The Long Haul

By William Tellot

Just as veteran truck driver Brandon Stevenson finds his life and marriage at a low point, he barely survives an accident in his eighteen-wheeler, skidding across a mountain slope on its side. Barely alive, he feels anything but lucky. His journey through the phases of his recovery gives him the opportunity to rebuild the broken pieces of his life.

Highlighting the best and worst of human emotions during a crisis, Brandon comes to realize that if he is going to have any chance to fully rehabilitate his body and his marriage, he will need to be in it for the long haul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Oct 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466960428

William Tellot

Having been a truck driver for the last fifteen years, I was in an accident involving a truck, which I was very fortunate to survive. Many of my own life experiences, on and off the highways, compelled me to tell this story of triumph of the human spirit. Some people say that a truck driver cannot obtain his commercial driver’s license unless he has an ex-wife. The exaggeration pokes fun at how hard it is to maintain a family life while you spend three days a month at home. Therefore, when a truck driver’s marriage gets strained, it can be a nearly insurmountable task to work it out. I grew up near the Rocky Mountain range and have traveled from Cheyenne, Wyoming, to San Francisco nearly a thousand times. Now, I make my home in the much more humid climate of Louisiana, continuing to do what I love. Drive.

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Prologue

November 2, 5:35 a.m.

The noise in the cab was deafening as his big rig skidded to a stop, clinging to the mountain side in a crumpled mess on its left side. He had left the road behind, but how far he could not tell. As the truck brooded on the frost-covered mountain, the engine sputtered and eventually stopped. The sound of air hissing through tattered air lines sounded like it was trying to shush the world around it. Dazed, with his head pounding, Brandon covered his ears trying to get the ringing to stop. His left hand felt warm, wet hair, and he wondered how bad the situation was. His right arm felt like it was on fire.

Partially suspended by his seatbelt, he dangled strangely situated from his chair. It took a few minutes of fumbling with the latch of his seatbelt before his hands were finally able to free himself from his constraints. His full weight dropped to what remained of the driver-side door that had been his only protective barrier as he slid down the mountain. Dirt mixed with twigs and rocks had made their way in through the obliterated structure.

In a slumped position, Brandon grappled for purchase of the steering wheel to assist in standing. The wheel rotated, making him slip before he could gain any ground. He grabbed the lowest point, he grunted as he pushed up with his right leg and pulled with his left arm. Progress was slow and encumbered. He shifted his weight to get upright, and felt a sharp pain in his left leg. As if from a distance, he heard the loud scream amid the ringing, as the pain was almost too much to bear. Through the kaleidoscope of a windshield, he could see the awkward stream of light coming from his headlights staring lazily over the mountainside, coming to an abrupt end two hundred feet away.

The snow was just starting to fall on the western slope of the Sierra Nevada range near Emigrant Gap, California. The frigid air just outside the truck lingered in the early morning haze. Steam rose from the cooling engine as it lay dormant under the hood.

The freshly disturbed earth beneath the truck, not yet frozen, gave way under the massive weight as the overturned rig plowed over the rocks and young trees. Littered behind the halted rig was a trail of frozen meat leading back toward the highway.

Fighting the wave of nausea that accompanied every move he made, Brandon knew that time was against him now more than ever. His concussed logic could still reason that the longer he stayed up here, the more likely it was he would die. He found his mobile phone in the dashboard holder where he left it, the large screen shattered, smashed by his twenty-six inch TV/DVD Combo that had broken loose during the crash from its harnessed perch in the sleeper section. Everything in the truck was disheveled and chaotic. He knew he needed to get out of the truck. He tried to make an assessment of what injuries he had sustained; however, a numbness started to dull his entire body except the throbbing in his head.

Shakily, he stood to reach for the passenger door above his head. Raising his hands above his head sent another wave of nausea flowing through him. Vomit sprayed across the shattered windshield. Trembling, he managed to fumble with the window handle, lowering it slowly in a staccato rhythm, painfully. Laughing to himself, he thought of all the times he cursed not having power windows. Glad that he had his way out, the manual windows were truly a blessing in disguise.

With the window down, he recoiled as the cold air bit at him, nearly losing his foothold and crashing back to the bottom again. He was losing energy very quickly, and knew he had to move as fast as he could. As he pulled himself out, his warm rising breath threatened to blur his vision. Weary from the strain, the pounding in his head and his beating heart were in accord. Get out, he urged himself, despite the fatigue. He had to turn to the side to lay on the door, using the mirror bracket as leverage to get his legs through the window. The easiest way down, he decided, would be over the side of the hood, toward the front. Sluggishly and awkwardly, he positioned himself on his chest and stomach and began to move. Sliding down cautiously, he reached the front and grabbed hold of the mirror bracket attached to the side of the hood. The side of the hood sagged beneath his weight. Still hot from the engine, the hood of his rig felt so good, contrasting the night air. He wanted to stop right there.

