The acrid smell of burning rubber lingered in the crisp autumn air. Curious onlookers swarmed like a hive of bees in the right lane of Highway 30. They pushed apart to form an aisle as I dashed toward them. Almost as if they were expecting me.
"Sean!" I screamed when I saw my tall muscular son lying on the roadside at the end of the passageway. Eyes closed. Body splotched with dirt and blood. His Nike T-shirt hung from the neckband in shreds as if he had pulled a tattered windsock over his head. Jagged white bone protruded from the mangled left arm that lay at an atypical angle in a pool of crimson blood.
A husky man hovered over him. He raised his freckled, balding head and barked, "Get her outta here!"
I stopped short, stunned. Does he mean me? But, that's my child. He needs me. My eyes scanned the crowd searching for help. Some onlookers met my gaze with pity. Others stared uncomfortably at their feet. No one stepped forward to offer assistance.
My hands clenched into fists and I stepped back from center stage. A hand clutched my arm. I jerked away and whirled, ready to fight if they tried to drag me away.
"Janice, it's me, Pat." My neighbor, a tall slender woman with short, brunette hair and soft brown eyes, stood at my side.
I opened a clenched fist and grasped her hand. "Why won't they let me go to him? He needs to know I'm here. I won't make a scene or get in the way."
"They're just trying to protect you," she soothed.
"If I wanted their protection, I'd ask for it."
Eyes bored into me until I felt like Princess Diana in a crowd of paparazzi. A feeling reinforced by a man wearing a wrinkled white shirt who elbowed his way to the front and pasted a whirring camcorder to his right eye.
"What's wrong with them?" I snarled, wondering if the accident would be featured on the evening news.
Pat's answer was drowned out by the screaming siren of an approaching ambulance. I glanced down the road and, for the first time, noticed Sean's crumpled black bicycle lying in the tall wheat-colored grass in the ditch on the right hand side of the road. Farther down, on the left, a jack-knifed truck-and-trailer rig perched precariously on the embankment. A slender dark-haired man stood beside it, his hand resting on the shoulder of a young boy. The thin mustache etched on his upper lip seemed to droop, as did his entire body.
Doors flew open and two attendants jumped out shouting, "Get back! Get back!"
One attendant pried Sean's mouth open to clear the air passage and I saw the bloody serrated edges of broken teeth. My grip tightened on Pat's hand. "His teeth were perfect. Thirteen years old and never a cavity."
The other attendant slapped a huge white bandage over Sean's injured arm and I wondered if they would be able to save it. Doctors can reattach arms that have been completely severed, I reasoned. Surely, they'll be able to fix his.
With relief, I saw Leonn, my husband, had arrived. He stood at Sean's feet yelling, "Fight, son! Dammit, fight!" For a fleeting moment I imagined everything was going to be okay. But my relief evaporated like a raindrop on a July sidewalk when he groaned, "Why isn't his chest moving?"
Horrified, my eyes focused on Sean's bare chest. My brain assured me he couldn't possibly die while my insides shriveled into a small hard knot.