It is a common saga. One should get used to it. Everyone has a car. Everyone learns to drive. The stories are legion.
My father did not believe in women driving. No reason for raised eyebrows. A different time, a different orientation. My mother did not drive. She survived in the US by the grace of the church ladies. She survived in India with a driver. The day my father left for a month Mr. Halverson looked at my nineteen–year old face and said, “You want to learn to drive? Get over there in the driver’s seat and get started.” I drove in Wisconsin, in the quiet suburban streets and out in the coulees. By the time Dad was back, I was driving and just became his chauffeur.
My husband drove when we were students in Minnesota and we loved our $400 Mercury Capri, until it was broadsided at a green light by a dump truck. In those dinosaur days of no seat belts, his friend in the passenger seat hit the dash board and broke his nose, But all was well, and we moved from Mercury Capri to Honda Civic to Nissan Sentra to Plymouth Voyager to Chrysler Lebaron convertible to BMW to Honda accord to Mercedez to Hyundai Sonatas to Honda Odyssey and a few others in between. Every car has its stories, every driver has his or hers, but the parent stories are the ones that leave a mark.
My older son was a natural born driver. At fifteen and a half, he raced to the driving classes and a week after his sixteenth birthday had his license. I got a call from the school for an unexcused absence. I asked him where he was and he had decided to go driving, eastward in Ohio, sort of like a Willie Nelson song. Before he started his job he took a three week hiatus and drove from Cincinnati to Harry Potter World, to Texas and California and back. He did Burning Man. My minivan had 7000 extra miles.
My daughter did the girl thing, bonding with her car, fidgeting with CD’s, her makeup and the mirror, plastering the bumper with liberal and feminist stickers. The first time I got the call was from her at 6.45am. “Mom….” Antenna on full alert, I said, “Where are you?” “I’m ok, I knocked down two mailboxes.” “Don’t worry, we will be there in 10” And we were.
The second call was on the day of her graduation party. 300 guests at Terwilligers Lodge, ten visiting family members at home. The party was at 7. At 4, the call came. “Mrs. Raturi, Ketika and I are in an accident at Pfeiffer Road.” “Don’t worry, we will be there.” I had no car as guests had borrowed mine, so I called my husband and he went to pick her up.
He reached Pfeiffer Road and traffic was being diverted for an accident. He told the officer it was his daughter in the accident and he was allowed to travel on. He parked and saw the car totaled and crushed. He saw the semi that had hit it. He saw Cindy sitting on the curb with an EMT. He saw the ambulance with a gurney in front of it with a body covered by a white sheet. It was lightly drizzling. He told me his knees turned to water and he thought they would buckle. As he approached the gurney, unable to speak, my daughter lifted the sheet and said, ”Dad, they covered me to stop me from getting wet.” She made her party, and all was well.
Ten years later, my younger son turned sixteen.A warm Sunday afternoon, puttering in the kitchen, watching the TV and the call.
“Mom…” My response as the antennas sparked up to crescendo levels. “Where are you?” “I was in an accident. I am fine. On route 126. “ “Husband, rise, child in accident. Route 126. Let’s go.” Staccato words matching the staccato beat of my heart. As I exited the driveway, his friend drove up and I said, “Get in the car, Kar was in an accident.”
We drove the 1.2 miles on a curvy stretch of road between a bridge and a cemetery, next to a quarry. Two emergency vehicles, two police cars, lights flashing, traffic being guided on what is now a one-lane road from a two–lane county road. The eyes search with an urgent intensity. The car on its side leaning drunkenly against a telephone pole. Drivers taking pictures of it. Where is he? And the breath exhales. He is walking beside a police officer. The quick hug, the “are you ok?” as the scene slowly registers. The emt’s are relaxed. They take him inside the ambulance and check for injuries. A small scratch.
“What happened?” “I was driving and I over corrected and the car rolled over twice and landed on its side on the telephone pole. The emt’s broke the sun roof to pull me out.” The words sank in.
An emt said “He was lucky. We have seen similar rollovers where it ended in a different direction. Good he was wearing a seatbelt. Good the car did not have a fuel leak.” Words cannot express the graphic visions that lit up my head.
I looked over at him. “Let”s get the paperwork done and get you home.“ “The car will be towed.”
The police woman came over to do the paperwork. “How fast were you driving? “
“The speed limit was 55 miles but I might have been going faster than that-maybe 60 miles.” A sharp glance from me.
The police woman said, “We appreciate his honesty.”
He did get a ticket for failing to control his car and we had to go before a judge because he was sixteen.
The quiet drive home. The boys upstairs watching Scooby Doo. The husband trying to calm down- insurance rates will go up, could not find his glasses, why was he driving so fast.
“I have the same nightmares as you.” I gave him a reproachful look. Insurance? Costco eyeglasses? My boy is walking. Light the candles, bow in praise, sing hallelujah.
Later, the child said, ”My girlfriend broke up with me, I totaled my car, I might lose driving privileges. My life sucks.” “Your dog is still alive, you are not yet a country song!”
Called the insurance. Went to the graveyard of cars and found his eyeglasses in the broken glass. Drove home in a peppy rental and watched the road and the sky, strangely content. All is well in the world.
In the following two weeks, every woman I met whom I told the story to, hugged me or commiserated or told me she related to it as a mom or as my friend. Every man I told this story had a different response, but it was the same across the board. “You know your insurance is going to go up.”
Baby you can drive my car….
Anita Raturi 