He vomited again, turning his head instinctively so it projected sideways. All his teeth felt loose in their sockets. The violent convulsions made his battered body almost numb as he vomited again. He saw starlets of light in his limited vision as he struggled to remain conscious.

The warmth wrapped him like a heated blanket. His heart sank as he realized that he had left his jacket somewhere in the truck. With the entire contents of the truck disheveled, where it was now was anybody’s guess.

Looking back, he saw the broad streak of blood that marked his path down the side of the truck. He wondered how long the path would get. He peered over the edge of the hood, seeing a mound of dirt pushed halfway up the grill making a slope. He half crept, half dragged himself to the edge and eased over until he could sit on the fresh mound of dirt and rest his back against the grill, still warm from the escaping steam. How long it could keep him warm, he did not know. Not long.

No coat, no cell phone. Despair crept in.

Chapter 1

October 29 5:30 p.m.

The dank air swept across his face through the open window as he drove home from work that evening. Southeastern Wyoming’s weather patterns throughout October could keep the most seasoned citizen guessing. Now late in the season, it grew dark by six o’clock. When the sun sets on a desert winter, the temperature drops quickly. Made worse by the near-constant Wyoming wind, many harsh winters started with little regard to the calendar.

Pulling into the driveway, he noticed the empty space above the small tear-shaped oil stain where Maggie used to park her car. She moved out six months earlier saying she needed time to figure things out for a while. Every time he saw that spot, it made him miss her terribly.

With nightfall quickly approaching, Brandon hurried to gather his things from the cab of his pickup truck. A duffle bag filled with clothes hung by a strap over his right shoulder while he carried his laptop carrying case in his left hand.

The wind was starting to pick up, gusting hard. It’s going to get cold tonight, he told himself as he pulled his leather jacket tighter around him as he made his way toward the front door. The sun was barely peaking over the Rocky Mountains to the west, setting a wild fire of orange and crimson across the sky as the clouds were gathering close. Weary from the road, and eager to sleep in his own bed tonight, he traversed the steps, leaning toward the door. With a twist of his wrist, the door mocked him silently. Locked. He was still accustomed to Maggie being home despite her prolonged absence. She had a knack for timing his arrival, as dinner had never been long in coming once he got home. Setting down his bag, he plucked his keys from his front pocket, fitted a key into the lock and entered.

Brandon Stevenson, in his mid-thirties, had medium length, light-brown hair, keen blue eyes, and a smile that exuded mischief at any given time. At over six feet tall, he had broad shoulders and toned muscles through his arms shoulders and back. A slight bulge covered his abdomen, giving evidence to the long hours he sat behind the wheel and an excellent cook as a wife. A truck driver for the last eight years, he would be gone for days, and sometimes weeks at a time, working. He always seemed to be in the best mood when he was driving. Shifting through his 15-speed transmission, hearing the growl of the Caterpillar 550 horsepower engine, and the hum of the tires churning through the miles gave him a sense of calm. It relaxed him.

He was tired now. He had been gone twenty-four days, and was looking forward to a few days off. Grabbing the strap of his bag, he dragged it across the threshold and into the laundry room where he abandoned it. He just wanted to eat, and go to bed. The mundane chore of laundry would have to wait till tomorrow.

Setting his carrying case propped up on the couch, he made his way to the refrigerator. Truck stop restaurants were never a good substitute to home cooking. He opened the fridge and knew he was home. On the top shelf, beckoning to him, seducing him, was a six-pack of longneck Coors. Come to papa, he thought, and grabbed two bottles. In the freezer, he located the black angus beef patties and grabbed two of them as well. Setting the patties on a plate covered with aluminum foil, he set out an onion, tomato and some lettuce. Zipping up his jacket, he grabbed the hamburger patties and headed toward the back door.

It was past barbecue season, but he kept his gas grill out on the back porch year round for just this reason. He pulled off the cover, turned on the gas, and ignited the flames. Minutes later, the burgers were cooked and juicy. He discarded the foil into the garbage, and took the plate of burgers inside. Chow time.

He reached for a beer, popped the top off, and took a swig then went to assembling his burgers. He had devoured the first one and nearly all of the first beer before he realized he was standing over the sink. God, I am tired, he said aloud, laughing at himself, and sat at the kitchen table. Once he finished eating, he set his plate in the sink and put everything else away. He never opened his second beer. Thoughts danced around his mind as he walked down the hall. He paused at the bedroom door, taking a deep breath before entering.

