After the crash

When the Police knocked on my door to tell me someone I loved had died it was exactly like in the movies. I could see the officer’s mouth moving but by the time his words reached my ears they’d become an inaudible warble.

I dropped to the ground and time stopped. Everything outside my head was white noise. By the time the blare in my head quieted, I was on my knees; in my lounge hugging myself, trying to hide in the couch folds so I could disappear.

“Miss?

“We need you to come to the morgue and identify the body.”

On Sunday, March 13, 2011 my biggest fear came true.

At 25 I’d say I had pretty thick skin. I’d pushed out a baby and helped my mother get through breast cancer. I had a good tolerance for hospitals. I wasn’t scared when they told me there’d been a crash, but at the time I knew that it would break me.

His wallet and wedding rings were at the bottom of the bag along with his clothes; one of the gold sleeper-earrings he always wore, still covered in blood.

Robin was my first love. The father of my child. We were separated at the time because our marriage was not going well – we’d been together since I was 17. Before he died I hadn’t spoken to him in two weeks.

“That’s him.” I told the officer when I walked into the large, dimly lit room. Robin was laid out on a stretcher, the fluorescent lights highlighted every scratch and twisted bone. He was alone in the refrigerated room, body broken, staring at the ceiling above him. Between us was a glass window. I could only stare.

He was a tall man. Six-foot something, skinny with a strong but elegant frame. Once the officer got the information he needed he left to fill out paper work or whatever it is they do next. I had a friend with me, Erena, the only one I knew who would be strong enough to handle coming with me.

“There he is,” I said to her.

“Yup,” was all she could reply.

Robin had been kind. He had a warmth and energy people were drawn to. The night before, I had heard he was on one. Loving life. Telling his mates he’d sussed his shit out. He was going to take me and Xzavier to Australia and work in the mines with his friends. Things were going to get better for our family.

Now, his eyes were frozen. As someone who knew him well, I could see that his stare was locked into the moment he realised that this was it; they were lifeless, but not cold. His lips were ripped. I remember that.

His left arm was twisted out of place and tucked under the thin white sheet. He used to pick me up and carry me around the house in better times, but not anymore – that was one of the first things I realised I was going to have to let go.

We'd watched so many movies like this together. Now we were starring in our own.

A brown paper bag containing Robin’s clothes and belongings were brought to me. Inside were his shoes, still littered with smashed glass. His wallet and wedding rings were at the bottom of the bag along with his clothes; one of the gold sleeper-earrings he always wore, still covered in blood.

The next person I called was our good friend Kupa. I'll never forget the way he dropped to his knees at the sight of Rob's body. During our separation, Kupa and I had worried about Rob and the decisions he was making. Although Rob and I were separated there was no doubt we’d always come back together and try to make it work.

The boys Robin had been out with the night before couldn’t come inside the morgue. They waited outside, on hand to get me anything I needed. It took a lot of grace and role playing as Robin’s wife not to blame them. Not to ask them if they were “happy now?” All the times I’d spent being the annoying, angry ‘Mrs’, so much so it became a joke. Some how I managed it.

Robin had planned to be the sober driver the night before, but clearly the night ran a different course. He had work the next day and was on the way there when he died. Instead of spending that Sunday hungover and blobby, his friends were about to sober up to a lot more than just the liquor in their system.

In the days after the accident it was hard to read about myself in the news as an ‘estranged’ partner. With a 5-year-old son at the time, grief at that level leaves you with an easy decision to make. Stand up and carry on, or let this break me? Yes or no?

I chose no and went into stealth mode. With no job at the time, I took the $30 out of Robin’s wallet and put it into my pocket. One of the boys, I can’t even remember who, drove me to my sister’s house, Jena opened her door and saw the look on my face, all she said was “What happened?”

 “He’s gone,” I said. By that time I had run out of tears or energy for anything, like a deer in headlights I sat down on her floor. She took the phone off me, rang Robin’s mum and told her to sit down.

I don’t remember the next part. We stayed at Jena’s house for the next three days. My friends and family flew in from out of town. My mother came to Lyall Bay from Kapiti. Rob’s mother flew home, his older brother had to return from Auckland with his family. There was a funeral to organise. ACC papers to fill out. Police enquiries to assist with and a coffin to choose.

For the year ending 31 December 2011, 77 crashes occurred in New Zealand with alcohol involved, 85 people died as a result, 1901 injuries were caused.

Robin was in that statistics. After he died his friends all calmed down and got sensible, there hasn’t been another loss in our crew since. His boys all went back to their homes and families. I was left picking up the pieces of what I had left.

The technical explanation for Robin’s death was that his neck snapped when the car hit a post on the side of the road. “Fatal injuries to the head and thorax.” He’d been on his way to his weekend job waiting tables, after having a nap on his mate’s couch. He died at about 7am. He wouldn’t have seen it, but after he hit the stump, his red Toyota MR2 dropped 10 metres off the side of the road and down into the sea. It was low tide that day, so it landed on the rocks. Horn blaring.

One thing I found out in this process is that after you die, if you have alcohol in your system, your blood- alcohol level rises a bit. The coroner recorded Robin’s blood-alcohol level to be 127mg. The legal limit is 80mg.

There had been many times I’d got into the car with Robin after a night in town. Times when we’d both been so tired, whether it was coming back from the clubs, work or Auckland, we’d just thought “fuck it, we’ll just go home”.

“Rob’s the man, it’s all good”. I heard that so often even I started to ignore common sense on the issue.

It’s a decision people face every Saturday. With money tight and often living in the suburbs, taxis were rarely in our cost/benefit analysis before getting behind the wheel.

That Saturday night was just another night out with the boys and Robin’s friends would always trust him to take them home. “Rob’s the man, it’s all good”. I heard that so often even I started to ignore common sense on the issue.

The stretch of road around where Robin crashed was a hot spot for boy racers and there had been campaigns to have the speed limit reduced at the time. For the local news media our car, post-crash, was a good example to make of.

The coroner put the cause of accident down to a potential mix of alcohol and lack of sleep. The media found people to support the notion Rob was speeding. I did have a wary feeling signing papers to a modified MR2, but never this.

When we went to lay flowers down at the crash site a fisherman who’d been the one to pull Robin out of his car before the ambulance came had been waiting for us. He wanted to meet this boy’s family. I was in a state but the man, whose name I also don’t remember, made sure he held me by my shoulders to say, “Look I was fishing just over there”, he pointed to a wharf that Robin would have passed on the way.

“I want you to know he wasn’t speeding.

“I’ll never forget the sound of that horn,” the man kept telling my mum because I had stopped listening.

“I went to pull him out of that car, but the sound of that horn will haunt me forever,” he said.