me.
Look, I say. You can’t just let your thoughts float around in the ether and hope eventually they’ll connect with something. It’s absurd.
No, it’s not, Gil says. Lots of good things happen that way. Penicillin. Teflon. Smart dust. Something happens that you weren’t expecting and it shifts the outcome completely. You have to be open to it.
When I open my brain, I tell him, things bounce around and fall out. They don’t connect with anything. Maybe I haven’t got enough points of reference stored up yet.
You’re young, he says, that’s probably it. When I let
my
thoughts float around, I trust that they’ll latch on to something useful in the end or make an association I wouldn’t necessarily have predicted. I’m trusting that they’ll find the right thought to complete, all by themselves. The right bit of fact to go
ping.
You have to trust your brain sometimes.
Maybe, I’m thinking. But so far I only trust my brain up to a point. Without guidance it could skew off in any crazy direction or just wander into a cul-de-sac for a snooze. That’s why I make charts. Anyway, I say to Gil, I hope it happens. I really do. Because my flow chart hasn’t got me anywhere useful.
Gil smiles without taking his eyes off the road. We’ll get there.
You think so? Privately I’m feeling doubtful, but I don’t say so.
Yes. One way or another, we will.
OK, I say, and then I stop making a flow chart, reach back and pat Honey, who’s dozing, and look out of the window for a while. But it’s hard to stop my brain from thinking.
Tell me everything you know about the accident, I say to Gil.
Which accident?
The one that killed Owen.
He glances at me. Is that relevant?
Of course it’s relevant. How can I understand Matthew without all the facts? You never know which ones will turn out to be important.
OK, Gil says. OK. But I’m not sure I remember everything.
I sit very still and wait.
So . . . Matt picked Owen up after a swimming practice, says Gil. It was evening. Winter. Dark. They had to take the highway for a short distance, just long enough for one of those big articulated tractor-trailers to skid and crash into the back of their car. It was crushed.
The whole car?
The back of the car.
And what about Matthew?
He was uninjured. Bruised a bit.
Wait . . . Owen was sitting in the back?
Yes.
That’s strange.
I don’t know, Perguntador. Maybe American kids have to sit in the back because it’s safer?
Little kids. He was taller than Suzanne.
Maybe they’d just dropped someone off or he wanted to stretch out. Maybe there was shopping in the front. Sports kit.
Maybe. And then?
They were in the fast lane. An ambulance came. Police. I remember Suzanne telling Marieka at the time that Matthew was completely exonerated by the police.
Exonerated? I’m frowning, confused.
Found not guilty.
Not guilty of what? Was he a suspect?
I don’t think so. It’s just normal, I guess. Make sure he didn’t fall asleep at the wheel or wasn’t on drugs or anything.
I think about this. Exonerated? The grieving father? I try to picture the scene. Once more I look at Gil. What about the truck? I ask.
It was coming up behind them. The driver tried to swerve and flipped over the center strip. The back of it must have swung round and smashed Matt’s car.
And the driver?
I guess he died too.
You
guess
he died?
He died.
A moving picture takes shape in my brain. Matthew and Owen in the fast lane, far left. The truck coming up behind them. Not in the same lane, presumably, not in the fast lane. One lane to the right. What causes a huge truck to skid?
Are you sure he tried to swerve, or are you just making that up?
Gil thinks. Pretty sure. Most of my information came from Marieka, he says. I never had the heart to ask for more details. Why?
Well, if you’re going to crash into someone, especially when you’re coming up from behind, you don’t skid first. Do you?
Maybe it was icy. Maybe he was
Look, I say. You can’t just let your thoughts float around in the ether and hope eventually they’ll connect with something. It’s absurd.
No, it’s not, Gil says. Lots of good things happen that way. Penicillin. Teflon. Smart dust. Something happens that you weren’t expecting and it shifts the outcome completely. You have to be open to it.
When I open my brain, I tell him, things bounce around and fall out. They don’t connect with anything. Maybe I haven’t got enough points of reference stored up yet.
You’re young, he says, that’s probably it. When I let
my
thoughts float around, I trust that they’ll latch on to something useful in the end or make an association I wouldn’t necessarily have predicted. I’m trusting that they’ll find the right thought to complete, all by themselves. The right bit of fact to go
ping.
You have to trust your brain sometimes.
Maybe, I’m thinking. But so far I only trust my brain up to a point. Without guidance it could skew off in any crazy direction or just wander into a cul-de-sac for a snooze. That’s why I make charts. Anyway, I say to Gil, I hope it happens. I really do. Because my flow chart hasn’t got me anywhere useful.
Gil smiles without taking his eyes off the road. We’ll get there.
You think so? Privately I’m feeling doubtful, but I don’t say so.
Yes. One way or another, we will.
OK, I say, and then I stop making a flow chart, reach back and pat Honey, who’s dozing, and look out of the window for a while. But it’s hard to stop my brain from thinking.
Tell me everything you know about the accident, I say to Gil.
Which accident?
The one that killed Owen.
He glances at me. Is that relevant?
Of course it’s relevant. How can I understand Matthew without all the facts? You never know which ones will turn out to be important.
OK, Gil says. OK. But I’m not sure I remember everything.
I sit very still and wait.
So . . . Matt picked Owen up after a swimming practice, says Gil. It was evening. Winter. Dark. They had to take the highway for a short distance, just long enough for one of those big articulated tractor-trailers to skid and crash into the back of their car. It was crushed.
The whole car?
The back of the car.
And what about Matthew?
He was uninjured. Bruised a bit.
Wait . . . Owen was sitting in the back?
Yes.
That’s strange.
I don’t know, Perguntador. Maybe American kids have to sit in the back because it’s safer?
Little kids. He was taller than Suzanne.
Maybe they’d just dropped someone off or he wanted to stretch out. Maybe there was shopping in the front. Sports kit.
Maybe. And then?
They were in the fast lane. An ambulance came. Police. I remember Suzanne telling Marieka at the time that Matthew was completely exonerated by the police.
Exonerated? I’m frowning, confused.
Found not guilty.
Not guilty of what? Was he a suspect?
I don’t think so. It’s just normal, I guess. Make sure he didn’t fall asleep at the wheel or wasn’t on drugs or anything.
I think about this. Exonerated? The grieving father? I try to picture the scene. Once more I look at Gil. What about the truck? I ask.
It was coming up behind them. The driver tried to swerve and flipped over the center strip. The back of it must have swung round and smashed Matt’s car.
And the driver?
I guess he died too.
You
guess
he died?
He died.
A moving picture takes shape in my brain. Matthew and Owen in the fast lane, far left. The truck coming up behind them. Not in the same lane, presumably, not in the fast lane. One lane to the right. What causes a huge truck to skid?
Are you sure he tried to swerve, or are you just making that up?
Gil thinks. Pretty sure. Most of my information came from Marieka, he says. I never had the heart to ask for more details. Why?
Well, if you’re going to crash into someone, especially when you’re coming up from behind, you don’t skid first. Do you?
Maybe it was icy. Maybe he was
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