cars towed away.”
“Perhaps they need them for spares,” his father mumbled from behind the wheel.
His objections were meek, drained of strength, Alvar thought. Nor did his parents seem aware that he was present in the car. They were in an adult world of their own, and if he wanted to snap them out of that, he would have to ask a question. He did not do that—he was a polite child—but sat very still watching everything they drove past.
After they had been driving for a while they spotted something ahead of them on the road. Alvar sat bolt upright and craned his neck, trying to get a good look. It was a car crash. It must have just happened, as there were neither police nor ambulances in attendance. One car was lying off the road on its roof, another was crushed and had ended up diagonally across the road. His father slammed on the brakes. The Anglia swerved to the right and came to a halt. People were standing around the wrecked cars, screaming. One man had blood pouring from his forehead, another was still in his car, slumped across the wheel. A woman spotted them and came staggering toward them, blood gushing from her head.
Then something happened that Alvar found utterly incomprehensible. His mother started screaming.
“No, no!” she cried. “We’re not going to stop! I’m sure they’ve already called an ambulance, there’s nothing we can do, Emmauel, drive on. Drive on right now!”
Her voice was so panicky that Alvar’s heart froze. All three of them remained in the car staring, horrified, at the injured people and the damaged vehicles. The woman with the head wound was approaching the Anglia, and Alvar could hear her pleading voice. He curled up on his seat in a fetal position. Again his mother screamed that they should drive on; she was banging the dashboard with one hand. He had never seen her so frenzied. His father clung to the steering wheel, struggling with his conscience, torn between the urge to help and the strong woman in the passenger seat who had such power over him. Alvar was now pressing his face against the rear window, staring at the injured woman. She stared frantically back at him and stretched out her white hands as if trying to get a hold of him.
“Drive on, Emmauel, now!” his mother screamed again.
“B-but,” his father stuttered, “they’re badly hurt!”
She spun around in her seat. “So you’re a doctor now, are you? Do you know anything about what to do in an emergency situation? No? Now drive! The ambulance is on its way, I’m sure I can hear it coming! I want you to drive now.”
His father put the car in gear; Alvar held his breath. The woman had now reached their car, still staring at Alvar with pale, frightened eyes, blood pouring down her cheeks. Alvar stared back, horrified because his parents were running away from it all, and he felt a sudden pang in his chest as if a cord had been severed. The magnitude of their betrayal nearly knocked him unconscious. He buried his face in his hands and huddled in a corner, feeling a shame so great that his entire body burned with it. The woman had seen him. He knew he would never forget her eyes and her white outstretched hands, hands he never got to take. His father pushed the accelerator and changed into second gear. The car leapt forward.
“Someone else will deal with this,” his mother shouted. “It’s not our problem!”
“But,” his father said in his meek voice, “running away like this—”
“We’re not running away,” his mother interrupted. “We realize that there’s nothing we can do. Do you know how to do chest compressions, can you stop bleeding? No, you can’t, and neither can I.”
“All the same,” his father implored, hunched over the wheel, “perhaps we could have helped them in some other way.”
“And what way would that be? Can you do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation? No, you can’t. And we don’t even have a first-aid kit in the car, not as much as a single bandage. So how
“Perhaps they need them for spares,” his father mumbled from behind the wheel.
His objections were meek, drained of strength, Alvar thought. Nor did his parents seem aware that he was present in the car. They were in an adult world of their own, and if he wanted to snap them out of that, he would have to ask a question. He did not do that—he was a polite child—but sat very still watching everything they drove past.
After they had been driving for a while they spotted something ahead of them on the road. Alvar sat bolt upright and craned his neck, trying to get a good look. It was a car crash. It must have just happened, as there were neither police nor ambulances in attendance. One car was lying off the road on its roof, another was crushed and had ended up diagonally across the road. His father slammed on the brakes. The Anglia swerved to the right and came to a halt. People were standing around the wrecked cars, screaming. One man had blood pouring from his forehead, another was still in his car, slumped across the wheel. A woman spotted them and came staggering toward them, blood gushing from her head.
Then something happened that Alvar found utterly incomprehensible. His mother started screaming.
“No, no!” she cried. “We’re not going to stop! I’m sure they’ve already called an ambulance, there’s nothing we can do, Emmauel, drive on. Drive on right now!”
Her voice was so panicky that Alvar’s heart froze. All three of them remained in the car staring, horrified, at the injured people and the damaged vehicles. The woman with the head wound was approaching the Anglia, and Alvar could hear her pleading voice. He curled up on his seat in a fetal position. Again his mother screamed that they should drive on; she was banging the dashboard with one hand. He had never seen her so frenzied. His father clung to the steering wheel, struggling with his conscience, torn between the urge to help and the strong woman in the passenger seat who had such power over him. Alvar was now pressing his face against the rear window, staring at the injured woman. She stared frantically back at him and stretched out her white hands as if trying to get a hold of him.
“Drive on, Emmauel, now!” his mother screamed again.
“B-but,” his father stuttered, “they’re badly hurt!”
She spun around in her seat. “So you’re a doctor now, are you? Do you know anything about what to do in an emergency situation? No? Now drive! The ambulance is on its way, I’m sure I can hear it coming! I want you to drive now.”
His father put the car in gear; Alvar held his breath. The woman had now reached their car, still staring at Alvar with pale, frightened eyes, blood pouring down her cheeks. Alvar stared back, horrified because his parents were running away from it all, and he felt a sudden pang in his chest as if a cord had been severed. The magnitude of their betrayal nearly knocked him unconscious. He buried his face in his hands and huddled in a corner, feeling a shame so great that his entire body burned with it. The woman had seen him. He knew he would never forget her eyes and her white outstretched hands, hands he never got to take. His father pushed the accelerator and changed into second gear. The car leapt forward.
“Someone else will deal with this,” his mother shouted. “It’s not our problem!”
“But,” his father said in his meek voice, “running away like this—”
“We’re not running away,” his mother interrupted. “We realize that there’s nothing we can do. Do you know how to do chest compressions, can you stop bleeding? No, you can’t, and neither can I.”
“All the same,” his father implored, hunched over the wheel, “perhaps we could have helped them in some other way.”
“And what way would that be? Can you do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation? No, you can’t. And we don’t even have a first-aid kit in the car, not as much as a single bandage. So how
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