What do I actually remember about that day is a question I’ve asked myself for many years. Like so many memories, some of the ones that soldered into the wiring of my brain have simply failed to secure the connection. Or short circuited and I’m not certain if they’re memories of true events or more like false memories. The false ones created by combining what we actually do recall and what others have told us or muddied up for us. Like when people say the remember their first step. It’s only a memory because so many people have told you about it. Think about it, no one remembers their first time using an actual toilet. Your first step is always more joyous than the first time you went to the bathroom anywhere other than in the clothes you’re wearing. I’ve heard it said the potty training is often the most traumatic event of our lives. So much so, our brain’s physically block the memories. We only understand where the appropriate places are to tinkle or pooh and not the training.
Without question I remember the stomach churning smell of burning flesh and singed hair. In fact those aromas would become permanent enough for all of us that my parents sold the car to the scrap yard. Partly as a sort of soul cleanser and partly because the stench just wouldn’t dissipate enough for any of us to ride comfortably. At least that’s how it felt.
I also believe my parents scrapped the car as a way to prevent future buyers from asking questions about the burned smell. And in a way, I think my dad needed the car to be crushed as therapy. Put all those horrifying moments in the compactor and destroy them. He needed relief from his nightmares. But he never did get rewarded. It’s a wonder my parents are still married given his terror-filled dreams.
***
My brother and I used to play the typical travel games (license plate game, Slug Bug, even Trivial Pursuit) when he and I were in primary school during longer road trips. Longer road trips. Those words seem funny now that I’ve traveled into the Midwest and closer to the mountain states. The distances between towns and cities are certainly longer than those in the east. Even “rural” North Carolina is more tightly packed than the population centers in Ohio, Iowa, Indiana, and others. That’s saying nothing for the vast distances LW told me about in South Dakota, Nebraska, and Wyoming. He said it takes a full eight hours to span Wyoming from east to west and over six hours north to south. And he said you could travel for hours on some roads and not see another person.
But the morning of the fog (on the way to Chattanooga) we didn’t play any games. We didn’t even talk. Both of us in our own teenager thoughts that little—if anything—had to do with each other. Or anyone.
There are times when our minds play vicious little tricks on us, and it asks us questions we simply can’t answer (and maybe don’t want to answer). For me, two things stand out as the most common: what horrors lie in fog, and how would I have turned out if I hadn’t fallen asleep that day?
One question I can never answer because…well, time travel is still in the testing phase.
As for what horrors lie in the fog, I’m still searching for all the answers. But I do have a few answers.
***
What I woke up to was screaming. In my grogginess, you know the type of discombobulated feeling of nodding off for a nap but not getting fully asleep before waking, or the zombie-like feeling after waking up from a NyQuil induced sleep, I thought it was Mom lashing at Dad for his driving. Again.
As it turned out, it wasn’t my mom screaming at my dad. But there was screaming. Metallic and human voices both.
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