That day.
We’d been shopping all day, me and my best friend. We were seventeen and we were suspended between where we’d been and where we were going, giddy with the freedom. We were back at her house, but we were leaving again, climbing back into the car. Like we had a hundred times before.
This time, almost as an afterthought, she whistled to the family dog. How many times have I rewound this moment in my head? Full of love and innocence, that beloved creature bounded into the car. Ready for the latest adventure.
I remember watching the dog in the side view mirror as we drove, marveling at the way her smile ballooned with the wind. It seemed she didn’t want to miss a single breath, gulping in the rushing air as though she were tasting life itself and couldn’t get enough, and in that moment I envied her. To this day, I take comfort in the way her eyes squinted against her joy. I take solace in the peace I’m sure she felt in her last moments on this earth.
It’s possible my best friend was driving too fast, I don’t recall. In those days we all drove too fast, me and my friends, so certain of our places in the world. And I was busy trying on my new Birkenstocks, one of many treasures we’d gleaned from the mall that day, the pair I bought in hopes that I might look half as cool as she did. Buckling my seatbelt just wasn’t a priority.
She was messing with the radio, probably at my request. For many years I could remember what song was playing at that moment — couldn’t forget it in fact — but that’s all gone now these fifteen years later. Today all I’m left with is the distinct sensation of time crystallizing, of a frozen Polaroid image of my foot within that new sandal. That’s what I was looking at when I heard her say, simply, “Oh shit.”
I remember knowing before I looked up. I remember a flash of the stone wall at the curve, and then the field on the opposite side of the road as she over-corrected. I remember closing my eyes calmly, bracing myself with both arms, resigned in a way that surprised myself. I remember the sensation of spiraling, and the sound and feel of the whooshing. Watching the world reduce itself to a pinprick of light as we spun and spun and spun. A profound feeling of peace, and the singular thought, “Oh. This isn’t so bad.”
[blink.]
I can hear my own heart. My eyes open against my will, and the light is blinding. My cheek is hard against the grainy pavement, the world is on its side. I am seeking that peaceful whooshing when I close my eyes again. Everything goes lusciously dark, like slipping back into a favorite dream. Thankfully. Blessedly.
[blink.]
How did I get over here? A bed of grass and twigs. The sky a crisp coneflower behind the tree branches, incredibly defined. How had I never noticed what perfect specimens of biology tree leaves are? All those days spent drawing trees in elementary art class, making a v, and then a v within a v, and then a v within those v’s, and still I’d never even come close… How had I not noticed the veins within the leaves? And why the veins, did trees have blood somehow?
I can hear my best friend calling my name now, over and over and over again. There’s a desperation and a sorrow in her voice I have never heard before. She’s alone in the car and she can’t figure out why I’m not there. She can’t find me.
[blink.]
I sit up. I am convinced I am covered in glass, and I’m obsessed with it. My hands sting with the perceived cuts and as I bend over to find the shards in my upturned palms, a pool of blood suddenly forms there, dripping down. My tongue plays with a piece of flesh hanging from my lip, and in that moment I am certain I have no face. I think about what it will be like now, disfigured. Out of the corner of my eye to my left, the Toyota 4-Runner lies crumpled and mangled and smoking. To my right, the dog. Oh God. She is seizing. I sense she is going and there’s nothing I can do about it. A foreign voice in the distance screams, “Do you need an ambulance?” “No!” I hear my best friend yell, her voice desperate to believe it’s true. I think we will at least need the ambulance to drive us the seven miles back home, and I can’t figure out how she does not see this. Though I know nothing in this moment, I know enough to counter, “Yes!” before it all goes black again.
[blink.]
My face stings. My best friend’s hands are all over it, pressing, brushing, soothing. I can’t open my mouth to tell her how much it hurts, what she’s doing. I know she is trying to help, but I think she is pressing in the glass. “You’re OK, you’re OK, you’re OK,” she repeats over and over again. I get the sense she is talking to herself.
[blink.]
