“What the heck did I do?”
I look left and right for no other reason than to humor myself. It’s 3am and there’s no one else out here but me. Me and the cop with his lights flashing behind me.
I slowly pull over to the side of the road and turn the car off. I look in the rearview mirror and the cop is looking at something on his computer screen.
Well, take your time then, Officer Dipshit, I’ve got all night.
Thud-thud-thud-thud. Thud-thud-thud-thud.
I absentmindedly look around for the source of the thudding and I see my fingers tapping the steering wheel in an irritated manner. With some effort, I am able to stop them, but my foot starts tapping. I am not sure why I am so agitated, but no one likes to get pulled over. No one likes to have a smug cop at your window in the middle of the night asking you “Do you know why I pulled you over?” Because then you have to respond like a kid “Because I was speeding” or “Because I ran the stop sign” and it just irritates you more because your gonna have to pay the ticket or risk showing up in court with him waiting for you with his gotdamn speedometer-devil-doohickey that proves you were going 90 in a 65 zone then you have to pay a BIGGER fine when you know that you weren’t really in that much of a hurry in the first place. But you always know why he pulled you over and you are always irritated at getting caught in the act. Everyone except me.
I blacked out again today and I am not quite sure where I am or what I was doing that caused him to pull me over. I guess I should be grateful, because at least now I can turn around and head home. Do that sign really say Baltimore 20 miles? Wow, I must’ve been driving a long while. Do I know anyone in Baltimore? Who has the kids?
“License and registration, ma’am.”
I jumped visibly and I fumbled with my purse. “I’m sorry officer, you scared me.”
“I’m sorry for that, ma’am. Do you know why I pulled you over?”
The dreaded question. I have no answer.
“No, I’m not sure. I was kind of driving on autopilot for a while, it being so late and all. Was I speeding?”
My hands searching through the wasteland I call my purse for my wallet, so I can find my license. My hands touch a wet spot, and I glide over it, still trying to locate my wallet. I must remember to clean up that lotion later.
“Aha!” I exclaim in triumph when I find the wallet and hand my license over to the officer. He takes a look at it and says “Your license says you’re from South Carolina. You’re a long way from home. Where are you headed?”
“I know. I was making the overnight drive to see my sister in Baltimore. She’s having a baby and I’m going there to help out for the first few days.” Replace that sister for a brother and replace Baltimore with Detroit and replace the baby with a German shepherd and we would be a little bit closer to the truth. But I couldn’t very well tell him I didn’t know where I was nor where I was going, could I? Where the heck was I going?
“Ms. Jordan? I need your registration.”
The sound of his voice breaks my reverie and I jump a little. I’m awfully jumpy tonight. I must’ve had coffee somewhere. Coffee does that to me. I know that I shouldn’t have it after 3pm, but sometimes I can’t help myself. Lattes are my weakness and the barista down at…
“Ms. Jordan? Have you been drinking?”
I jump visibly and let out a yelp. Jumpy. Very.
“I’m sorry, Officer. I guess I’m just tired. It’s been quite a drive. The registration is in my glove compartment. I’ll get it for you.”
I reach over and grab the latch for the glove box and give it a pull. Nothing happens. I tug it a little harder, and still nothing. I look over at the cop to see if he’s watching me and I see him looking back at his car, not paying attention to me at all, probably thinking about how hard it will be to arrest poor drunk me on my way to help my fake sister with her fake baby in a city I’ve never seen, but heard was pretty rough. One of the highest murder rates in the country. I wonder if it’s because of drugs. It probably is because drug addicts are prone to violence…
Stop it! Get the damn registration before you spend a night in jail!
I tug the latch again, hard as I can, and it pops open. A bowie knife falls out, covered in blood, along with something that looks remarkably like a penis. It, too, is covered in blood. If my breath wasn’t caught in my chest, I would’ve screamed, getting myself arrested for sure.
I grab the knife and I notice for the first time that my fingers have blood on them. And there is blood on my passenger seat and on the outside of the glove box, dripping to the floor.
What the heck did I do?!
The world goes black and I see a few images in the darkness. Driving home from work, my yoga class cancelled because the instructor’s mom had a heart attack, making a mental note as I drove to send some flowers to the hospital, turning into the driveway, making a mental note to hire a new gardener because the flowers along the driveway were wilting with neglect, you just can’t find good help these days, walking up the stairs and hearing a strange grunting noise and thinking that Morris must be watching that stupid wrestling show again and walking into the bedroom and watching Morris’ scrawny ass fucking the spine out of some blonde. He hates blonde hair, or so he told me. I remember screaming and hearing “sorry” over and over then the world went black.
