Accident
Shelley J Alongi

 


Andrew lay across his bed, nursing a headache. Five weeks after his Cessna had gone down, he was still tending this lingering symptom of his concussion. His physician was pleased with his progress, but recovery, as it often does, was taking its sweet time. It was true that he was feeling much stronger than he had a month ago, and he was slowly beginning to resume his activities, but today was not one of those days. He had discovered in the interveening weeks that when he lay listless, his head reminding him of his plane�s mistake, he liked to listen to the sound of recorded books. Rachel had brought in a few when the tv or complete silence were unbearable. He had never really considered himself �bookish�, but then he had never fallen from an altitude of 1800 feet msl and cracked his head either, so there was something to be said for new discoveries, he imagined. Tv, to this date, had required too much visual concentration and the printed word was just now becoming an option again. Sara, his niece, and also his part time helper in the days immediately following his return home, had been only too happy to read to him from his avionics and aviation magazines, and he had helped her with the harder words.

This morning, waking up with the telltale signs of the bruised brain trying to exceed the boundaries of his skull, he had swallowed the pain medication as his first line of defense, rummaged through the shelves and found one of the recorded books, and then retreated to bed. The morning passed pleasantly enough, the medication kicking in to lessen the insistent demands of a brain angry with him for impacting the dash of an airplane, and the mellifluous voice narrating some lengthy passage that, he sometimes admitted, escaped his comprehension. It was better, however, than talk radio and better than complete silence, and better than the crashing, throbbing guns of some war action movie or some car chase, or the insistent arguing or slapstick commedy whose noises irritated his petulant brain into revenge. So he had lain on his bed, his head protectively cacooned into the feather pillow, ocasionally reaching up to feel the diminishing bruise on his temple, the newly formed scar above his right eye and across his forehead which was the permanent reminder of his little Cessna�s rebellion. Sometime during the morning, soothed into a quiescent existence, he drifted into a foggy, hot sleep.

Now in the languorous, tepid hours of the hot, July afternoon, he slid from beneath his covers and repositioned himself so that he lay atop the comforter with the fan gently caressing his face. The narrators voice had ceased, and now he lay, atuned to the ache of his skull which had lessened considerably. He still felt drained from the heat of the afternoon and the malaise which accompanied his new ingestion of the pain medication. As he lay there, head comfortably situated, eyes closed, mind at ease, the phone rang. The pilot refused to leave his recumbent position.

He heard the answering machine click, and then his recorded greeting, �Hi, this is andrew. I can�t take your call right now because someone got to me before you did! So please leave a message and I�ll call you back!� The tone carried up the stairs and then he heard a muffled voice leaving a message.


Just a few more minutes, he told himself. Perhaps it was almost time to get up anyway. He gauged the wisdom of sitting up, tried to determine whether this action would revitalize the headache or leave it as a malingering presence. Judging that it was safe to get to his feet, the pilot slid off his bed. He avoided turning on any extra lights, but he did decide that a refreshing shower was in order, and slowly proceeding to the bathroom, he indulged in this pleasure, massaging the water through his hair, and emerging, surprisingly refreshed. His movements were cautious as he dressed and went downstairs to retrieve the message from his answering machine. Passing a wall clock in the hall, he glanced at it and was surprised to see that it was already 5:00. Had he slept all day? It was entirely possible, and this would mean another long night, or maybe he would surprise himself and be asleep early. Now that his brain was starting to forgive him his error, he was finding that he awoke moore rested, less sick or dazed, and that his sleep patterns were returning to a normal type of existence. He padded into the living room, noticed a ring on a coffee table where a glass had been sitting. This was another thing that had changed in the five weeks since the plane crash. He had consumed no alcohol. He considered this a wise move, and found it easier to comply with, perhaps because he hadn�t felt much like being rowdy. Perhaps it was because he was a good patient and he knew enough not to mix alcohol and medicine. Being a pilot imposed some boundaries on its use, made him pay attention to a lot of things perhaps some his age would not pay attention to, especially if he wanted to pass his medical exams each year, but, he did like his wine once in a while. There was no wine in the glass that sat on the table. Instead, an inch of lukewarm, weak tea beckoned him. He picked up the glass, brought it into the kitchen. He refurnished his glass with ice and tea from a plastic pitcher he retrieved from the refrigerator. Glass in hand, he made his way to the answering machine that sat on a counter between the kitchen and the living room. He listened to the message and winced. He was starting to get calls from investigation personnel about the accidednt. They all wanted to talk to him. He had, of course, been unavailable, and now they were calling, and he would have to deal with them. He sat down at the kitchen table, and sighed deeply. Just having recovered from a physical, concussion produced headache, now he would have to deal with a mental headache. Maybe now that the gray matter inside his head was returning to some type of pre crash existence, he would be able to remember. He had kept meticulous records, but he still had to write his report. When would he feel up to that? Perhaps tonight when it was cooler, farther away from just ingesting medication that impaired his ability to drive let alone write. Listening to the answering machine, he knew he would have to confront that part of his life very soon.


