The Art of Killing Time
By Penne Richards
And time with its medieval chambers
Time with its jagged edges
And blunt instruments
Gabriel—by Edward Hirsch
No one was talking about it, myself included. I felt an overwhelming tug to offer a deposition—a confession, a cry for mercy. Everyone reassured me it was an accident, but it felt like an attempt to let me off the hook.
I imagined a fictional court reporter rereading the unspoken words looping in my head: I plead guilty, Your Honor. I am to blame; I drove the car that killed my daughter. But I couldn’t speak. Fear sat on my throat, snatching my voice; it blocked my air. Every moment I was awake felt like I was being punched in the gut by a 200-pound male wrestler. On the occasions when the pain subsided, it wasn’t much better—I began to flinch in anticipation of the oncoming punch. I don’t exactly remember when I stopped touching my stomach; people always thought I was hungry and tried to feed me.
I ached to gently rock Kristina, again. To snuggle her toddler body in the nape of my neck, humming soft lullabies. Her honeysuckle fragrance, mingled with the liquid amber scent of baby shampoo, lingered on me long after she was gone.
***
At the gravesite, the day of Kristina’s funeral, the July temperature climbed to ninety-three degrees and the sun was out in full force; it was a dry desert heat that swallowed me whole. The dark taupe colored dress sprinkled with red petunias draped over the limp frame of my body. Fidgeting with the hem, I tried to cover the bandage on the wounded gash of my right knee, while adjusting in the seat of the limousine. Either I didn’t own an appropriate black funeral dress, or I didn’t want to wear black. If there was a handbook to advise the proper attire for your child’s funeral, I hadn’t read it. Torn between finding a dress the shade of mourning and one that screamed please-wake-me-from-this-hellish-nightmare, I settled on something that was clean and pressed. I never wore it again.
***
Black silence from the limo’s ashen bleak interior twisted around our necks and suffocated us. Hans, my husband, sat beside me and wrangled out of his sports jacket for the ride, while my mom clasped her perfectly manicured hands across her black rayon tea length dress that matched her hair shade precisely. Dad fiddled with the black tie he wasn’t used to wearing and Hilde, my mother-in-law, stroked her short auburn hair in a type of meditative ritual. I stopped counting her strokes after she reached number seven. In front, ahead of us, was the hearse; it carried Kristina. Breathing was restrictive as I contemplated ways to get to her; she was a car length ahead but I couldn’t calculate my way. From the view of the right door’s window a policeman sped by on his motorcycle to the front of the cemetery’s procession. As our chauffer merged onto the highway, other cars created a Red Sea sort of opening by slowing their speed and steering toward the shoulder allowing our group of cars to pass. While traversing across an overpass, a shiny silver Porsche whooshed passed our line of vehicles; it was moments later when the same Porsche had been pulled over by a cop. The sun’s daylong heat cooked the street’s asphalt until the black tar bubbled and squished under the weight of the passing cars.
***
Springing straight from a face down position, I leveraged my palms off the pavement like a runner sprinting out of the starting blocks toward the finish line and dashed toward the two collided cars. Running toward the mangled gray Ford Tempo, I didn’t recognize the shrieking coming from my mouth. Kristina was still inside the wreckage, but the medics on the scene didn’t see her. My voice stalled and gargled. I screeched out a slow speed version of my baby; she’s still in the car.
***
After I toppled out of the limousine, we took our places at the reserved cloth covered metal chairs strategically placed on top of the green faux lawn. Loose dirt spilled along the edges of the green carpet to create an otherworldly atmosphere. Elite looking easels held massive flower arrangements in various shades of pink that lined the parameter of the site. Extended family, friends and acquaintances closed in around us to shield and protect us; it was prison. The graveside service, its thick hot fog, encased me and delirium ensued. The preacher said words of comfort and peace, or at least I assumed he did; he words evaporated into the heavens. At the end of the ceremony, I stood beside Hans not feeling his hand in mine; we looked at each other then stared at our family and friends not knowing what to do. Their hugs enveloped us in a supportive suffocating way. A tinge of sweat rolled down the back of my right leg as we walked back to the limo and collapsed inside.
***
Reaching my gray Ford Tempo before the medics, I jerked open the car door and clawed my way to the backseat, but their arms tugged me aside; she looked unconscious. Dear God, is she breathing? No one answered. Arms kept dragging me further away while I desperately tried to scratch out of their grasp. I needed to touch her, to hold her.
On the left side of the road, a lady bent over my twelve-year-old nephew’s pale body, wiping his blond hair out of his face, she gave him her breaths. One medic focused his attention to my mangled knee; blood trickled from my right kneecap, down the inside of my tattered jeans, and collected around the rim of my white sock creating a pinkish red stain around my ankle, but I pushed him away in an attempt to reach my baby. “They can help her,” a voice said over my wailing. Men loaded my nephew from the ground, to the stretcher, and finally into the ambulance.
