The Accident
A moment of catastrophe, or so I thought.
I’m laying on the shoulder of a two-lane country road. The engine sounds that were so loud before have ceased. All I hear is silence, which is unnerving because I’m not alone. I can’t see my sister behind me, but she should be saying something. Or at least moving around.
“Is she dead?” I think instantly.
A therapist once explained catastrophizing to me, and all I could do was take a play from his book and nod silently while he spoke. There was an actual word to describe my thought patterns. So of course that was the first thought that crossed my mind.
Though we have just crashed, I’m not hurt — at least not enough to feel through whatever adrenaline is pumping through my body. However, the motorcycle, if you can call it that, is pushing my leg into a scattered pile of gravel and forcing each pea-sized rock to apply a different amount of pain based on its unique edges.
When I’m finally able to turn and look behind me, her eyes are open and staring back at me blankly. She stays motionless and silent for what seems like long enough to eat a side of fries (including dipping) before she finally moves and shows signs of life. Realistically, it’s probably only a second or two. Regardless, the rustling of gravel breaks the heavy silence and pulls my heart up from the depths of my chest.
She’s not dead.
She doesn’t seem to be seriously hurt, so I start pushing the vomit-yellow Honda Trail 70 off of us. We both wriggle our way out from under it and brush ourselves off.
“I thought you were dead,” I blurt out, before I have time to decide if I really want those words to escape. “I thought YOU were dead!” she yells back with a nervous laugh. I breathe a sigh of relief as we nervously laugh away our worry.
I pick up the bike — which had slipped on some loose gravel when I tried to turn off the road — and hop on. It starts up again without issue. My sister hops on the back, and we continue on our afternoon ride — our two teenage heads bobbing in unison under the rust-orange bomber helmets Mom (wisely) made us wear.
We were forever changed — but not really.
What was merely a split-second moment of dread is now embedded into our memories like a water spot on a bathroom mirror: easy to notice when you focus on it, but just as easy to overlook.
Fast forward 15 years. I call my sister and tell her I want to read her my latest story. Before I even finish the first sentence she bursts out laughing. We had not talked about this in years, but as soon as I pointed toward the water spot, it was clear as day.
