Crash

The call came late Sunday afternoon, and as soon as E. said, “Mom, I’m fine,” I knew he wasn’t. 

There had been an accident. His friend was driving. He’d hit a wet slick on the road. They’d skidded and spun, hit an oncoming car, took another hit from behind, then crashed into a pole. They'd crawled out through the driver’s side window. That they survived is nothing short of miraculous.

The tremble in E’s voice was palpable.

“I’m coming home,” I said.

“We spun out,” he said, trailing off. “I’m so scared.”

I hadn’t heard my boy cry in years.

I raced home, dropped my bags on the floor and wrapped my arms around him. I had to stand on my toes to kiss him. He was shaking. My muscle-bound athlete, my tough guy, the kid I’ve been butting heads with for the past 18 months—now tender, terrified, vulnerable; afraid to drive in a car, or walk down the street.

It took hours of rubbing his back, hugging him and staying close, to help him get to sleep, and more of the same all the next day.

Confession: I relish the closeness, his need for me. I assure him he is safe, over and over. He can’t seem to hear it enough. This has always been my job: To love him as much as is humanly possible and to let him know how much he is cherished. It is even more critical now that I can no longer physically protect him.

He keeps reliving the crash, drifting in and out of disbelief and detachment, his world and ours, forever changed.