The sign at the bottom of the hill says “No Trucks Over 5 Tons Allowed.” It’s supposed to make eighteen-wheelers continue down the highway to the next exit.
The guardrail at the sharp bend halfway up the hill is supposed to keep cars and trucks from toppling over and landing upside down in my front yard.
Forty-two days and seven hours ago, both these precautions failed.
I was just giving Abby her lunch. The house shook as if an earthquake had torn the world open. My kitchen counter shattered into mosaic pieces. Lights fell. Surfaces upended. Pans and dishes crashed onto the tilting floor.
I yanked my daughter out of her highchair and hugged her as we slid to the far side of the room, where I landed hard and lay stunned, covering her. The nightmare of tearing and shattering, of smoke alarms blaring, seemed to go on and on as we huddled in the corner between the fridge and the dishwasher. I couldn’t hear myself or Abby screaming.
The fire company arrived, shored up the pile of debris that had once been the back wall of my home, and eased me out, still hunched over Abby. The tumbling semi had pushed the house right off the foundations and a bearing wall had torn loose. Support beams had folded in half, bringing the rest of the house down. When I went back the next day and saw what Abby and I had survived—what we escaped—I bent over and threw up. More than a month has passed, but every now and then I still do.
The truck driver died instantly.
Abby and I spent a night in the hospital. The doctors said Abby’s hearing would probably return in a few weeks, although explosion-induced deafness was notoriously hard to predict in toddlers. I ended up with a black eye, a universe of scrapes, and six stitches on my arm where I’d been gashed by something sharp.
Jude came straight from work and spent the night in the hospital with us. We didn’t talk. He was as silent and stunned as I was.
The hardest part was trying to explain to Abby, with gestures, that Goldie the goldfish was gone. She cried about that loss for a while, but she’d been dumped into a life with no belongings, in a hotel room with scratchy carpets, in a world turned completely silent after sudden thunder had torn the sky apart. This was all the confusion she could handle.
It’s been more than a month and Abby still can’t hear. I still can’t sleep at night; the slightest unexpected sound and I am wide awake.
The other day I got angry—enraged—at the stupidest thing. The spoons in the hotel room kitchenette were in a different slot than I keep—kept—them in my kitchen. I upended the entire drawer onto the floor and kicked spoons from one end of the room to the other until I could no longer find any to kick. The clanging echoed in my ears long after I slumped, drained, against the counter.
Yet oddly, I find the endless insurance paperwork soothing. At least there’s something I can get right. Inventories of furniture, clothing, electronics, jewelry, books, dishware. Don’t care. Abby’s toys. Jude’s golf clubs. Some of the family photos were salvaged; I should be sorry the rest are gone, but oh well.
Jude left me three days and nine hours ago. We were on shaky ground before the crash, but my rages and Abby’s night terrors are too much for him. Mostly it’s my need for him to fix everything that’s been too much. I don’t need a husband right now, I need a knight in clean, stable, magical, shining armor. He’s dealing with the lawyers and mortgage, replacement cars and medical bills, but he’s gone. Abby sleeps with me now.
My parents came in from out of town and they’re staying in the hotel with us. My sister took a week off from work, helped me double check my insurance lists, and researched a good therapist for me to see. Friends have brought clothes and toys. The daycare center is taking Abby for free until the insurance payments kick in. I’m grateful for all this support. I really am.
I’m having trouble remembering what day it is.
This morning I fell out of bed and banged my face against the bedside table. The one in this hotel room is bigger than the one I have at home. Used to have. In my old bedroom.
I was holding ice against my eye when Abby toddled into the kitchen. “I’m hungry,” she shouted at me. “Wan cheeroz.” Her words are starting to come out garbled.
I opened the cabinet where I keep cereal. No Cheerios. Checked the other cabinets. Nothing. I had forgotten to buy more. I took out the jar of peanut butter and held it up.
“Noooo! Wan Cheeroz!”
I opened all the cabinets to show her there were no Cheerios. I picked up my car keys and jangled them, hoping she would understand that meant “shopping, later.”
She flung herself onto the floor, sobbing.
Kicking silverware would not make me feel better. I wanted to make the clocks untick and the house reassemble itself. I wanted to roll that truck backward down the hill, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t even plan cereal for breakfast. Lying down next to my daughter, I curled us together and started to cry right along with her.
I mentally created a shopping list: Cheerios, more milk, new socks for Abby. What else? I keep thinking there’s something I lost in that crash that I haven’t been able to remember. Not my grandmother’s china—that’s already on the insurance list. Not books or clothes. Not furniture or any of my junk jewelry. I need to check my lists again. Cheerios, more milk, new socks for Abby. There’s something I can’t quite put my finger on that’s gone.
Elissa Matthews was born, raised, and began working in New Jersey, but eventually launched on a journey of discovery and odd jobs, including bartender, cook on a prawn trawler, and cold-water SCUBA diver. She once again lives in New Jersey, twelve miles down the road from where she grew up. She has one published novel, Where the River Bends, and a collection of short stories, Bittersweet and Magic. Her short stories and poetry have appeared in several journals and anthologies.
Photo by Jean Woloszczyk on Unsplash