Closure

By Rose Q. Addams

Closure.

Ha.

I’m here by doctor’s orders. The last place I want to see is Death’s Curve. I despise every stick, every inch of pavement, every pebble along this road. You’d hate seeing where your daughter died too.

This is the sort of place teenagers used to go to neck when I was younger. Out of the way. Just scary enough at night to get someone to cuddle closer. Plenty of hidden avenues to pull over on. Down the road from enough bars that it was a thrill… Now, enough people have died here that it’s been officially dubbed Death’s Curve.

Closure? Ridiculous.

It’s 2 p.m. Just sunny enough to be annoying, but at least I’m visible to any drivers. I would wear my safety vest if the doctor allowed it, but I’m supposed to “try to relax.”

How can I relax? She was six. My husband—now ex—hasn’t spoken to me since. He disappeared into the basement and never reemerged. He always did love his projects in the basement. Guess they were better company than his shattered family.

I reach the site of our accident. I was wrong. Andrew has left the basement. There, sitting around an oak tree with half the trunk gone—courtesy of my Outback—is a collection of stuffed animals.

Our daughter’s stuffies.

Say her name, Moira, the doctor’s voice prods. You can’t grieve what you won’t acknowledge.

“Sophie. Sophie’s stuffies.”

I stare until my vision blurs. I didn’t think I had tears left.

So, he really did care. I sit down and cradle Mr. Floppy, her favorite rabbit, in my arms. He’s damp, but not too much worse for wear. The only thing Sophie would’ve been upset over is the rust-colored stain on his paws. From the look of it, he’s been out here the longest. How long has Andrew been visiting and bringing her stuffies? I look over the pile. Every one has been gently placed. He always was particular about how they were positioned on her bed. I chuckle and put Mr. Floppy back. He’d be glad to know I put it back “just right.”

I miss them both so much.

It’s raining hard. The wipers aren’t moving fast enough to keep up. I’m crawling along this stretch, wishing the weatherman had been right for once.

“Mommy, will there be lightning?” Sophie shifts in her car seat, then clutches her pink fluffy tighter. “Bun-Bun’s worried about Mr. Floppy.”

“It’s gonna be okay.”

I have no idea about the storm, but she’s counting on me. I should watch the road more carefully, but she’s terrified of bad weather, so I make a silly face in the rearview.

“Could we have some hot chocolate when we get home?”

“Only if you put your wet things in the wash.”

Then I’m blinded, and three things happen almost instantly. First, I hit the brakes. We hydroplane. Second, Sophie screams as the drunk driver collides with our side of the vehicle. Then we hit the tree. The last thing I remember is the horn blaring.

I was hospitalized through her funeral. The drunk driver? Not a scratch.

I still struggle with wishing I’d been able to attend, but that’s why Dr. Monroe sent me here today.

Closure.

“Your husband—”

“Ex.”

“Ex, then, is denying this ever happened. He is pushing you away because you are intimately connected to this. He is refusing to grieve, in his own way. You bear no more guilt in this than he. It was an accident, Moira. You need to face it. Then work on living a healthy, happy life. For Sophie’s sake.

“I recommend that you go to the scene of the accident and grieve.”

So here I am.

For Sophie’s sake.

“She was my sweet baby.” This is the eulogy I couldn’t give. Her stuffies are my only audience. It feels… right. “She loved everybody, even the bullies at school. She never went anywhere without one of her favorite fuzzy friends. She had faith, even when I didn’t. She always believed that Mommy could fix it.”

I pet Mr. Floppy as tears roll down my face. “I only wish I could. Rest in peace, Sophie.”

It’s getting dark as I give the last stuffy a kiss on the head. I hate to say so, but Monroe was right. Maybe I’ll even call Andrew. Tell him I’m glad he’s coming to terms with it. Invite him out for coffee.

The wind picks up, and I look up as a fat droplet hits me. Back to the car. Now. I’m not ready to relive that night. Not yet.

The rain starts in earnest as I turn toward the car. I parked back at the nearest hidden avenue, a fifteen-minute walk. I jog, but I’ll definitely be soaked. Then I hear screeching tires.

I blindly dive into the trees, narrowly avoiding the truck that hurtles by, its driver more occupied with a bottle than the road. The same kind of guy that killed Sophie. I clench my fists, adrenaline racing, as he flies around the bend.

Glass splinters. Metal crunches. The horn blares, echoing through the woods.

Let him rot. Him and all his kind!

I continue toward my car.

“Help me…” His slur drifts faintly above the pattering rain.

He was drunk enough. He’s probably fine.

“Help me!” It’s more urgent now. “Please! No!”

No?

Curiosity compels me to turn toward the crash, and at his terrified scream, my feet move faster, pounding the pavement.

When I get within sight of the wreck, I stop, blood running cold.

The stuffies have swarmed the vehicle. They pound on the windshield, tear at any fissure they can reach. They don’t look sweet or comforting anymore. They’re out for blood.

That’s why Andrew’s left them.

“Help me! Please!”

Maybe I’ll give Andrew that call. Ask what he was doing in the basement all that time. But first, I grab a branch and prepare to do what Sophie would have wanted.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rose Q. Addams loves cheesecake, hats, and her family, who she blames for her love of reading. Some of her best memories are hearing tales of Heidi, Winnie the Pooh, Beauty and The Beast, and the prophet Ehud— which explains how her taste runs wildly throughout genres. She can be found scribbling madly on any paper she gets, or sneezing in the dust of the curious shop where she pretends she’s sane.

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