It’s Eric, and that’s how I know it’s not heaven. He is my friend’s creepy older brother, the keeper of the basement bedroom with the girly posters on the wall. He’s standing over me now wearing a fireman’s hat, and there are flashing colors everywhere. Somehow, he’s become my rescuer. There are many others, but I can only see Eric, and the concern in his eyes, and the unexpected comfort I find there. He tells me he already called my parents, that they will meet us at the hospital. I feel an unfamiliar rush of gratitude for my small town, that this man knows me though I carry no identification. That he can see it’s me, so maybe I still have a face after all. I can’t look away from him for fear I will spin away again.
[blink.]
The vibration of the helicopter, and my face against the foam of the ceiling. Refusing to ride this way. Negotiating with my rescuers to swap my upper bunk with my best friend’s lower one because the ceiling will suffocate me, and that’s more horrifying than any accident I can imagine. And this is when I know they are all overreacting and that I am going to be just fine.
[blink.]
The emergency room. My parents rushing in in a breathless, pained panic. Pokes and prods and stitches and a bedpan. Across the hallway is a victim of a different car accident, and I become fixated on her. I hear the nurses telling her she will be fine, same as they are doing to me. I feel a very strange but very intense connection with her. I focus hard on her as they fuss over me, squinting with the pain and remembering the dog’s squints of joy. The woman across the hall dies a few moments later, and all I can think is that the nurses were lying to us both.
[blink.]
I am home. I am fine. Beat up, but fine. The accident really wasn’t that big of a deal. I have a sense that I faked my own death, and everyone is angry with me for it. My parents are full of heavy silences. Dave disappears for a while, buckling under the pressure of an ugly girlfriend, I figure. My best friend disappears, too. We do not talk about this accident, and she shuts me out of the mourning for the dog. She and her family bury her in the country and I am profoundly hurt that I am not included. I loved that dog too, and I watched her die.
[blink.]
Dave and I are out to dinner because he has come back around. He sent me flowers, and feels bad about the way he disappeared. But for my part, I am changed somehow. For the past two weeks, I haven’t spoken with my best friend and I’ve been stared at by everyone else in a way to which I’m unaccustomed. It is the first time in my life I understand the profound benefit of looking normal. Now there’s pity in their eyes, and disgust. When I excuse myself to go to the restroom, a woman grabs my elbow and in urgent, hushed tones gasps that I should leave him. She says I don’t deserve to be beaten this way.
[blink.]
I am a passenger to Dave’s driver on these country roads. For the 134th time since I’ve known him, I have the floaty sensation of spinning as he takes a corner too quickly. For the 134th time since I’ve known him, I jump a little in my seat. My hand instinctively grasps the armrest, even though I know how angry it will make him, how personally he takes it that I don’t seem to trust his driving skills.
“What is your problem?” he hisses, so annoyed. The ghost of my fear sits fat between us, but only I can see it. No matter how many times I tell him, he’ll never get it. He’ll never accept how difficult it is for me to take those corners that way, how even 15 years later I can instantly be thrust back there, out of control, spinning and spinning and spinning. He doesn’t seem to care that I dream this sensation at least once a week, still. He doesn’t understand that the body remembers things the mind does not, and that it never, ever forgets.
Erika says:
Jesus, Maggie. This is brilliance.
February 15th, 2008 at 9:46 pm
Sara says:
Wow
February 15th, 2008 at 10:10 pm
Sara says:
Wow.
February 15th, 2008 at 10:11 pm
Sara says:
Ugh – not sure why that showed up twice. But it really is double-wow worthy.
February 15th, 2008 at 10:12 pm
flutter says:
This is just incredible writing, Maggie.
February 15th, 2008 at 11:31 pm
Lea says:
oh maggie…..
OH maggie…..
oh MAGGIE…….
February 16th, 2008 at 6:04 am
Kat says:
Oh, Maggie…great writing. Those kind of memories are so hard. Your last paragraph really grabbed me. I drive my husband crazy with my driving paranoia but once you’re in a horrible car wreck, I think you have a sense of how random it all is and how quickly things can change. There are people that I just won’t let drive me or my kid anywhere because they’re such bad drivers.
Love your writing, woman.
February 16th, 2008 at 10:11 am
Jenn says:
Holy shit. I had no idea this ever happened. Thank you for bringing us all into the memory; your gift for sharing through words is extraordinary.
