55 mph
55 mph, that’s what the sign said. She was going 60. So what? A measly five miles over the limit. Who cares? No cop was going to pull her over for that, that’s for damn sure. Plus, she hated when people went the exact speed limit. Drove her bonkers.
“Being overly cautious on the road is a danger in and of itself,” she liked to proclaim.
Her hands were both on the wheel, she could attest to that. Ten and twelve. Or was it supposed to be ten and four? It had been so long since she skimmed that dry Driver’s Ed manual and taken the test, passed of course, she was no fool — more than half a lifetime ago. What did it matter? She had her damned hands on the wheel. The whole time.
Okay, almost the whole time. It was a road she knew well. Went the same route every day to work. Had the timing down perfect. Some mornings it was foggy; she loved those mornings. When the hills and valleys conspired to make a beautiful caul out of the air, and she was thrilled to only see the hint of red taillights in front of her, without seeing the whole car.
But it wasn’t foggy this morning. Nor was it icy, or snowy, or cold at all — all of which she dreaded and hated with a deep sickness in the pit of her stomach.
“I don’t trust other drivers; that’s what terrifies me,” she also liked to say. She was a woman who liked to say things, and liked to hear herself say them.
It was an entirely normal morning. Partly cloudy, mid-sixties, typical for upstate New York in mid-August. Normal traffic. Normal podcast. She had gotten a normal amount of sleep. Thinking about the day’s plans, what to do once in the office, what meetings were scheduled.
The police would later deem this, distracted. She scoffed, offended, at the phrase. She was not, and had never been a distracted woman, certainly not while driving! She took that responsibility seriously. Never drank, never smoked — well, she had that brief run in her early 20’s, but that’s when it was all the rage and no one knew any better, anyhow.
Distracted? Never. Not while driving. Eagle-eye focus. Eyes constantly flickering between the side and rear-view mirrors, the road ahead, all at appropriate intervals, of course.
How was she to know?
There weren’t even any “Slow! Children Playing!” signs or whatever that crap she detested said. Just a stretch of 55 mph road, where it was perfectly acceptable to go five miles over, thank you very much.
And where were the parents? she hollered. Where were they, leaving their toddler to fend for himself? Inwardly, she assumed — decided — they were doing drugs. What else could they have been doing, in that dilapidated house they called a home? Meth, or crack, or some sort of … something. It was clear. Why didn’t they have to undergo the humility of a drug test? Why was she the one with a plastic cup between her thighs, wiping herself down there according to specific directions with a nasty antibacterial wipe — how could that be good for anything? — filling the cup with warm urine, the color of clarified butter. Shameful. It made her sick.
She had trained herself to watch, diligently, for deer. Big, lumbering, somewhat graceful nuisances. She had never hit one of those, for chrissakes. She’d had a couple close calls. Living in the country does that to you.
But a toddler in a diaper isn’t a deer. Barely a woodchuck.
And the sound –
Oh god. She can’t think about it. It makes her sick. Sick.
But the way the kid popped up, out of fucking nowhere… She swears up and down to God himself, that kid fucking appeared, and all of sudden, there was her car grinding the little guy up like peanuts into something that resembled a sack of rotten potatoes. She braked, and the cops were offhandedly talking about maybe that’s what did it, the reaction. She was in such a daze, she stumbled out of the car and knelt by the bloodied mess of the thing she had destroyed instantaneously. And then a woman — the mother? –there was shouting and hollering and grabbing, and the woman’s nails dug into her arms, and the police separated them. She willingly went into a police car and looked back at her car, the blood, the body. How old was he? What was his name? She pushed it out of her head.
Because where were the parents? She calls out from her cell, but no one answers. She can see them, the police officers, heads bent over their shared desk, doing whatever menial task they have to in order to “process” and “book” her. Or maybe they’re doing a crossword. She doubts they’re smart enough to complete a crossword puzzle.
Instead, she leans back. Closes her eyes. Thinks of her meetings. Her car.
Why couldn’t she have hit a goddamned deer instead?
