot,” I said. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t be such a baby,” he said. He injected the serum and withdrew the needle.

“Now,” he said, producing another syringe, “this isn’t going to hurt a bit.”

“Wait, no! Stop! What are you doing? Stop it! Get that motherfucking needle away from me you son of a-”

My eyes opened.

“Oh good, you really are alive,” Sally said, close enough to me that I could smell her perfume. I had to blink a couple of times to bring her, and the rest of the world, into focus.

That world was sideways, and above me. I was lying on Sally Diehl’s kitchen floor. A few feet away from me, scattered across the linoleum, was Sheila’s lasagna pan, or what used to be Sheila’s lasagna pan. It had shattered into countless pieces.

“You got one hard head,” Sally remarked as she knelt over me. “I was afraid I hit you too hard, killed you. But now, I can make this work.”

She moved back from me and I could see that she was holding a syringe in her hand. “I think that’ll be the last one,” she said. “You’re full up now. You put it straight into the bloodstream, I don’t think you need as much as if you were drinking it.”

I attempted to roll over so I could look behind me, but there was an obstacle at my back. I realized after another second that it was my hands. They were bound behind me. I could feel something stuck to the hairs on my wrist. Duct tape. Lots of it.

Sally had crossed the room, grabbed a chair, and dragged it back across the floor toward me. She sat on it backwards, her legs straddling it. She rested her arms on the chair back. In one hand she held a gun.

“I’m sorry about this, Glen. Between you and Sheila, fuck, you guys. She was too nice, and you, you’re a dog with a goddamn bone.”

My head was pounding and I could taste blood in my mouth. I sensed I had a pretty good wound in my forehead and the blood had run down my face.

In addition to the headache, there was something else. A different kind of feeling. Woozy. The room seemed to be circling around me. At first, I figured that was the head injury. But now I wasn’t so sure.

I was feeling… I was feeling a little drunk.

“It’s hitting ya, right?” Sally asked. “Starting to feel a little three sheets to the wind and that kind of thing? Got pretty used to giving my dad his insulin. But that’s not what I shot you up with. You’re full of vodka.”

“Sheila,” I said. “This is what you did to Sheila.”

Sally didn’t say anything. She just kept looking at me, then at her watch.

“Why, Sally? Why did you do it?”

“Please, Glen, just let it kick in. You’ll be feeling pretty good very soon. Nothing’ll seem very important then.”

She was right. I was already feeling woozy in a way that had nothing to do with getting hit in the head with the lasagna pan.

“Just tell me,” I pleaded. “I have to know.”

Sally’s lips pressed tightly together. She looked away, then back at me.

“He wasn’t dead yet,” she said.

The words didn’t make any sense.

“I don’t… What?”

“My dad,” she said. “It hadn’t worked yet.”

“I… I don’t get you.”

“When I talked to you that morning, told you he was dead, he almost was. I’d given him a double dose of heparin, was waiting for it to make him bleed to death internally. But then, the son of a bitch, he rallied a bit. And that was when Sheila came over with the fucking lasagna. She comes right in, doesn’t even knock, she’s all ‘Oh, Sally, I’m so sorry for you, here’s something you can put in your fridge for later.’ And then she sees my dad, still barely breathing, and she’s like, what the hell? ‘He’s alive?’ she says. And then she starts going on about how we had to call an ambulance.”

I blinked. Sally was going in and out of focus. “You killed your father?”

“I couldn’t take it anymore, Glen. I gave up my own place-I couldn’t afford the rent spending all my money on his medicines-and I moved in here, but the cost of the drugs, Jesus, and pretty soon I was going to have to put him into care someplace, and do you have any idea what that costs? I’d have to put this place up on the market, too, and with the economy the way it is, what do you think I could even get for this dump? I figured, the day after I ended up on the street, he’d just die anyway. I needed to move things along.”

She sighed. “I couldn’t have Sheila telling the cops I killed my dad. I hit her in the head, shot her up with booze.”

“Sally, you’re making this up…”

“How you feeling, Glen? It must be working, right? Feeling no pain and all that?”

“The… accident.” I was trying not to slur my words.

“Just let it go,” she said. “It’ll be better that way.”

“How… did you do that?”

Another sigh. “Theo helped. Came over, couldn’t believe what I’d done, but I knew he’d bought those bogus parts from the Slocums, put them in the Wilson house, so he couldn’t say no to me. I drove her car up the ramp, got her behind the wheel, and Theo gave me a lift back. But I’m gonna have to do this one on my own tonight.”

“Sally, Sally,” I said, trying to keep my head clear despite what was coursing through my veins, “you… you were like family…”

She nodded. “I know. I feel bad, I do. But I gotta say, Glen, lately? You’ve been a bit holier-than-thou, you know, acting like I wasn’t making the best choices. I’ve made my choices, Glen. I’ve chosen to look out for myself. No one else will.”

“Theo’s note,” I said. “Saying he was sorry…”

“I know he was an asshole to you, but the guy had a conscience. It was eating him up. The fire. Sheila. He wanted to confess.”