She Could Have Been Me; the Driver

A couple of weeks ago, I was returning home from a late trip to the grocery store, and I hit a cat.

One moment I was passing under the green light, listening to K's tantrum in her car seat. There was a sudden flash of tan reflecting in my right headlight, and two thumps. I didn't know what I hit. I pulled over to the side of the road, and the cars that were behind me passed. Sillouetted against the headlights was a small lump in the road.

Poor thing, I thought. I didn't know what to do. One doesn't call 9-1-1 over an animal, I knew. I couldn't just leave K alone, but I couldn't just leave this animal either. I picked up my cell phone and tried to call my husband. Maybe he would know what I should do. He didn't answer. Mom once had a cat; I tried her number. No answer.

And then, the poor thing raised its head.

Another driver pulled over, and went to the cat. I jumped out of the van, hurrying over. "I hit it," I cried. "What is it?"

He came toward me. "It's a cat," he said. "I laid it over there on the ground." (Yes, getting it out of the road made sense.) This man, Tom, and I spent a couple of hours trying to take care of this poor cat. Eventually, he took it with him, to take to the Humane Society the next day (because I am allergic to cats, and he has one,) and then remembered that OSU has a veterinary school. He called the next morning and told me that he took the cat there, and they said they would take care of it.

But you see, this isn't about the cat. It started with the cat, but it isn't about that.

I am still a bit of a wreck about the cat. I cried when one of the neighborhood cats ran from my porch one morning. It wasn't even similar; this cat had no tail, and totally different coloring. But I hit a cat, and will never know whether it survived the night.

It happened so fast, and I couldn't help but think of the way my daughter tried to run away from me in the parking lot that evening, not wanting to go home. I thought of my sister's little boy, three months older than K, who darted out of the house so fast that his father had to run full speed after him to keep him out of the street. What if, instead of a cat, I'd hit a toddler with an escape fetish? How would I live with myself?

The next day, I drove past the school where a crossing guard gave her life to save a child last year. I sobbed at the memory of that story. I know the child was badly injured but survived thanks to her sacrifice. I wonder how he is doing now?

How did the driver go on, with the guilt of knowing he had taken an innocent life? How would I?

A few more days flashed by. I was hurrying home to meet the first bus, which brings my 12-year-old R home from school. The road I drove is one I use frequently. There is an overpass over railroad tracks, then the road goes under the freeway, with a fairly sharp left turn just past the bridge. The road is marked 50 MPH. On the stretch on the other side of the turn, I rarely drive 50. There are several businesses, a smattering of homes, and railroad tracks, all of which seem to require more attention than I can give at that speed.

This particular day, as I round the bend, I am surprised to find a school bus there, lights flashing. I've noticed the homes in this area, but never thought about them holding school age children. I shudder, thinking how glad I am that our family doesn't live on such a busy, fast road. I wish this bit of road was marked a little slower, to help protect those families.

I drove this stretch of road twice, that other night, with the cat. The cat that could have been a child.

More days flash by. K has a morning appointment, and I am rushing to get her there. I turn onto the stretch of road, and go over the tracks, only to see emergency lights up ahead. A little closer, and I see that the road is blocked. I use a driveway to turn around, wondering what happened. The mental image of the school bus flashes in my mind. NO, I tell it. I won't accept that concept.

I don't know whether more days flash by, but it seems like the next morning, ten-year-old C is hit by a car, and killed, on that stretch of road. He was waiting for the bus, crossed the road to chase geese, we are told, and then turned around to cross back to home. The woman who drove the SUV wasn't charged legally. She wasn't breaking the law; she simply didn't have the chance to stop.

She could have been me.

She Could Have Been Me; the Mother

This afternoon, my ten-year-old son and I went to a mortuary together. One of his classmates was hit by a car last week and died, and we went to show support for his family, and for B to say goodbye.

The loss of this young child has been deeply painful to me. I don't believe I ever met him, but I've taken his death in a deeply personal way. I don't begin to suppose that my assumed pain has come anywhere near the real agony suffered by his family. This is one time, however, that I wish my vivid imagination would focus on a fantasy with less realism.

From the moment B came home with the note from his principal, the day of the accident, I have had sobbing bouts of there-but-for-the-grace-of-God-go-I. C was ten, like my son; waiting for the bus, like my son does. They sat at the same table in their fifth grade class. The family recently moved here; admittedly, it has been three and a half years for us, but we, too, are transplants. Their home is not far from mine; I pass it several times each week.

C had a mother, someone who adored him, and dreamed for him. Someone like me.

One afternoon I hurried home to meet the buses of my children. The stretch of road I drove has an overpass over railroad tracks, then goes under a freeway overpass, and takes a fairly sharp turn just on the other side. The speed limit is 50. I've always had a hard time maintaining that speed after the turn, as the businesses, smattering of houses, and train tracks on the other side seem to beg for a little more attention. This day, I came around the corner to find a school bus stopped, lights flashing. I was surprised. I knew there were homes here, but it never occurred to me that there were school age children living in those homes. I shuddered, thinking how glad I was that I didn't have children catching a bus here.

I was hurrying somewhere the following morning, and found the road blocked with emergency vehicles. As I used a driveway to turn around, I thought again about the school bus. No, the thought was too horrible to complete. I had the radio on, and nothing had been said on the news about an accident, so this must be something else. Maybe someone just took the curve too fast. (I never found out what happened.)

Then last Tuesday afternoon. My precious B came home from school, gave me the letter from his principal, and went quietly to do his homework. I felt the air sucked out of the room. Blinking back tears, I asked him if he knew C. "He was in my class," he said. "He sat at my table." I asked him if he was okay. He shrugged, his mouth twitched. He "mmMMmm"ed the way he always does, instead of articulating "I don't know." He went back to his homework.

I thought of B running to his bus stop every morning. He crosses our street, then turns and crosses another. He makes a token look for traffic, but certainly not the careful "look both ways" I tried to instill in him as a toddler. He runs, though it is only seven minutes before his scheduled bus time. Our road is one of the main thoroughfares in the neighborhood, and people rushing to work often drive a little faster than the posted 25 MPH as they pass my house. In my mind I see him darting out in front of someone fiddling with their radio, or positioning their coffee cup, or... or...

It could have been me, the mother dabbing tears from her eyes with the ear of a teddy bear, her left hand resting on the still head of her son's body. "I'm sorry, " she whispered to him, " I know you never like to see me cry." It could have been B lying there, his body doll-like, bruises showing behind thick mortician's makeup. His mother showed us his school picture, "What he really looked like," she said, smiling through her agony. Tears flooded from my eyes; I could not hold them back. She could have been me.

I was the lucky one, watching as my son used his best handwriting to sign the guest book, and then ducked out into the sunshined immortality of his youth again. I got to hold his hand as we crossed the street together, and help him excitedly gather a pinecone and berries for his seed collection for school. Eventually the pain of this moment will fade for me, and I will go back to nagging and scolding my 10 year old. Will she imagine, then, what it is like to be me?