Page 25 of A Me and You Thing
I grab the next bus to Matagalpa, tracing Quinn’s footsteps. The bus ride feels interminable, only made bearable by the photos Quinn sent me as she journeyed this route. I stare at the pictures on my phone, then stare out the window and try to locate the spots she found worthy of sending me. I trace my finger over the heart emoticons, my lastI love youfrom her, my last communication with her. I have her last love note neatly folded and tucked inside my wallet.She loves you. If my house caught fire, I’d save my baby girls and this tiny sheet of paper with those three simple words scribbled on it.
I hate this. I don’t want this to be my life. How did I end up here?
The stop in Matagalpa seems endless. I look around at the sights, and I see nothing, feel nothing. I’m numb, filled with a single-minded mission—find Quinn.
When I catch the next bus, I tell the driver,“Accidente de autobús. Quiero verlo.”
Thanks to Google translate, I think he understands that I want to see the bus crash. At least, I hope that’s what I just said.
He waves his hand at me and nods.“No es nada.”
Nada.I know that one. Nothing. Yes, I already know thatnothingis left. So I’ve been told. “Accidente de autobús.” I repeat.
He gives in. “Sí, okay, okay. Yes, yes.”
There must be something to see, some kind of evidence. I’m unprepared to view a gruesome scene. I hope that’s not what I’m about to face.
I settle into my seat and imagine Quinn on this route and wonder what she was thinking. The beauty of the area is unparalleled. I imagine she was filled with excitement, ready to explore and experience new things. I wanted that for her.
Then I wonder if she was worried, scared, or frightened? The rain is light today. I imagine heavy rains on this curvy road would be nerve-racking. But our driver seems to be taking the road inordinately slow—and even then the bus seems to be cranky in response. Surely in heavy rain, a bus would take this road at a snail’s pace. So, why did the bus go off the road?
That’s the million-dollar question.
When the bus pulls over and the driver waves at me,“Aquí, aquí,”I know he’s telling me the crash is here. I get off the bus and note that I’m in the middle of nowhere. Not exactly where I want to be. I know another bus will come; they come this way every twenty minutes. If you wave down a bus in this country, it will stop for you. They don’t adhere to appointed bus stops only. Still, it’s a little unsettling to feel so helpless in a foreign country where I don’t speak the language.
I’m standing on a curve in the road and I can see the damaged traffic barrier up ahead. The road has hardly any traffic, so I cross over easily, noting that there are no skid marks. That strikes me as strange, but then I realize the wet roadway would’ve prevented them. The bus probably hydroplaned and lost control. I walk to the edge of the cliff with trepidation in my soul.
I see everything I need to see in an instant, and I immediately understand everything I’ve been told. Yet, I take it in slowly, letting each piece of the puzzle process and register.
I manage to keep my thoughts somewhat clinical at first. I stare down at the initial steep drop, feeling sick to my stomach. I notice that the land plateaus, softly slants, plateaus, then softly slants again over and over, all the way down to the river below. The farm fencing reaching across the hillside is broken in three places as if a bulldozer went through the area, knocking down everything in its path. The animals that were once pastured here are not in sight.
At the distant bottom of the hill is a fast running river with a blackened dock, half-standing, half-gone, evidence that it was once the landing pad of a plummeting bus before it burst into flames, burning hot and steady until the dock could take no more and plunged into the river rapids below right along with the bus. Even at this distance, I can see the top of a burnt-out shell of a bus, a few feet away from the burnt dock, sticking up out of the water, stuck in place in spite of fairly strong rapids, held by who knows what in its final resting place.
No survivors. Nothing to see. No remains.It all makes sense now. There is no evidence. It really is an open and shut case.
Crashed. Burned. Swept away in the river. Everything’s gone as if it never existed. There’s virtually nothing to investigate. I was told the truth, I just didn’t believe it and had to see it for myself.
Fire and water, the basic elements for human survival; the very essentials that normally give life have instead played a part in taking it. I remember a kid at the aquarium asking the group a riddle after a live demonstration when we let the kids have open mic time to ask questions or tell jokes.If you feed me, I will live. If you give me water, I will die. What am I?He stumped everyone, including me.
The answer: fire. Very clever.
But in this case, fire robbed the bus of its people, its belongings, and its dignity. Then water washed the dirty deed away, as if it was trying to cover up for fire’s actions. By doing so, we’ve also lost all the explanations as to why this happened. Of course, it’s not as if buses carry a black box flight recorder as airplanes do. I would give up my life savings to have a recording of the final minutes—just to know exactly what transpired.
My clinical view of the scene ends as my emotions get the best of me. My legs buckle, bringing me to my knees. My hands shake and I break out in a cold sweat. I wasn’t expecting this. The truth, my response, the realization—none of it. Most of all, the guttural moan that escapes my lips. It’s not a sound I recognize as coming from myself. I stare at the shell of the bus, water rushing through it, willing Quinn to suddenly appear before my eyes unscathed.
It doesn’t happen. She’s not here. Gone. Poof. Just like that. My blond-haired beauty, the woman I adore, she’s gone. She’s so full of life, of deep thoughts.
It can’t be.
I pull myself together. I can’t break down, not here. I breathe in and out with unstable breaths.
No survivors.
Even personal effects are denied me. It looks as though a pile of ashes still sits on the shoreline, a memorial of sorts. Red hot anger shoots through me. It comes out of nowhere and takes me by surprise.
This is where I lost my Quinn. Right here. On this crappy piece of land in the middle of frickin’ nowhere—and it pisses me off. Because it’s easier to feel anger than despair.
I choose anger.