February 16th, 2008 at 10:28 am
Jeremy says:
Dang, you write nice, girl…
I’m not worthy!
February 16th, 2008 at 11:37 am
shell says:
you are an amazing woman and an even more amazing storyteller.
February 16th, 2008 at 11:39 am
Maria says:
God, you write well. Thank you for sharing this story. This is such a difficult memory, and I’m grateful to have heard of this part of your life, especially one you may have to frequently relive.
February 16th, 2008 at 2:35 pm
natalie75 says:
Wow, that was incredibly well written. It felt like I was there with you.
What ever became of your friend? I suspect you were shut out because of the guilt she felt.
February 16th, 2008 at 3:12 pm
okayfinedammit says:
She’s still my very best friend in the entire world (23 years and counting!) I hope she doesn’t take any offense to what I’ve written here, but hey — she’s the one who’s been telling me to write all these years! Surely she had to know she’d show up sometime….
February 16th, 2008 at 3:16 pm
Ted Thompson says:
You absolutely blow me away, Maggie. Every time.
Thank you for visiting my blog, too. If it weren’t for you, it wouldn’t be for no one, I reckon.
T.
February 16th, 2008 at 4:21 pm
J.C. Montgomery says:
How wonderful your writing, and you, are Maggie. Truly wonderful.
February 16th, 2008 at 6:02 pm
jennbott says:
I remember.
I remember that you sold (?didn’t buy?) your motorcycle cuz it was too scary.
I remember that it meant that we could have lost you.. and we were so relieved, and so scared, and so mad at you for not wearing a seatbelt.
I remember that I wore my seatbelt after that.
The song that was playing is now playing right outside my consciousness. It was a party song with an annoyingly repetitive chorus…
I love you.
Aunt Jenn
February 16th, 2008 at 6:29 pm
okayfinedammit says:
OHMYGOD you’re right! You’re right!!! It was that Benny and Joon song, “i would walk five hundred miles…” God. I can’t believe you remembered. Or made me remember, whatever. God.
February 16th, 2008 at 7:15 pm
Felicia says:
Maggie,
You are a doll, a dream, a sweet pea
Thanks for your support.
xoxxoox, f.
February 17th, 2008 at 8:02 pm
becky says:
Sometimes you just know, you know a little bit more about a particular subject than your hubby and that’s ok He is going to know a little bit more than you do. Trust your instincts.
February 18th, 2008 at 1:50 am
becky says:
I too was in one of ‘those’ accidents. My husband is much older and stronger than I am. However, when it comes to driving, and especially driving in (Michigan) storms, he doesn’t have a choice or a chance. I need to be behind the wheel and he doesn’t get it and frankly on this particular subject I could care less. I just know what needs to be done. He knows it, the kids know it maybe you would feel better too if you could convince him to somehow let you take charge , just this next time, it is very therapeutic. Really.
February 18th, 2008 at 7:04 am
Chanda(aka Bea) says:
That was incredibly riveting, and beautifully written. I think the images that struck hard, and will stay with me for a long time, are those of the dog smiling and squinting into the wind. I don’t want to gush, but damn you are a pretty amazing writer!
February 18th, 2008 at 11:08 am
Eliza says:
Oh, boy…this is long. I’ll come back later.
February 18th, 2008 at 3:54 pm
Eliza says:
We were coming home to Mt. Horeb from Bill’s. We had his laundry in the car because he didn’t have a mom to do it for him. I just watched “Because of Winn Dixie” when I couldn’t sleep the other night and I sobbed at the part where she’s giving her (found) dog a bath and putting barrettes in his hair…remembering Vinnie. I don’t remember not talking to you for two weeks. I don’t remember the other lady in the car accident dying. I thought I was on the top in the helicopter. I only remember my hand on Vinnie’s side.
February 18th, 2008 at 8:07 pm
we_be_toys says:
Wow – amazing piece – unbelievably surreal the way you told it; the way it probably felt. I hate that you weren’t allowed to be at the dog’s funeral – especially after witnessing his end – a little closure would have been nice, huh? I totalled a car once, by myself, and I still hate to drive in the rain, to this day, because of it.
I hated you went through this, but I loved reading it.
February 18th, 2008 at 9:00 pm
Becky says:
I remember.
