A memory
When I was 21, and my brother was 19, he was in a car accident.
Last night, when I was driving home from work, I remembered that day so clearly that I could perfectly picture my dad's face at the moment it happened.
My brother and I are twenty months apart, so that for four months of the year we are one year apart in age; the rest of the time, we are two years apart.
When the phone call came, my dad was in the living room watching the history channel at an alarmingly high volume, and I was in the rec room, reading a book. I reached for the cordless extension sitting on the table in front of me, but my dad had already picked up the phone mounted on the wall, next to him.
He stood up to answer it. I stood up, holding the extension, waiting to see if the call was for me.
"Hello?" he asked, distracted by the war-time images on the television. I couldn't hear what was said on the other end, but suddenly his posture changed. He stood up straighter and stared at the receiver on the wall.
"Mitch! Son, just calm down. What happened?" He sounded confused. He ran his spare hand through his beard. I wondered what trouble my brother had gotten himself in to, and pictured the fight that would ensue when he finally came home.
"MITCHELL!" My father roared, and I winced. I've only seen him that upset a few times in my life, and not since we'd all grown up enough to take care of ourselves, and spare him the trouble.
"What happened?" I asked. He ignored me.
I walked towards my father, still holding the extension, and saw that his face was red. He was tense; the edges of his moustache and the tips of his hair - always worn just a little too long to be dignified - began to quiver. He closed his eyes, and I turned on the extension and brought it to my ear. The first thing I heard was my brother's angry ranting.
"Dad! Dad, my truck! Someone's hit my truck! My new truck!" He sounded like he did when he was little, frustrated and helpless. In the background, I heard another, strange voice.
"Colin? Colin Ford? Please, Mr. Ford, you need to sit down. Colin, sit down!" A woman's voice, awkwardly sounding out my brother's legal name, tried to get his attention.
"Mitch!" I shouted into the phone. My father looked at me, and scratched at his beard. "Mitch, someone's talking to you!" I shouted into the phone. By then, I could hear other noises. Sirens, shouting, and children screaming. My brother kept yelling, and so did the strange woman's voice.
"Colin! You have been badly injured, and you need to stop and lay down! We need to check you. You're in shock. Sir, please SIT DOWN!" Still, my brother carried on about his new truck, his first car, that he'd saved for for months and someone had just 'totaled.' When I heard him say that, I looked at my father, and suddenly we both began shouting into the phone in desperation.
"Mitch! Please! PLEASE! Listen! LISTEN TO THE PARAMEDIC!" I shouted. Then, I had the feeling that something was happening that I would remember in detail for a very long time. The edges of my vision swam, and I gripped the counter with my one empty hand and took a deep breath while my father called my brother's nickname, over and over. Suddenly, I heard my mother's voice through the phone.
"Colin Mitchell Philip Ford, sit your ass down right NOW!" That voice - the only one that could inspire true fear in us - did it's job. I remembered to breathe, and my brother finally started to listen.
"Mrs. Ford? Thank you," I heard the paramedic say.
"Yes, he's my son. What do we need to do?" My mother's voice belied very little fear, and she didn't bother to tell the paramedic that she hadn't been "Mrs. Ford" in many years. I could hear her physically take the phone from my brother, and she spoke into it.
"Roger?" She said my father's name, her ex-husband of nearly twenty years. I could not remember the last time I had heard them call each other by name.
"Is he okay?" My father asked, short of breath and still red in the face.
"They're checking him out now. We're going to the hospital. I'll call you when we know something," she finished.
"Mom," I said.
"I know," she replied absently, and hung up. My father and I stared at each other across the kitchen.
