Meredith Stone
The Driver’s
Ed Seven Seconds Rule
I remember
hearing sirens. Shrieking with urgency, I was alone with my thoughts emerged in
darkness trying to remember the whirls
of white amongst both sides of me, racing past as we kissed Grandma’s warm rosy
cheeks goodbye that morning. I was alarmingly calm, breathing deeply as the
sirens shifted from their obnoxious tri-tones to a harmonious melody drifting
quietly away. I fell further into the darkness as I heard him say, “But it’s my
turn to ride shot gun…but it’s my turn to ride shot gun… but it’s my turn…”
My mother’s
tense words attempt to console me for her touch was helpless. I couldn’t feel
her arms embrace me, her hand grasping mine, her warmth against my skin. My eyes
were wide open and engaged but I couldn’t see anything. The darkness, too
welcoming to push through, too caught off guard to react; I remained content in
this unknown.
I wake bound
in a stale room, filled with blinding whites, plastic trays, and metal objects.
Curious, I look to the left of my bed, gently lift my hand and run my finger
tips across the tray next to where I lay. I pull it towards me. Indents of circles,
a straw, and a paper cup adorn the surface as I discover a new lever to
evaluate under the tray. With a little resistance, I tug and a white arm pops
out with the shiny object of them all on the end. I gaze into the mirror,
taking in this foreign girl that stares back. I don’t say a word. No gasp, no
screaming, no tears, no burning questions. I am distracted by the sensation of
someone’s eyes watching me as I am startled, flip my head to the right but am
instantly settled when her eyes meet mine. I hadn’t noticed my mother dozing
off in the recliner beside me, worrying and wondering when her little eight-year-old
daughter would wake up.
And I did. I
left the warm darkness and returned to my family’s winter wonderland disaster. I
returned to my hospital bed with a teddy bear in each arm, flowers on the
window sill, and the warm touch of my mom’s freckled hand stroking the hair off
my forehead and tucking it behind my ear. I created the film loop of my father
pulling me out of the front seat, splattered in my blood, holding my head together
as their world erupted in chaotic what-ifs and mine became still in darkness. I
grew up in that moment, silently contemplative before speaking, before
screaming at the mirror wondering who did this to me, before tears stream down
my face at the hideous caterpillar stitched onto my face. Instead I think;
leaving my emotions at the way side as my boisterous older brother paces the
hall, muttering “I was the one who let her ride shot gun… I shouldn’t have let
her…”
I feel a tap
on my shoulder as I turn around in my desk to face a big-eyed rebellious brunette
who sits behind me. We’re juniors in high school and our English teacher Mr.
Hill hasn’t begun class yet.
“I think you
still have a pillow crease imprint on your forehead!” she giggles pointing at
my scar. I calmly cringe, suffocating my real emotions as I think, mull over,
analyze before speaking, before screaming, before slapping her naïve smile off
her face.
I let the
silence hang in the air as I swivel back around. Even without the darkness, I
am at peace with my thoughts, just thankful to just be alive.
