There's a whole host of "seemingly closest encounters to dying" stories I could list off for you - times when I should have died, but I didn't. Times that were what made me believe in the first place that I was invincible.
I've nearly drowned, and run into burning houses. I've stared down the barrel of a gun, heard the shot, and felt the bullet pierce my skin, so close to my heart that it baffled the doctors that examined me. I've had the living shit kicked out of me, been bruised beyond recognition, broken my limbs, my nose, even my jaw once. But I've lived through it all.
And most of the time, with barely any damage done. Like my body resists being broken.
Claire, however, didn't know that the first time she witnessed me live through something that should have killed me.
We were in Boston for the day, going to see the Red Sox play the Yankees. She was a Red Sox fan, I a Yankees fan, and if you know anything about baseball, you know that is a lethal combination. We were arguing the entire ride from our home to the city about the teams.
"They only win because of the pin stripes!" she shouted, "They're talentless!"
"They have pennants to prove that theory wrong. When was the last time your team won, huh?" I teased.
"Oohhh," Claire's face was red. "Someday, they're gonna win again."
"Someday pigs will fly, too, beautiful."
I'd just gotten my license two weeks before. It was the first time I'd gotten to drive the car alone with Claire. Dennis' keys jingled in the ignition at my knee. The radio was on and the Beatles were singing.
"You're such a jerk!" she cried, laughing, eyes fiery, "Such a jerk!"
"But you love me," I reminded her.
"I do love you," she admitted, her eyes softening just a bit.
"And I, you, my Love," I said, smiling at her in a carefree way.
She slapped my upper arm, "Don't change the subject! I'm mad at you."
I kissed her for an infinitesimal second. But in that second, that briefest moment when I went from keeping my eyes on the road to deciding to kiss her, something changed.
020:157:18:11:03
020:157:18:11:02
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000:000:01:03:13
I whipped around to face the front, but too late.
In the instant that I had looked away, the unthinkable had happened.
An 18-wheeler coming from the opposite direction had crossed into our lane, and was feet from us.
The force of the crash was intense.
The sound of metal grinding and snapping and bending nearly deafened me.
Instinct alone made me do it.
I threw myself, hurtled across the seat, pushing my own body between the dashboard and Claire. Her scream echoed in my ear, loud and terrible.
My hand took hold of the door of the car and shoved it opened, and Claire shot out from inside, toward the grassy banking that ran alongside the two-lane highway.
The truck's force shoved the car away before I saw her land, but through the haze that was caused by the pain as the car beginning to fold around me, I was sure I saw the numbers changing, growing, as she fell, dreamlike, through the air.
"Claire," I yelled the name, not my safety but hers my greatest desire.
The dashboard slammed into my back, the seats into my front, my face pressed against the frame of the door. I felt myself tearing. The heat of blood seemed to cover me like a thick sweat.
I was only vaguely aware when the force of the accident stopped from making the car move. The horn of the truck was stuck, blaring loudly. The sound reminded me of a migraine. Certainly, this is dying? I thought. I heard sirens, as though they were in a distant dream, maybe even somebody else's dream. I could hear screaming, sobbing. Rugged voices. Breaking glass, cracking metal. Everything was a blur.
I heard the voices, as though they were miles away.
"There is no way this kid's going to live."
"We need to know that before we give up. Get in there."
Something shifted above me, pulling me with it. Pain seared all throughout me.
"Did you see the blood?"
"There's a lot of it."
"There's too much of it."
"I'm not giving up on him yet. He's still breathing."
"You're wasting your time."
My mouth was slow opening, but I forced it. "Claire," I barely breathed the name.
"God damn it, I'm not wasting my time! We were called here to save lives, not to abandon them."
“The jaws are ready at our signal.” "Even if you get him out of this, he's lost too much blood!"
"Claire," I whispered it.
"So we'll give him blood!" Rough hands grasped my wrists, pulling me. “Flag them to go.”
More crashing metal. I felt as though my back were being torn apart from my body, but somewhere in the back of my mind I knew, in some abstract way, that it was the dashboard being pulled back.
"Claire," I pleaded, my voice growing in strength.
"Is that--" the doubting voice asked.
"Son? Can you hear me son?"
"Where's...Claire?"
“Holy shit.”
"The girl," whispered the doubter, as the other answered me, "She's okay, son. She was thrown from the vehicle on impact, she suffered very minimal injury."
All I could see was the door frame and the cement below, stained red with blood. Even that was intensely blurry. "She's... Claire… is alive?"
“Yes, son. She’s gonna be okay.”
Relief washed over me… and with it, came darkness.


I woke up in the hospital.
The stink of hospitals – something that is borne in the very air inside them – makes my skin crawl. I’ve always detested hospitals. There is too much to see, too much to know, too little I can do there. It makes me feel helpless and hopeless and lonely.
But today, I was the one in the bed.
Claire’s head was heavy by my side where she’d rested it. She was seated in a chair, her arms folded to cushion her head. Her hair stood out starkly against the room – a bright, scarlet red against a backdrop of ivory and pale olive.
Every part of my body was sore. I could flex my fingers and my toes, though, which could only mean good things. Carefully, I laid my hand on Claire’s head and felt the softness of the hair in between my fingers.
She stirred, and her eyes shifted to look up at me. She smiled serenely. “Nick,” she mused, “You’re awake.”
“Yeah,” I breathed, still running my fingers through her hair.
Claire pulled herself up, away from my hand, and stared at me, her eyes searching me. “Nick,” she said, her voice soft and gentle, “We- We need to talk.”
“Talk?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I frowned with discomfort at the choice of words. “What’s wrong?” I asked, my voice trembled.
“You should’ve died,” she whispered, “We both should’ve died.”
“Don’t talk like that,” I said.
Claire shook her head, “Nick, we were hit full-force by an 18-wheeler. You pushed me out of the car. That car folded like a card house. It folded around you. You looked like you were in a knot of metal. I didn’t even get a scratch, and other than losing blood all you got was a bunch of bruising.”
I looked into her eyes. “We were very, very lucky,” I said.
Claire shook her head. “No, we were not very, very lucky.”
“Yeah,” I insisted, “If we weren’t lucky then you’re right, we would’ve died.”
She shook her head again. “Nick, I’ve said it before, but I’m going to say it again. You’re like Superman or something. There’s something about you Nick, and you know it, and I want to know what it is.”
“Claire, I—“
“Nick,” she said solemnly. She took my hand in hers, “Tell me the truth.”
I sighed.
And then I told her everything.
Except for one thing.
I kept to myself what would happen on January 28, 1975.