The phone call. The hospital. The fear.
I don’t remember anybody telling me you were in and out of consciousness..maybe a good thing. I also don’t remember your face being any less perfect that in always has been. You are amazing. I love you.
Aunt Becky
February 20th, 2008 at 3:48 pm
Mom says:
I have a picture of that face taken the next day, lest we forget. I try not to remember the rest. But I think of it every time someone doesn’t put on their seat belt. My car won’t go if anyone isn’t buckled… Yes, you sold your new motorcycle without ever riding it and I was glad. I remember the ride to the hospital, so thankful for Eric’s phone call that started out, “they’re both okay, but…” then the panic at the mention of the helicopter — another assurance that it was just because it was a holiday weekend and they were keeping the ambulances local what with all the extra National Guard helicopters out with nothing to do… Your piece brings it all back with amazing clarity. Thank God you lived to tell the tale, the car stayed up and didn’t come back down on you after you got dumped out that last time over… too much, too hard… lets not go there again.
February 20th, 2008 at 8:10 pm
Susannah says:
I just found your blog and am damn glad I did. Powerful. Wow. Thank you.
February 25th, 2008 at 3:30 pm
Erin says:
Found this post through Petunia Face and WOW. I literally cannot stop crying. Simply amazing.
February 28th, 2008 at 2:17 pm
Okay, Fine, Dammit » Quite possibly the least upbeat post I have ever written. says:
[...] the funeral home wheeled my uncle’s body out. My own mother’s face standing over my bed in the ER. The face I imagine her mother is wearing right now. I wish I could [...]
December 16th, 2008 at 12:18 pm
ilinap says:
I was in a head on collision when I was 16, a week after getting my license. The irony is that my piece of shit Fiat broke down so my friend came to pick me up in her big honking Lincoln Continental. Another car ran a red light and hit us head on. I was the only one wearing a seat belt. My friend thankfully survived. The woman who hit us was crumpled in a grotesque pile on the floor of the driver’s side in a car that was propped up vertically against a pole. To this day I quiver going through that intersection. The accident was 24 years ago.
December 16th, 2008 at 12:55 pm
pgoodness says:
I didn’t see this post the first time around, but, sitting here with tears in my eyes and a knot in my throat, I’m glad I did now. You are an amazing writer. And this piece is wonderful.
December 16th, 2008 at 3:12 pm
Text Imps says:
Your beautiful writing made me feel as though I were there with you. As tears streamed down my face, I wished that I could reach out and take the glass from your face, hold your hand and tell you that it was going to be alright.
You truly are an incredible author! I’m sorry that you, your friend and your families had to endure such a tragic event.
December 31st, 2008 at 9:27 pm
Post of the Week - That Day from Okay Fine Dammit says:
[...] that you skip the excerpts and go straight to Maggie’s post, which is simply entitled The Day. …… I remember watching the dog in the side view mirror as we drove, marveling at the [...]
January 4th, 2009 at 11:20 pm
Christina (from MommyCity) says:
Wow! That was a great story. You’re a very talented writer!!! I was scared for you through the whole story.
January 6th, 2009 at 2:55 pm
Meg says:
I remember, too.
I still gasp, and clutch the door handle. They would be startled, unaware of the threat. Then they would be angry, and berate me for unjustified fears. So, I learned to be quieter, and less obviously frightened.
I still brace myself for the sound of crunching metal and the shatter of broken glass, even as I back out of parking spaces. It has been almost 7 years.
April 16th, 2009 at 1:23 pm
Okay, Fine, Dammit » Close calls, untold stories and cosmic trades says:
[...] the strange days after my car accident 17 years ago, I had a lot of time to think. My paradigm hadn’t just shifted, it had been shaken [...]
May 7th, 2009 at 7:02 am
Elisa says:
This is without a doubt the best-written blog post I have ever read. I felt scared and in pain and I felt like I was right there with you.
And it left me wanting more. You should write a book!
May 7th, 2009 at 7:28 am
stacey says:
Intense. That was an incredible account of your accident. I’m still struggling to write about mine from 11 years ago and I’m not sure I’ve done it. You capture the emotion. I could feel your experience. You have a gift.
May 7th, 2009 at 7:56 pm