By 8:00 that night, the temperature had cooled sufficiently enough so that Andrew could retrieve his log books from his chart case, spread them out on the kitchen table, and set to the task of compiling his report. The pilot�s headache had retreated to a low, warning stage, ready at the slightest provocation to go into high gear, so, fearing the affect of the computer screen on him, he chose to write out his notes longhand and perhaps type them tomorrow. Concentrating on the log books, he entered in the important numbers: the flight plan, the fuel capacity, the preflight findings, the degrees and bearing and altitude measurements. A cool breeze ruffled the curtain at an open window, caressing his shoulder, perhaps as an encouragement to the aviator to continue his work.

�The following is the pilot�s attempt to document the events which led up to the accident on June, 18, 2002.�

Rising early in the morning he had called for the weather briefing, gone to the airport, done his preflight check. All seemed in order. The plane gleamed in the early morning light, all seemed well, no fog banks, no cumulous clouds. The mechanics had cleared her, too, so what went wrong? He twirled his black pen between his thumb and forefinger as if it were the yolk used to steer the aircraft, willing the answer from the pen. He put his head in his hands. The memories were still very unclear. He remembered flying along and then the airplane becoming a glider. He bit down on his lower lip, an external concession to his tightening cool competence, and kicked the controls just so, suddenly realizing that he had very little time and very little space to work with. He saw the house before he saw the fence, and then, mercifully, with a sharp intake of breath, hands compensating, steady, cool, he was slamming the little Cessna into the fence, reeling from the jarring crunch, and then combating the explosions in his head, climbing out, and then waking up with a bad headache and some lights flashing and someone asking him his name and did he recognize this picture? Of course, after regaining some of his senses he had asked the girl next to him who she was and she had said �My name is Anne and I helped you out of the plane.� He didn�t think he actually remembered her coming up to him, maybe that would come later, but for now, it was enough, he decided, that he had even remembered hitting the fence and the calculated moves he had made to avoid hitting the house across the street.

The phone shrieked into the pilot�s memories. He started and with some sense of relief went to answer it.

�Andrew? Hi, it�s John, from the Charter company.�

�Hello, John.�

�Hey, Andrew, you sound pretty good. You feeling alright?�

�More often I am. Been kind of sick and out of it.�

�I know. You have a full time security force over there keeping away unwanted callers.�

The pilot laughed, scattering the image of the fence, putting down his pen.

�You mean my niece? Well, she�s not here tonight. I think she does that when I�m sleeping. This medication is a killer. Hey, don�t ever slam your plane into a fence if you can help it, okay? That was a nasty greeting.�

�Yes, I know. But at least it was a chain link fence.�

�Well, you have a point there.�

�Hey, Andrew,� he said without preamble, �you know the NTSB is dying to talk to you. They�re snooping around here, looking for you.�

�Yeah, they called today, but I was out of commission. Actually I was just working on my prep.�

�Oh? Feeling well enough for that?�

�Not always. I just filled in all the information, now I�m just waiting for the details from my own head. I think I must have blacked out. I don�t remember anything after turning to avoid the house.�

�Hey, Andrew, I wouldn�t stress about that. Just tell them that. You don�t need anymore headaches.�

�True enough.�

The pilot was quiet.