In the fleeting moments before this, before the Tempo crossed through the four-way stop sign, my freckled-faced nephew sat satisfied beside me in the passenger’s seat smiling and humming along to the tunes on the radio. Kristina happily tucked into a booster seat in the backseat of the Tempo with its seatbelt strapped across her lap. Having just left my brother and Dad’s work site to run an errand, or get a coke; I don’t remember the reason for leaving.
***
Kophino, the Greek word for coffin, gurgled across my tongue when I attempted its pronunciation. I thought by replacing the English word with a foreign counterpart would disguise the meaning, add distance, and remove its necessity; it didn’t so I stopped. During the funeral the royal blue fabric of the pews, inside the church I grew up in, held our numb bodies in place. Wood paneled walls varnished with walnut stain boxed us into place. Floral arrangements made of pink carnations, white rosebuds, yellow daisies magnificently flocked the foyer and the front of the sanctuary, while their aura beautifully extinguished the oxygen. Rows of pews occupied the bodies of relatives, friends, and acquaintances, each tightly squeezed next to each other to pay their respects. We were escorted into the front right pew, the one closest to the pastel pink metal casket with bronze handles; its sheen blinded me into a catatonic state.
***
A stretcher lifted her to the back of the emergency vehicle and I raced to join her, but they denied me. The paramedic shut the steel red door of the ambulance to secure Kristina and my nephew inside with the silver headed paramedic; his scruffy whiskers gave the appearance that he gave his patients all his attention. I was steered to the front passenger’s seat. The blue-capped paramedic with his matching blue jump suit raced around into the driver’s seat. Sirens blasted into action, as we sped away. Please, Lord; please let her be okay. Please. I’m begging. I prayed in a murmuring tone.
Darting his eyes between the road and my bleeding leg, “we need to get you looked at too,” he said. Tears tumbled down my face and collected on the front of my white t-shirt as my body convulsed into deeper panic. “Good Lord, go faster,” I said, sobbing while I swiped my running nose with the back of my trembling hands.
***
Our first visit to the funeral home was for our private viewing. “It’s customary to give the Mom and Dad time alone before the rest of the family joins,” Mr. Funeral Director said while clearing his throat and nodding at me, and then Hans. His salt-and-pepper wiry hair was parted on the left side while a few strands of his hair flew around when he walked. He wore a smoky gray pinstriped suit appearing fresh from the cleaners and the maroon tie was tamed with a silver tie clip. Ushering the two of us away from our family, down the hall and to the left, to a room. The ambiance was grim; wood paneling with a mahogany stain covered the entirety of the intimate room. The pale pink casket simmered against its dark surroundings; it emitted a mystical air. Positioned at an angle in an attempt to cover more space and appear substantial, Kristina’s casket remained petite. My feet planted deep in the hallway’s beige carpet, I vacillated between bolting from the room and rushing to her.
***
Doors to the emergency room exploded open and other medical people flooded out like ants to a crumb of bread. The exhaust from the engine collided with the bristling heat of the June day. Once they reached the ambulance, they seized Kristina and my nephew; they slid their stretchers out of the vehicle’s armor. I rushed to her, but again they blocked me. Two nurses, each in blue scrubs, encircled my left and right arms and gently coaxed me into a treatment room, further away from my baby. No one there was familiar. Strangers flocked around me and fussed about my gashed knee with disinfectants and bandages. “You’ll probably need stitches,” one voice said. I swatted them away from my knee, but then grasped the petite hand of the nurse with the kind looking brown eyes and short silvery hair. “Please, just put a bandage on it. If I need stitches, I’ll come back. I need someone to tell me where my baby is. Please, will you help me?” I asked pleading. Mary, the emergency center nurse, stopped what she was doing and sat next to me on the treatment bed. She scooted in close to dissolve the space between us and wrapped her arm around my shoulder; gently she hugged me. I crumbled into her. “The doctors and nurses are giving your baby girl all their attention. She is in good hands. They’ll come talk to you as soon as they can, but right now your sweet girl needs them,” Mary said frankly. “Until then, I need to take care of you. I’ll have you ready when they come for you.”
***
A newly purchased dress made of white eyelet fabric with a thin red ribbon tied neatly around her waist; its tailored fit and hues complemented her olive complexion. The sash matched the poppy shaped purse she liked to carry. The matching white eyelet bonnet concealed the necessary shave she was given in the hospital. Her once shoulder length chestnut-colored curls had disappeared and in its place grew a cap of thick dark hair; she was lovely. Hans’s six-feet-four frame leaned down into the coffin to reach her, while I stood on my tippy toes like a ballerina in toe shoes to snuggle into her cheek. Our tear dollops soaked the satin lined pillow that Kristina’s head rested on. We stayed with her longer than I remember; others joined us later.
