Thirteen's Not Enough

Thirteen isn't supposed to be a lucky number, but if you're counting the years, thirteen is better than twelve. Another year's distance from the memory, more insulation wrapping the pain. 

May 9, 2000. 5:35 PM. Just another dinner hour, the evening news was playing while I made dinner for my two sons, eight and eleven. My wife was working late, the boys were busy with their homework after swim practice. The phone rang. "Davyd? It's Tim. We need to talk? I'm not kidding..."

I can't just now recall who I thought I was talking to. Another Tim? Someone named Jim? I do know that I thought it was someone I knew, but not my sister's roommate. They were just friends and co-workers, Tim rented a room in Judy's house in Fremont, about eighty minutes north. She needed his help. It was a crazy household, including Judy's twenty-two year-old  son Kenny and a revolving set of special needs foster kids made it so.

"I have some news about Judy..." he said, haltingly. 

Oh, that Tim...OK, so what's the joke? They were kinda silly that way, Judy and Tim. Calling just to share a joke, or have me settle an argument over a trivia question. But not this time. This time, a freight train was rushing down the track at me warp speed, silently. Did I know the next words were coming? Was my mind racing that quickly?

Four little words, "There's been an accident." Four simple words that can mean just a little when they're followed by "But everyone's okay," or "I don't want to worry you, but your sister just wanted me to let you know..." I wanted to hear those words, I expected to hear them, or something like them. Judy was irreverent, silly, a kidder. Her goal in life was to take care of everybody around her, to disarm with her humor, to charm them with her singing. But those weren't the next words Tim spoke, after an interminable silence. 

"There's been a terrible accident, with the car." 

What's that sound? This is...not right. "Tim? Where's Judy?"

"She's dead."  

An electric shock that began in my forehead tore through my body and knocked the wind from my lungs. The sounds I heard were crying, distant crying, halting breaths, wailing. Pain. Those were the sounds I was hearing, sounds that grew louder over the next minutes, hours and days. Ringing in my ears, emanating from my core. Sounds that echo down the years, now thirteen and counting.