not have to sweetly ask for a ride, or figure out a bus schedule, or just stay home. They get in their cars and go. And maybe they don’t appreciate it, even if they paid for their cars with hard work. After a while, they don’t think about the ease. But I did. By the time I rolled out of the airport’s exit, I might as well have been flying, loving every second of all that freedom and speed.
I was just coming down the entrance ramp of the turnpike when a raindrop froze on the windshield. I saw another, and then another. And then there were so many that the glaze caught the windshield wipers, stalling their rhythm. An SUV in the eastbound lane fishtailed for several seconds before the driver regained control. I glanced in the rearview mirror, at the stretch of interstate behind me. There was just farmland on either side, barren fields, a silo. I wasn’t even sure if there was a decision to make. It wasn’t as if I could turn around.
I turned off the CD player. I sat up straight. I could do this. My mother had driven Elise and me home from school in an ice storm once. She’d held the steering wheel with tight hands and told us not to make a sound as we slowly passed cars in ditches and cars that had spun into each other. She talked as she drove, her voice calm, her eyes never leaving the road. If you started to slide on ice, she said, you couldn’t just hit the brakes. Braking was the first instinct, but sometimes you had to override it. You had to just keep going, she said, and make yourself steer your way through.
The MINI Cooper, cute as it was, was hardly made for icy roads. But moving very slowly and going easy on the brake, I steered it through several miles of slick bridges and slippery turns. I passed a semitrailer jackknifed on the median, a van on its side in a ditch. I didn’t stop at either of them: from a very young age, Elise and I had both been captive audience to our father’s frightening stories about what could happen to a girl on the highway once she left the safety of her car. Don’t stop for anyone, he’d told us. He knew it sounded harsh, but there were people out there who would fake a wreck, fake an injury, just to get you to pull over, and once you so much as rolled down your window, they had you if they had a gun. I don’t care if it’s a man or a woman, he said. And anyone could dress like a nun, or look elderly. Ted Bundy had worn a cast. It was nice to help people, my father allowed. But on the road, you had to look out for yourself.
So I kept going. But after I passed the wrecks, I reached into my book bag to grope for my cell phone, thinking I would call the police. It wasn’t there. But I kept feeling for it, hoping, for at least another two miles. That’s what I was doing when I wrecked. It happened, as car accidents do, very quickly, and I doubt it would have mattered if I’d been driving with both hands. I pumped the brake, trying to steer, even as the car spun closer to the ditch and then slammed into it, front first. I went forward as glass shattered. My seat belt held. I fell back.
For several seconds, I didn’t move. I just sat there gripping the steering wheel, my foot pressed hard against the brake. The impact had dislodged the rearview mirror; it rested on the dashboard, tilted up at an angle where I could see my reflection, my wide eyes, my bared teeth. I took several deep breaths. I lifted my hands from the steering wheel, moved my fingers. I eased my foot off the brake and wiggled my toes. My neck and shoulder ached where the seat belt had yanked me back, but I wasn’t hurt in any serious way. I touched my head, smoothed back my hair.
I was okay. My hands were trembling. I was okay. It was not that serious. The air bags had not gone off. But I’d heard glass breaking. Something was broken. I tried not to think about Jimmy.
What to do. What to do. The engine was still running. I stepped carefully on the gas and heard a wild spitting sound, but there was no
I was just coming down the entrance ramp of the turnpike when a raindrop froze on the windshield. I saw another, and then another. And then there were so many that the glaze caught the windshield wipers, stalling their rhythm. An SUV in the eastbound lane fishtailed for several seconds before the driver regained control. I glanced in the rearview mirror, at the stretch of interstate behind me. There was just farmland on either side, barren fields, a silo. I wasn’t even sure if there was a decision to make. It wasn’t as if I could turn around.
I turned off the CD player. I sat up straight. I could do this. My mother had driven Elise and me home from school in an ice storm once. She’d held the steering wheel with tight hands and told us not to make a sound as we slowly passed cars in ditches and cars that had spun into each other. She talked as she drove, her voice calm, her eyes never leaving the road. If you started to slide on ice, she said, you couldn’t just hit the brakes. Braking was the first instinct, but sometimes you had to override it. You had to just keep going, she said, and make yourself steer your way through.
The MINI Cooper, cute as it was, was hardly made for icy roads. But moving very slowly and going easy on the brake, I steered it through several miles of slick bridges and slippery turns. I passed a semitrailer jackknifed on the median, a van on its side in a ditch. I didn’t stop at either of them: from a very young age, Elise and I had both been captive audience to our father’s frightening stories about what could happen to a girl on the highway once she left the safety of her car. Don’t stop for anyone, he’d told us. He knew it sounded harsh, but there were people out there who would fake a wreck, fake an injury, just to get you to pull over, and once you so much as rolled down your window, they had you if they had a gun. I don’t care if it’s a man or a woman, he said. And anyone could dress like a nun, or look elderly. Ted Bundy had worn a cast. It was nice to help people, my father allowed. But on the road, you had to look out for yourself.
So I kept going. But after I passed the wrecks, I reached into my book bag to grope for my cell phone, thinking I would call the police. It wasn’t there. But I kept feeling for it, hoping, for at least another two miles. That’s what I was doing when I wrecked. It happened, as car accidents do, very quickly, and I doubt it would have mattered if I’d been driving with both hands. I pumped the brake, trying to steer, even as the car spun closer to the ditch and then slammed into it, front first. I went forward as glass shattered. My seat belt held. I fell back.
For several seconds, I didn’t move. I just sat there gripping the steering wheel, my foot pressed hard against the brake. The impact had dislodged the rearview mirror; it rested on the dashboard, tilted up at an angle where I could see my reflection, my wide eyes, my bared teeth. I took several deep breaths. I lifted my hands from the steering wheel, moved my fingers. I eased my foot off the brake and wiggled my toes. My neck and shoulder ached where the seat belt had yanked me back, but I wasn’t hurt in any serious way. I touched my head, smoothed back my hair.
I was okay. My hands were trembling. I was okay. It was not that serious. The air bags had not gone off. But I’d heard glass breaking. Something was broken. I tried not to think about Jimmy.
What to do. What to do. The engine was still running. I stepped carefully on the gas and heard a wild spitting sound, but there was no
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