Riding in the backseat

Mom came to pick you up from camp and the unending ride in the backseat began. You hated riding in the car. Some people like watching the world go by through the window, or not having to concentrate on anything but the music or the conversation, but not you. You just felt invisible. As the youngest of three, with seven years between you and your brother, nine with your sister, you felt like no one ever had anything to say to you that wasn’t screamed, and in the backseat, you seemed to disappear. They didn’t even notice you enough to scream at you.

That day, your brother started to argue with Mom about picking him up late. Then, your sister yelled at him to drive himself or get a ride from a friend. He told her to mind her own business and she hit him on the head. He turned around to return the smack and Mom screamed something like ‘stop’ or ‘watch’ or ‘ohmygod.’ Really, you don’t know what she screamed. No one does. For in that brief moment that you took your eyes from the darkness beyond the window to gaze at your siblings, an 18-wheeler lost control on the other side of the road and swerved into your lane. There was nothing Mom could do. No braking, no reversing, no swerving out of the way. No last rites, no moment to say “I’m sorry for all the rotten things I’ve ever done.” In an instant, you and Mom were dead.

You were only nine. You never got to take the wheel.