Metal on Metal

When metal hits metal at high speeds, it makes that noise. It sounds the same from inside the car as it does from the outside.I was happily driving along on my way to Pittsburgh. I was thinking about my sister, and about the fun things we would do that week. Suddenly, I felt an impact on the left rear of the car, and heard The Sound. I gripped the steering wheel, feeling myself being pushed with great force into oncoming traffic on the other side of the highway. There were, it seemed, dozens of vehicles approaching head-on. A strange calmness descended. I felt, but did not say or think, “So this is how it ends.”In that stripped-down second, I knew that if I were to die immediately, it would be no great tragedy. Not because my life had no meaning, but because I've seen slow death, and this sudden full stop seemed like a great mercy. Yes, even in that brief instant, I thought, “No Alzheimer's!”But my mouth did open, and what came out was a whisper, “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!”My car rotated in slow motion and came to a complete stop on the median. The drivers of oncoming vehicles, those who had second ago been behind me, looked strangely wide-eyed. I stared at them, and came to understand that they were slowing down so I could guide my little Matrix across the road and into a parking lot. My car was making choking, dragging-metal sounds.Then I saw the SUV that hit me. The driver had pulled over and was climbing out. A young man ran toward me, shouting, “Are you okay? Are you okay?”I assured him I was fine. He collapsed onto the sidewalk, wailing. The people began to gather around us, asking questions, making phone calls. An ambulance came and they gave the man some oxygen and asked him questions. A policeman came and asked me if I was all right. I told him I was okay, just a little shaken up. The coins from my coinholder were all over the back seat. The entire left rear was smashed in, and there was glass on the floor of the trunk.People kept asking me if I was all right. I kept telling them yes. A man brought me ice water in a styrofoam cup. A waitress from the diner asked me if I was all right, I said, “I don't know.” She hugged me. Her shirt smelled like cigarette smoke and french fries, and I started to cry. “It's okay. You'll be okay,” she told me. “I just. I just. I could have died,” I said. “I know, I know. You're okay,” she said.I called my son and said, “I just want you to know I had an accident and the car is all smashed up, but I'm okay.”A man came out of the auto parts store and told me he saw the whole thing. He and the policeman stood and talked a long time. I sat down on the curb, not drinking my ice water, wondering why people still use styrofoam. I thought of my sister at the airport, and how nice the waitress had been, and that I could have died.The policeman came back and I stood up and he told me that the other driver had had a seizure and probably his foot had pushed the accelerator when he blacked out. He offered to drive me someplace. I had to ride in the backseat of the police car, which had no upholstery. Clutching my purse and my styrofoam cup, I climbed in and watched the stores and cars and trucks go by. I never saw my little Matrix after that day.Sometimes I think of that instant, looking at the oncoming cars. I couldn't stop and I couldn't steer. I could only sit there, watching my own self hurtling through space and feeling curiously suspended and wondering how the story would end. But feeling, at the same time, that it would be okay.