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After the accident, I became less visible. Or not just that. I mean that after the accident, I became more difficult to see. Then a bright, splintering crack as I burst through the windshield into the open air, bloody and frightened and uncomprehending. The accident happened at night during an August downpour on a deserted stretch of highway through corn and soybean fields, about twenty miles outside Rockford, Illinois, my home town. I hit the brakes and my face collided with the windshield, knocking me out instantly.
Thus I was spared the adventure of my car veering off the tollway into a cornfield, rolling several times, bursting into flames and ultimately exploding. The shatter-proof windshield did indeed hold fast upon its impact with my head, so although I broke virtually every bone in my face, I have almost no visible scars. A passing motorist in a hurry, that sort of thing. Hans Fabermann, reconstructive surgeon extraordinaire.
When I emerged from unconsciousness fourteen hours later, it was Dr. Calmly Dr. My face was numb, I saw with slurry double vision and had an odd sensation around my mouth as if my upper and lower teeth were out of whack.
I felt a hand on mine, and realized then that my sister, Grace, was at my bedside. Fabermann said. I tried to speak, to acquiesce, but no moving parts of my head would move. I produced one of those aerated gurgles made by movie characters expiring from war wounds.
