The light turns green.
A white car, make and model unknown, makes violent contact with the side of my little red sedan, going at least 40 miles per hour.
The crunch can be heard at least ten yards away. The force is enough to turn me back into oncoming traffic Out of the corner of my eye, I see the airbags on my fiancee's side deploy. I think I scream before the cars actually make contact, but later all I will remember is that even as I sobbed hysterically, I could tell Ella our exact location, so she could relay this information to the 911 operator.
In the seconds following the collision my thoughts are, as follows:
1) Am I alive? (Yes.)
2) Is Ella okay? (Yes, she is.)
3) How can I tell my mom, she's home alone and can't come to me, she will absolutely die.
The next half-hour of my life is the worst. Bar none. A man who witnessed the collision, comes to my window. Automatically, I roll it down. I can't remember how my finger finds the button; right now I don't think I can remember my own last name. I can't stop crying. The heavy rain just keeps falling, falling, it won't stop, my tears won't stop, between the rain and my own tears I'm soaked and I can't breathe. He asks if we're okay and I say not really, no one is hurt, but I don't know what to do. My mom, I tell him, my mom doesn't know I've been in an accident, my mom will be so afraid when she hears. He asks if we're physically all right and I say yes.
I realize that we should call for help. My fiancee does, because I'm too hysterical to form a sentence that doesn't begin with the words "my mom." The 911 operator tells Ella to have me get to the side of the road so we're not obstructing traffic. I manage to get my car to the side of the road, completing the turn I was starting when we collided. The first words out of my hyperventilating, sobbing mouth when we stop are, "Oh my God, oh my God, my mom, I need to call my mom, I can't call her, she's going to be so scared and there's nothing she can do."
Crash witnesses attempt to calm me down. My heart won't stop pounding. Ella lets me grip her hand. I can't stop crying, the pain is too real. I almost wish I were physically hurt, because if I were, I could concentrate on that instead of the heartbreaking agony of knowing that in a few moments, I will have to call my mother and tell her one of the worst things a parent can hear: "Mom, I've been in an accident." I can't tell her, I can't tell her, but I have to.
At some point the focus shifts to Ella, I ask her another thousand times if she's okay. A policeman comes to my window and asks for our licenses and papers. I can't stop crying, I will never, as far as I know, be able to stop crying again. My worst fear is that I have killed someone. "Are they okay, the other driver, is she--is he--okay?" I ask, and the officer says that as far as he knows, they are. I breathe a little easier; as far as I can tell, I am not a murderer.
I can't think, I can't pray, I can't even speak properly. All I can say is "This never happens to me, I'm not a terrible driver, I wasn't even playing with the radio, I wasn't on my phone, how did I get into an accident?" Ella tries to soothe me, to no avail. All that I know is that my mom has to know, she can't find out on the news--oh God what if I'm on the news?--and she can't see the tow truck--or, God forbid, ambulance--pull up in front of our house and not know until then what's happened.
I call her.
She will be mad, I vaguely hear the officer tell me. It's a given, she'll be angry, but I think she'll just want to know you're safe, first and foremost.
I tell her, and she is strangely calm. Later, she will tell me that as soon as she saw the rain and heard her phone ring, as soon as she saw it was me, she knew. She asks, several times, "Are you okay? Is Ella okay?" and I tell her, over and over again, "Yes, we're okay. We aren't hurt. There are no physical injuries." We hang up when the ambulance arrives. The EMTs check us over and pronounce us all right. Can we turn our heads, did we hit our heads, did the airbag hurt Ella, did the door crush her, am I seeing spots. No, no, no, no. We are fine, physically, but my heart won't stop pounding. It's adrenaline, they say. I'll be fine.
What is a much, much bigger relief than hearing that I am all right is hearing that Ella is all right--and hearing that the occupant (occupants?--I still don't know) of the other car are all right.
No one, thank God, needs to go to the hospital.
I see the damage and nearly pass out. This, I realize, is going to cost us. There is no way I will ever be able to pay my mother back for this, I don't care if our insurance covers it, I am responsible. In my head I begin to calculate how much I'll have to save to pay for the deductible, the rising cost, the repairs. I want to pass out. I want to run to my mom. I want to go home. I want to collapse in the wet grass and cry until I completely dehydrate myself.
Instead, I stay standing. I call my mom again and again, keeping her updated bit by bit until the full story emerges. The correct citation is issued, all legal documents are issued, all of our licenses and registrations and proofs of insurance are returned. The tow truck driver gives us a lift home, since my mother cannot come and get us. I weep on and off for the rest of the drive, but still manage to give the truck driver the correct directions. I stagger out of the car, nearly tripping on the back of my skirt, and manage to get myself around the front without falling over the curb.
When I see my mom again it is like I haven't seen her for ages. I run to her, crying all over again. She holds me close for a moment and then tells me to go inside, she'll see that the car is taken care of. I stumble into the garage, then into the house. I can't process everything that has happened. My makeup is streaked down my face. I can't stop crying. I can't think straight. All I can think of is how much I've ruined.
Yesterday my father won the first race of the Thistle Sailboat Nationals. Now he might have to come home. I've ruined this for him. I have wrecked our car, cost us a ton of money, might even get us sued. I cry and cry and cry. My mother comes in and holds me, tells me, "The car is a thing, it can be replaced. You and Ella can't. You are alive, and that is all that matters.
This is when it hits me: The car hit Ella's side, if it weren't for the airbag, if it weren't for the safety features, if that driver had even gone a little faster, if I'd gone faster, if I hadn't stopped when I did...if it hadn't been for a myriad of circumstances, the woman I love would be dead.
I collapse into her arms. "I almost killed you," I cry, and she holds me and whispers "Shh--shh," until I can breathe again. I bounce between her and my mom--well, stagger between her and my mom--until we are herded into the living room and sit down. I can't let go of either of them. I almost lost them both. I have hurt them both. I can't believe what has happened today. Nothing even seems real.
Only one fact stands out: My mother is not angry. She is not going to yell, or tell me how horrible I am, what a waste I am, or that if it wasn't for me we could have so many new things that we can't have now because we're paying to fix my mistakes. I call my dad to tell him I am okay, and he tells me much the same thing. "I ruined your week," I blurt out. "I'm so sorry--you'd just won Nationals--" and he tells me it's okay, that my life is more important to him than a sailboat race. I hang up and cry some more.
Later, after he has made the multi-hour drive home to see, in person, that I'm all right, my dad comes into my room and holds me close. I tell him the full story. He stays quiet, then holds me tightly again, kisses me goodnight, tells me to sleep. I know I will not sleep tonight. Ella has already passed out, worn-out from the excitement and the Nyquil she took for her allergy-like symptoms. I know I will not sleep tonight. My parents will, my fiancee will. I know I won't.
Tomorrow I will hug them all extra-tightly and tell them that I will always love them. Tomorrow I will tell them how much they mean to me. I could have died today. I could have killed someone today. But I didn't, and I can't keep telling myself that because of one mistake I am worthless. I have to keep going. Hug my family when I see them in the morning. Kiss my parents just because they're there and I can. Tell them I love them, every opportunity I get. Thank them again and again, just for being there and for being mine, for loving me and protecting me every step of the way. Show them how much I appreciate their existence and their support. Kiss my love on the mouth, peeping eyes be damned, hold her hand and let her know she is loved. Plan our wedding, show her my hometown, ask her to dance.
I could have died today. What I can't do, what I will not allow myself to do, is use that as an excuse to stop living.
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