I’m reading about the vehicle accident in The Great Gatsby, when Mama steps on the brakes. In the screeching seconds, my nerves leap as a body thuds against our car.

Mama screams and her hands tremble against the steering wheel. She’s not a confident driver and prefers the ten-mile radius around our house. This forty-mile journey, with a construction-related detour through an unknown neighborhood, unnerves her.

I gasp and Gatsby flies out of my hands, a partner sharing the shock.

Mother is wailing. She repeats, “What have I done, what have I done?”

I swallow three times, find my breath and say, “You know what we must do.” It’s not the first time I’ve had play the parent. “Mama, we must check.”

Her body shakes as she releases the seat belt. Mascara streaks her cheeks.

We’re on our way to meet Dad. He’s running for political office in our district and wants us to meet a donor. He insists I go, knowing my Gatsby book report is due tomorrow.

Outside, she flails her arms. “God! How did I not see her?”

The hurt child is a frail seven or eight-year-old. I try to get closer, fighting waves of panic—neither one of us has taken a first aid or CPR class—but it’s difficult to squat in my short dress.

“What’s going on?” a man shouts.

I’m so relieved to see him, my tears swell and drip.

The man running up from the house on our left wears grass-stained shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt. I wonder if he’s the child’s father when examines the child. “Who. . .?” I begin.

“I was mowing the backyard. . .she must’ve run out. Her mom’s at work and I offered to watch her.” He speaks rapidly as he lifts the girl into his arms. “She’s breathing. Let’s go. It’ll take ten minutes if you call 911, five minutes if you drive to the hospital,” he barks.

I open the car door,  notice the child’s lies limp, her breathing hoarse.

Mama repeats, “Sorry, sorry.”

“Never mind the sorry. Drive!” he says.

I squeeze Mama’s arm, urging her to move. I know Dad’s going to be furious.

The car shudders and weaves its way through the neighborhood.  Mama peeks into the rear view mirror every few seconds.

Outside the emergency room, the man leaps out. The child’s eyes are open, but glazed. Blood stains create Rorschach’s blots on her shirt.

“I’ll call her mother. And, I need your information,” he says. He looks at the child in his arms. “Go park, then come in.”

Mama blinks.

“Go park!” he yells over his shoulder

Mama presses her foot on the accelerator as she swings out of the lot, onto the main road. Sweat makes my dress cling to my back.

“Mama,” I shout. “Where are you going? Come on! You can’t run. It’s a crime!” I pull on the steering wheel, but she’s already on the main road.

           She doesn’t speak, concentrates on driving.  I open Gatsby and the words jump out, accuse. You should have . . .

There’s no radio or music and I’m frightened in the looming, suffocating silence.

Half an hour later, in the restaurant parking lot, Mama fixes her face. I don’t want to be in the car for one more second. Grabbing my book, I slam the car door.

Dad’s pacing in the lobby. He pulls on the knot of his tie and roars, “Where the heck have you been? You know this dinner’s important.”

Mama shoots me a glance. My stomach squeezes. I should tell him. Should I?

“We’re here now!” Her smile is tremulous. I notice mascara smudges on her fingers as she removes the scarf around her shoulders, crushes it between her fists.

“What the hell kept you?” my father bellows.

“Let’s go eat, shall we?” she asks.

I don’t care about the dinner. I only want to know what happens after the accident in the book.

In the restaurant, Dad explains my silence by saying I work too hard in school. He orders entrees which taste like mud. Mama keeps up a social conversation, while Gatsby swirls in my head.

It’s past midnight when I finish the report. My conclusion states that I find the end  uncomfortable. No. It’s more than that, it’s shocking.

Unable to sleep, I toss and turn expecting that stranger to break into our house and punish us.

# # #

Sudha Balagopal’s recent flash fiction appears in Foliate Oak, Flash Fiction Magazine, Peacock Journal and Lowestoft Chronicle among other journals. She is the author of a novel, A New Dawn, and two short story collections, There are Seven Notes and Missing and Other Stories. More at www.sudhabalagopal.com