�Did they talk to Anne?�

�Anne? The woman who helped you out of the plane?�

�Right.�

�Yes, they did. She just said she saw the plane slam into the fence and crash.�

�So she knows what I know.�

�Well, she knows you hit the fence, you know how you hit it. They�re more interested in how you hit the fence than the fact that you actually hit it.�

�Hmmm.�

�The NTSB determined prop failure. Sounds like you�re in the clear, Andrew. You know you have a job with us when you�re cleared by your AME.� John hesitated a moment. �Andrew, that is, if you want it.�

�Of course, I want it,� he answered a little shortly, perhaps too harshly, he thought and softened his tone a bit, �I�m sorry. I�m not afraid to fly, it�s, well, it�s just disturbing a little, but, of course I want it.� His voice lightened. �So does Karl miss me?�

�Hell, yeah. He doesn�t have anyone to tease about women!�

Now Andrew�s brown eyes lighted, the first real pleasure he had had all day.

�He knows about her, of course. I�m in trouble when I get back. Well, I miss him, too. I�ll be back, soon.�

�I bet you don�t miss Karl as much as you miss that plane.�

�Starting to miss that plane,� admitted Andrew Crance, the man who had done nothing but fly planes for the last fifteen years. �It�s all I�ve ever done.�

After hanging up with his boss, the pilot�s thoughts returned to Anne chambers. She had shown up at the crucial moment. Perhaps, he thought, sipping his ice tea, if Anne chambers had not shown up, he would have lain unassisted on the field. Certainly no one could have come along, though it was hard to believe that a plane slamming into a chain-link fence in a densely populated area would not evoke some kind of response. He had only had time for one emergency transmission on 121.5. In his more lucid moments wen pain did not interfere with his thinking, he went over all the scenarios, and figured that if she hadn�t shown up, things could have turned out differently. Who was to say? She had been there, having enough courage to climb into the plane and retrieve the chart case and get his cell phone. Perhaps it was not wise to do that, he considered, but she had done it and there was no changing that. It was strange that during his hospitalization, most of those whom he called his friends had stayed away. Maybe they were put off by sickness and injury. It was the teacher he had seen sitting next to him when he woke up. It was the teacher who had wiped his face when he was sick without warning over his sheets and pillows. One night he had wakened in excruciating pain because he had moved wrong in his sleep, and all day he had been lethargic and medicated. What he remembered the most was her sitting with him, her fingers slipped into his, watching his eyes for signs of trouble. He had only a vague memory of that, but it was a memory. If he couldn�t remember what happened after turning into the fence, he did remember her. He hadn�t called her. He didn�t know if there was a reason. What would he say?

�Hi, this is Andrew, the pilot. I was just wondering how you were doing?�

She probably had her life, her friends. The time for her was ended, he thought. But somehow, he knew differently. Somehow he knew he would call her again. The only question was: what would be the final push. What would make him call her? The thought and image of Anne chambers lingered in a corner of his brain, much as the threat of recurring headache related to his injury stayed with him. The medication could put the headache at bay, but, somehow, this confident, shy, controlled pilot would have to mentally wrestle with the thoughts and images of Anne chambers without the benefit of narcotic intervention. Andrew took up his pen again and carefully wrote out one more paragraph.

�After making all compensations necessary for directing my plane into the fence allowing for a safer landing of the aircraft, all memory of events prior to waking up in the hospital with a headache and being asked my name has unfortunately, to this date, remained unclear. After awakening and being told by Miss Anne chambers that she had assisted me from the plane, I have retained an image of her face and am able to recognize her and know how she assisted in calling for help and then dealing with the preliminary beginnings of the investigation as far as she was able. I am at your disposal in this matter, having recovered my faculties sufficiently to assist in the reconstruction of events. I would like to add that, in my judgement, had it not been for the quick actions of Anne chambers, events may have unfolded differently. I do not know.�

After inserting a few more minor details, he put down his pen and got up from the kitchen table. He returned his log books to the chart case. He picked it up and stowed it back in his office. Passing the wall clock once again, he saw that it had taken him two hours to complete his work. He decided it was time to climb the stairs and return to his room. The headache had retreated, and so feeling a sense of accomplishment, he got into bed, made himself comfortable, and was soon restfully sleeping. The healing of body and mind would continue, and tucked into the corner of a heart, inexperienced, as yet untried, lay the memory of a girl, the memory that could, in time, change his life, forever.

      

 

 

Copyright © 2002 Shelley J Alongi
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"