“Ms. Jordan? Did you find the registration?”
I look up in enough time to see him begin to stoop and I snatch it up with my clean hand and give it to him through the open window. It was his turn to jump this time, as I guess I must’ve startled him by thrusting my hand out that fast.
“I’m sorry. Here it is.”
“Okay, Ms. Jordan, wait here. I will be right back.”
He walks back to his patrol car, carefully watching the road, for passing traffic I assume, but that’s stupid because it’s pitch dark out here and there’s no one here but us. The headlights would be a pretty good giveaway if someone was coming.
I look back at the passenger seat with the knife and the penis. The penis. Whose penis? Who else’s? If I have his penis, then that must mean I killed him. But how could I kill him with the kids at the house? Where were the kids?
I look into my purse for my cell phone. Maybe if I just look at my recent calls, I can see where I left the kids. I wouldn’t leave them there with their newly-transgendered father, would I?
My hands touch wetness again and I pull my hand back. More blood. Mine runs cold. I feel around the bottom of my purse and I feel something squishy. Wet. Mushy. I’m afraid to find out what it is. What the hell did I do?
I grab it and pull it out and bite my tongue so I don’t scream. I’m holding a scalp in my hand. Wet. Slimy. Bloody. With long, flowing, bloody blonde hair.
My mouth tastes like I’ve taken a bite of the thing in my hand and I swallow hard. My mouth fills with blood again and my tongue feels like it has been ripped. I look in my rearview window and see the cop at his computer. It is then I realize that I have been holding the scalp in the air and I shove it back into my purse. My hands are dark with blood and bits of things that I don’t quite want to know what they are.
What the fuck did I do?!
I close my eyes and try to remember what happened after the screaming blonde and the sorrys but I can’t remember. And I can’t remember where Dory and Seth are. Where did I take the kids? Are they still over the Carmichaels’ house, playing with Blair and Brooklyn? Did anyone get them from school? Or, even worse, are they with their dad? Were they there when I castrated him? The sonofabitch deserved it, but my kids didn’t deserve to see it! They must be so scared or worried. Do they know where I am? How could they when I don’t even know where I am? Are the police looking for me? Will the cop see something about a murder with my name involved when he runs my name through the system? What if I have to go to jail before I can see my babies again? What the fuck is going on?
A car door slamming woke me up and I look up to see the cop coming back to my window, a serious look on his face. My heart is beating fast and hard in my chest. I wonder if I can outrun him. Not is the ratty old station wagon I couldn’t. But I might get a head start if I give him a good slice with the knife. I grab the knife with my right hand and hold it near the gearshift, out of sight.
“Ms. Jordan, here is your license and registration back. I stopped you because your right rear taillight is out, you should get that repaired as soon as possible. I know that you’ve been driving a long way, so I will let you off with a warning. Please be careful and get straight to your sister’s and get those kids into bed. Have a good night.”
“Thanks, Officer.” I let out my breath and let the knife drop from my hand to the floor. When my heart rate slows enough that it isn’t ringing in my ears, I let out a little laugh. My rear taillight? I’ve been nagging Morris for weeks to change it for me, now he won’t be able to, will he?
I take another look at my hands and I try again to remember what I did, but nothing sticks out in my mind.
Get those kids into bed.
I continue to stare at my hands while I turn this phrase over and over in my head until something clicks. Kids. My kids. I turn around and look into the backseat and Dory and Seth are sitting frozen stiff in their seats, not moving, not turning their heads, staring straight ahead, and taking shallow breaths. They are both pale and their eyes are wide and they are shivering almost imperceptibly.
“My babies!” I shout excited, so glad to see them, reaching my hands toward them, wanting to scoop them up and hug them and love them, and Dory lets out a bloodcurdling scream and scrambles as far as possible from me. Seth yells, “No Dory! No Dory! Mommy said don’t make a peep or she would open the glove box. No noise Dory or mommy will give us what Daddy got! Stop Dory!” He’s crying and hysterical and trying to calm his sister down, but she is inconsolable.
I can see the cop running back to the car.
What have I done?