“For Kristina’s funeral services, do you want an opened or closed casket?” I heard Mr. Funeral Director ask. There was a ping-ping-ping ringing in my ears and I was having difficulty registering voices or any sounds. “Typically when a love one has sustained an injury prior to their passing,” he continued but I wasn’t listening. His gold link watch ticked with each second; it hid the day’s time under the white cuff of his shirt. Closed, we decided.
***
The sensor on the automatic glass doors of the emergency center instantly slid open the moment my husband’s white Hanes sport socks stepped onto the entrance mat. With his scruffy size twelve Nike high-tops in hand and a disheveled tan work shirt hanging over the top of his jeans, Hans dashed inside. His red-rimmed eyes were puffy. “Baby, I came as fast as I could,” Hans said as he hugged me into his chest. “Where’s Kristina? What happened? Are you okay? Have you talked to the doctor?” Hans’s voice spilled a German brusqueness I scarcely recognized; it tilted me. His dark blue eyes stared down at me and I started to wobble and the room was spinning.
***
A chocolate agouti colored bunny sat on Kristina’s lap as the photographer snapped Easter themed photos. On a bright April Easter Sunday, our last holiday with her, she donned an apricot sailor dress paired with a white short brimmed straw hat and matching white patent shoes. Kristina’s chestnut curls cascaded loosely along the top of her shoulders. In her right hand she carried a white wicker Easter basket with a lamb’s face painted on the exterior, as a tiny purse dangled from her left shoulder. She pranced about hunting eggs. The greenish-brown grass hid the brightly colored plastic eggs that the children gleefully searched. The chocolate covered bunnies softened in the sun’s warmth.
***
Once the respirator was turned off, Claire, the petite ginger haired physician lifted up her wire rimmed spectacles and dabbed her watery blue eyes with a tissue. Terry, her nurse, wore sea foam colored scrubs; a pink stethoscope draped around her tanned neck and a round lavender button was pinned on her scrub top that read, “I love kids.” Claire and Terry had been taking care of Kristina, and us, for the last two weeks of her life; they felt like family. Terry glided the pastel print curtain closed and switched off the lights from the bedside monitors. The five of us were alone with a wooden rocking chair in the tiny room of the pediatric intensive care unit. Hans crumpled into the rocking chair and reached for me to join him. I nestled onto his lap as Claire and Terry lifted Kristina’s small body off the white crib sheets and draped her across our arms. Hans cradled her cap of dark hair while I stroked her petite legs and feet. Claire squeezed my shoulder as she turned to leave the room. “Take as long as you need,” Terry said as tears streamed down her cheeks. Closing the curtain behind them, Claire and Terry left us alone to say our good-byes.
***
Pin dots of drizzle collected on my blue trench coat on that distant April afternoon, as I exited the charming museum in Lausanne, Switzerland. I was visiting a friend, killing time. Metal clock sculptures, in various shapes and sizes, occupied the outdoor courtyard as artistic symbols of the Swiss exactness of time. I ran my fingertips along the clocks’ grainy steel, gazing beyond the courtyard’s plush lawn and along the peaks of the Alps. I settled on the billowy skyline; its natural architecture beckoned me into a momentary tranquility.
Le temps guérit toutes les blessures. The mantra that time heals all wounds is deceptive, a one-size fits all delusion. Time alters; it soothes; it diminishes the scar. But most remarkably, time eclipses despair and inches, ever so slightly, toward hope.
***
Spring’s purple geraniums had long since withered under winter’s soil and a fine dusting of snow covered the brown brittle grass. I felt the damp cotton pillowcase under my cheek, as I roused to the sound of my own sobbing. Morning sunlight poured brightness across the rumpled silvery comforter like a mound of glistening diamonds. Through a mass of tangled wet curls that shrouded the wreck of my face, I gulped air. I willed myself back into the dream, to the part where I scooped Kristina into my arms and laughed, a deep belly laugh—the kind that makes you cry. As we twirled, she giggled. After catching her breath, she nuzzled her lips next to my ear and whispered I love you, Mommy.
Penne Richards is a full-time medical staff recruiter and a MFA student at the University of California, Riverside/Palm Desert studying creative writing and writing for the performing arts. Her work has been featured in Ten Spurs, the literary nonfiction journal at the University of North Texas. She enjoys spending time outdoors, especially in a new city. Penne, the mother of four children—Kristina, Ashleigh, Nick and Addison, lives in Lubbock, Texas with her husband, Darin and their family. She is currently at work on her first book. Find her as @pennerich.
