In an Instant(5)

Finally the last traffic light comes into view, and I nearly give a cheer. One more block, a right and then a left, and we’ll be home. When it turns yellow, determined not to jolt us again, I tap the brake the way the instructor told me to so the deceleration will be smooth.

We are nearly stopped, the tires barely moving and my eyes on the bumper of the car in front of us, when my phone buzzes. A text message coming through. Two sharp vibrations that start in my back pocket before traveling down my leg to my foot, and the car unexpectedly lurches forward.

“Brake!” my mom yelps, the word combining with the awful crunch of metal as we ram into the car in front of us. “Brake!” she says again, which I am desperately trying to do, but inexplicably we continue to plow forward, smashing the little car into the truck in front of it.

“Other pedal,” she says, and my foot leaps sideways.

My mom is out of the car before I manage to put it in park.

“Shit,” Aubrey says behind me.

“Oops,” Aunt Karen says.

I stumble from the driver’s seat, my whole body on fire.

Already my mom is talking to the driver of the car we hit, her body bent toward the open window. The woman is the only passenger—dark, shoulder-length hair, a red sweater. A cross with beads dangles from the rearview mirror. She nods to something my mom says; then her head reverses direction, and I can’t be certain, but I think by the way her shoulders hiccup that she might be crying.

I step toward them, then step back, my muscles clenching and unclenching, unsure what to do.

The driver of the truck joins them, an older man dressed in a plaid shirt and loose jeans. He looks like a contractor or a tradesman. He asks if everyone’s okay, glances back at me, and then, reassured no one’s hurt, waves off my mom’s offer of insurance, climbs back in his truck, and drives away.

I study his bumper as he goes. It’s dinged and dented but firmly in place, and it’s hard to tell if the damage is from a few minutes or a few decades ago.

The woman’s car did not fare as well. An old Honda, it looks as if it’s been folded in two, the hood and trunk bent toward each other and the middle sagging. The woman has her phone out, and so does my mom. I stand watching.

“Finn, honey, why don’t you get back in the car?” Aunt Karen says from her open window.

I reach for the door.

“Perhaps it’s better if your mom drives the rest of the way.”

I walk around and slide into the passenger seat.

Twenty minutes later a tow truck arrives. My mom stays with the woman as her car is hitched to the back. The woman is no longer upset, and I am incredibly grateful. My mom is brilliant that way. It’s what makes her a great lawyer: the way she is able to handle any situation with complete calm and to charm anyone into believing she is their friend. When the woman climbs into the tow truck, she actually pauses to thank my mom, as if, by crashing into her car, we’ve done her some sort of favor.

A moment later my mom’s back in the car and driving us the remaining two blocks to our home.





2

We pull in front of the house, and I slink from the passenger seat. I watch as my mom storms toward the door without a word, barely glancing at my dad or my brother, Oz, who are in the driveway washing the Miller Mobile, a camper that my dad bought when he was nineteen and that has serviced all his adventures since, from tornado chasing in the Midwest to his many surfing, fishing, and mountain excursions.

Bingo, our golden Lab, bounds over to her, his tail wagging, then skulks away when she ignores him, closing the door and leaving him behind with the rest of us. If nothing else, this proves how upset she is. The one member of our family my mom’s at peace with these days other than Aubrey is Bingo, and often I find the two of them together, her sitting on the lawn with a glass of wine in one hand and the other buried in Bingo’s fur.

Aunt Karen gives my shoulder a squeeze and kisses the side of my head. “Hang in there, kiddo. Accidents are part of life.”

I manage a halfhearted nod, and she walks away toward her own house two doors down. Aubrey looks from me to the dented front end of the Mercedes, shakes her head like I’m an idiot, then bounds over to my dad to regale him with the story of my monolithic blunder.

Accidents might be part of most people’s lives, but they are not part of my mom’s. As far as I know, my mom’s never even been in an accident, and now, thanks to me, her perfect car, which she finally bought after years of talking about it, is ruined.

A few feet away from Aubrey and my dad, Oz sprays the Miller Mobile with the hose, the water going everywhere. He’s soaked head to toe, and despite the awfulness of the moment, I smile as I always do when I see my brother enjoying the simple little nothings of life, impervious to the concerns about achievement or appearances that seem to constantly plague the rest of us. Though he’s thirteen, my brother’s intellectual abilities are half that, and his emotions are even simpler: straightforward as a toddler’s.

My dad howls with laughter as Aubrey tells him I have a talent for making instruments, the Accord I smashed now an “accordion,” her hands moving together and apart like she’s playing the instrument as she imitates the sound of crunching metal. Unlike my mom, my dad is a go-with-the-flow sort of guy, and a ding or a dent in his book is no big deal. His truck is living proof—older than I am, it’s marked with at least a hundred scars.