The Driver's Ed Seven Second Rule

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.