The song was Visions of Johanna by Bob Dylan. She remembered it from the old days, playing softly on her father’s record player. It was odd that it was playing now. Now with the couch in the back of the car. The old couch –she remembered her dad sprawled out on it like a cat, and she nestled on the end of it; listening, just listening.
He was still talking in the seat beside her. He kept his eyes on the road, but every now and again cast sharp and piercing glances her way. She said nothing. And he kept talking. She looked out the other window. The river was beside her, running parallel with the road. The sun cast gold and gleaming light on the water, dancing and reflecting. There were geese or swans or something drifting and how peaceful they looked.
He was still talking.
His voice was like an old, persistent motor, rattling on, never dying. She even tried to listen but couldn’t focus on the words. –They didn’t really mean anything.
“Just stop,” she said finally. “It doesn’t matter anymore anyway. There’s nothing we can do about it now. We’ve messed up.”
He stared at her and she refused to meet his gaze. It started raining. Quite suddenly, she thought. Out on the river the sun was still shining through the rain, making everything warm and soft and hazy; like a watercolor.
“Just like a watercolor,” she said out loud.
“What’s that?” he asked.
And then,
something on the road.
Swirling, tires screeching, and she could hear herself screaming. And Bob Dylan was still playing. And they were spinning, spinning, around and around. God this is a long song, she thought crazily just before they hit something hard and glass broke and she was flying free through soft air.
Her dad sprawled out on it like a cat, and she nestled on the end of it, listening, just listening. She could never figure out exactly what he was singing about. But the song was slow and sad. And Dylan’s voice was low and soothing. And it was warm. And her dad was with her. And everything was good, and everything was certain.
Rain on her face; she wasn’t there. She was here, in the cool rain and dirty road. Lights flashing all around, blinking through the wetness. People’s voices talking loud and harsh. She didn’t want to be here. She wanted to be back, back on her couch with her father and Bob Dylan. Why did nobody come for her? Why did nobody try to save her?
And then he was standing over her, his voice etched out in the rain. She could see that he was bleeding, a wound to the forehead, and he was crying too, looking down at her. He was saying something to her she could not hear.
There’s nothing we can do about it now. We’ve messed up.
She didn’t want him to leave her. But eventually he did. Men in white coats took him away. Strange faces came and looked down on her, lifted her up and put her on a stretcher. She could hear again, quite suddenly: the rain on the asphalt, the sirens.
People talking.
“Gently now. Get her in the ambulance. She should be OK.”
“It was the couch that saved her, you know. She flew out over the dashboard and her head hit that instead of the road. It was a miracle really.”
“Funny how an old, beat-up couch could become to important.”
Funny.
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