Brandon stripped off his clothes, and patted his stomach before he stretched out feeling freed from the trucks confined space. He looked toward the bathroom door as he thought about taking a shower. Deciding that a hot shower would do more to wake him up tomorrow than help him sleep tonight, he crawled into bed. He could hear the wind continue its rage against the calm of the night. Off on the horizon, menacing clouds plotted their assault on the clear starlit sky. Exhausted, he closed his eyes waiting for sleep to take over. His mind began to clear, and he knew that his dreams would come for him soon. Lately, it had been the same dream almost every night. He dreamed of her. The woman of his dreams was, quite literally, the woman in his dreams. Tonight would be the same.

Clouds and dreams swept in. As it turns out, they are not that different.

Chapter 2

Six months earlier

So you’re saying it’s over? Brandon’s voice sounded more like he was accusing her than asking.

Please listen, Bran, she protested. Maggie Stevenson was near tears as she spoke. Married for seven years, they had shared many moments of tears. Some of joy, some of sorrow. I’m not saying it is, and I’m not saying it isn’t. I am saying that I need some time.

There it was again. She needs some time. She should have all she needs. I’m gone for a month or longer, and she needs time. I just don’t understand why you need to leave to have your time, Brandon sighed, knowing he was about to lose the argument. With every passing moment, he realized more and more that her mind was made up, regardless whether or not he understood.

Maggie could see a resigned look about him and took pity on him. Look, she whispered, reaching her hand out to him, I care about you. You know that, right? I just need to be sure that I am comfortable with where we are heading as a couple; as a fam—

He didn’t need to hear any more. They had been through this before, and he knew even if he needed to hear the words, she couldn’t speak them. Two years before—God! Was it that long ago already—they had been expecting a child, a daughter. Maggie glowed like no expectant mother ever had. She poured her soul into the pregnancy, having mommy-daughter heart-to-heart talks when she was only nine weeks along. Her doctor and friends, even her own mother, told her not to get her hopes up, because it was too early to be sure it was a girl. She would just laugh as though they tried to tell her the sky was orange. She just knew.

Brandon took her outstretched hand, pulled her into his arms and whispered, I know. I know. He did. She was lost, and needed something to hold onto to find her way home. The one thing she held onto, she held with both hands, her whole existence, and when it was lost, she too was lost. She lost her compass, her direction, her soul. Her baby girl.

She sobbed quietly into his chest. Tears welled up and fell. Her hazel eyes betrayed her makeup, making his shirt a mess of moisture and mascara. Her weakness was showing through when she needed to be strong. But still she sobbed, silently, until she was confident she could pull away without showing the pain she still felt.

Finally, wiping the remaining tears from her eyes, she let go of her embrace, looked up at Brandon, and whispered, I need to do this for me.

What can I do to help? he asked. Knowing there was not much he could do to help as he had already eyed her suitcases stacked in the living room, he figured the answer would be nothing.

Don’t give up on me just yet, came her soft reply. I just need things to be different for a while.

He nodded. A knot was swelling in the back of his throat so fast he felt that was his best reply he could make. Sure, finally broke free from his throat past his lips, You bet. I’ll get your bags when you’re ready.

Th—, she cleared her throat. Thanks, Bran. For understanding. I’m ready. Knotted throats seemed to be contagious today. She gave him a weary smile, and picked up her tote bag and her purse and headed toward the door.

As he finished loading the trunk of her Chevrolet Malibu, she was turning on the ignition. He closed the trunk firmly, and walked up to the driver’s door. I know you need time. I can do that for you. I’ll call you in a few weeks, three sound good? Or, is that too soon?

This can’t be fixed in a matter of a few weeks! she exclaimed a bit impatiently.

I know. It’s just to make sure you’re okay. Otherwise, I’ll just worry. If you want, you can call me earlier, but I’ll give you the space you need.

Okay, she relented. She had anticipated his reaction, even planned for it. And you be careful out there.

I always am, came his automatic, yet sincere reply. Brandon watched the car pull away from the house, and watched his dreams get further and further away. He went back into the house, and picked up the phone. Pressing the numbers without really thinking about it, he dialed a number from memory.

Dispatch, this is Mike. His voice always sounded like he was using a bullhorn on the other end.

Hey, Mike, You still haven’t been fired? Brandon chided his boss. I figured they’d find someone who knew how to use a computer by now.

Brandon? When you learn how to drive, maybe I’ll learn how to use a computer. So, I’ve got time, he retorted with a laugh. Whatcha want? Calling to beg for a few more days off?

Just the opposite, Brandon said more matter-of-factly than he felt. I don’t need these other two days… would rather some cash. Got anything leaving out today or tomorrow you need to have covered?

There’s always something that needs to be there yesterday. Which one you want? Wanna go East or West? boomed from the earpiece. Mike was all business now.

Doesn’t matter. Whichever you need delivered sooner.

Roger that,