Little Red Car

I don�t know exactly what age I was, but I had big, curly red hair like Little Orphan Annie, and my training wheels were still on my bike. I was a good kid, never in trouble, and never punished in any way. I was shy and quiet, always trying not to bring attention to myself. Other kids were always being spanked or sent to their rooms or being grounded after talking sassy to their mothers. Not with me - my mother never spanked me. She just ran me down with the car.

No, seriously.

It was still the age when a mother is everything in the world to a child, and Mom and I were no exception. I loved her more than anything, with the possible exception of this little yellow stuffed animal monkey I had. I grabbed it off a shelf in K-Mart when I was a baby, and I held it with a kung fu death grip and screamed holy murder when they tried to take him away from me. I named him Sammy, and although he was just an insignificant toy, my family was going through hard enough times that we had to eat macaroni and cheese for a week because I had to have him. I did love Sammy for years to come, but I think it�s safe to say Mom came even before my monkey in terms of things I couldn�t have lived without.

Colorado never got scorching hot, and there was never humidity to spoil an otherwise enjoyable summer afternoon. When the snow melted in the spring, we had the type of weather that commanded you to put down the remote control and Atari controls and just step out into the sunshine, smell the clean air and gaze lazily on the crisp blue mountains.

My mother, sisters, and I generally left the yard work and car washing to my more industrious father, while we sipped lemonade and waived to him from the living room window. This day, however, Mom and I couldn�t help but nurture our desires to enjoy the sun, so we went out to wash the car ourselves. I loved doing anything with her, and I jumped at the chance. I ran out the front door and stood on the sidewalk by our little red car, which was parked in the street in front of our little red house, and I waited impatiently for her to dig the keys out of her purse. She got behind the wheel and gave me a quick wave and a smile as she put the car in reverse and began backing the car into the driveway.

As she turned the wheel, the tires came onto the sidewalk and climbed onto my feet. I was pulled forward and my feet slipped into the gutter with the wheel still crushing them with the weight of the car. The memory is distinct, �She doesn�t know I�m stuck.� I panicked, and I began screaming and hitting the metal fender as hard as I could. I watched my fists hit the faded red paint and wondered why the metal wasn�t being dented from the force of my blows. I hit it with all of my strength. It was nothing.

�Mom, I�m stuck. I�m stuck. Mom! Back up the car, back it up off my feet.� The pain was excruciating, but it was nothing compared to the fear. The only person in the world who could have taken the pain away was the person inflicting it upon me. But I knew above all else that she didn�t know what she�d done, and I screamed out to no one but her to help me. She didn�t cause this pain, the car did, and she was the only person who could save me from it. �Mom! Please!�

The car tire was wedged between my feet, and I heard the engine switch gears repeatedly as she tried reverse, then forward, then reverse. As she did, the pain jabbed my left foot, then right, then left. And all I could do was pound my fists and scream and pray that she�d understand. When the neighbors heard my screams, they came running from their houses and yards from all directions, waiving their hands to get her attention. She had no idea what had happened. She was convinced the car was broken and that�s why she couldn�t get it to move, until she saw them running towards her. She glanced towards where I had been standing a moment ago, and she saw nothing. The air conditioner was on, the radio was on, the windows were rolled up. The noise from outside was overcome by the torrent of noise inside the car, but when she knew she had hit her child, I know her world was silent except for the sound of her breathing, until that too stopped. I imagine she held her breath and closed her eyes against the reality that was setting in, and she prayed that it wasn�t true.

Eventually the neighbors were able to lift the car off my feet, while others pulled me away to safety. The end of the pain ends my memory of the entire experience.

I somehow did not have any broken bones in my feet or ankles, but they were much too sore to walk on for several weeks. It was then that my big sisters became my heroes. They�d see me crawling around the house, and they�d pick me up off the floor, lift me over their shoulders and tickle my stomach as they taxied me to my chosen destination, usually as another neighbor was stopping by to check in on my progress. I had never felt so much love from so many. The attention was addictive, and I prayed for the wounds to last so I could always be the center of it.

Of course, the black and blue eventually turned pink again, and I soon began walking and running and playing in the sun with Mom. Although, I don�t think we ever washed the car again. That we left to my father.

The summer came to a close, and for once I was excited to return to school. Sure, I would miss the summer sun, the extra time I spent with Mom, and the incredible love and concern poured on me from everyone around, but I still couldn�t wait to get back. I pictured the first day as we took our turns walking up to the front of the class and telling everyone what we did during our summer vacation. I�d wait for all the kids to go first, and then I�d walk up to the front of the room, turn dramatically towards the other students and blow their stories away. As I described it all, I�d watch them lean forward in their seats and raise their hands to their mouths, and I�d be the center of attention again. If only for a few minutes.