Later, we found out that my brother had stopped behind another car at a crosswalk in front of a daycare center, where a group of children were waiting to cross the street. The person behind him, driving over 80 kilometers an hour, didn't stop. The impact dislodged my brother's seat inside his truck, and he was thrown around inside. The woman driving the car in front of him had pulled him from his truck when it had begun to leak gasoline. When he came to, he was in a rage, shouting at the driver of the tiny import that had hit him, whose engine was now in the driver's lap. This was when he'd called home. The police said that the only thing keeping the first car from going over the crosswalk and onto the sidewalk beyond where the daycare was, was that there was one more vehicle - my brother and his truck - between them.
My brother's goal of becoming a mechanic ended there. The impact had damaged his spine so badly that, to date, he has had three surgeries on his spine, and wasn't permitted even to hold his first child when he was born.
Don't think that this makes him some kind of hero. The reckless driving that had caused the accident was not wholly unfamiliar to my brother. I'm just grateful that, when the inevitable happened, he was the one who got hurt, because as bad as it sounds, I would not want him to be responsible for the kind of damage this accident has done to him, or our family.
Last night, when I was driving home from work, I remembered that day so clearly that I could perfectly picture my dad's face at the moment it happened.
My brother and I are twenty months apart, so that for four months of the year we are one year apart in age; the rest of the time, we are two years apart.
When the phone call came, my dad was in the living room watching the history channel at an alarmingly high volume, and I was in the rec room, reading a book. I reached for the cordless extension sitting on the table in front of me, but my dad had already picked up the phone mounted on the wall, next to him.
He stood up to answer it. I stood up, holding the extension, waiting to see if the call was for me.
"Hello?" he asked, distracted by the war-time images on the television. I couldn't hear what was said on the other end, but suddenly his posture changed. He stood up straighter and stared at the receiver on the wall.
"Mitch! Son, just calm down. What happened?" He sounded confused. He ran his spare hand through his beard. I wondered what trouble my brother had gotten himself in to, and pictured the fight that would ensue when he finally came home.
"MITCHELL!" My father roared, and I winced. I've only seen him that upset a few times in my life, and not since we'd all grown up enough to take care of ourselves, and spare him the trouble.
"What happened?" I asked. He ignored me.
I walked towards my father, still holding the extension, and saw that his face was red. He was tense; the edges of his moustache and the tips of his hair - always worn just a little too long to be dignified - began to quiver. He closed his eyes, and I turned on the extension and brought it to my ear. The first thing I heard was my brother's angry ranting.
"Dad! Dad, my truck! Someone's hit my truck! My new truck!" He sounded like he did when he was little, frustrated and helpless. In the background, I heard another, strange voice.
"Colin? Colin Ford? Please, Mr. Ford, you need to sit down. Colin, sit down!" A woman's voice, awkwardly sounding out my brother's legal name, tried to get his attention.
"Mitch!" I shouted into the phone. My father looked at me, and scratched at his beard. "Mitch, someone's talking to you!" I shouted into the phone. By then, I could hear other noises. Sirens, shouting, and children screaming. My brother kept yelling, and so did the strange woman's voice.
"Colin! You have been badly injured, and you need to stop and lay down! We need to check you. You're in shock. Sir, please SIT DOWN!" Still, my brother carried on about his new truck, his first car, that he'd saved for for months and someone had just 'totaled.' When I heard him say that, I looked at my father, and suddenly we both began shouting into the phone in desperation.
"Mitch! Please! PLEASE! Listen! LISTEN TO THE PARAMEDIC!" I shouted. Then, I had the feeling that something was happening that I would remember in detail for a very long time. The edges of my vision swam, and I gripped the counter with my one empty hand and took a deep breath while my father called my brother's nickname, over and over. Suddenly, I heard my mother's voice through the phone.
"Colin Mitchell Philip Ford, sit your ass down right NOW!" That voice - the only one that could inspire true fear in us - did it's job. I remembered to breathe, and my brother finally started to listen.
"Mrs. Ford? Thank you," I heard the paramedic say.
"Yes, he's my son. What do we need to do?" My mother's voice belied very little fear, and she didn't bother to tell the paramedic that she hadn't been "Mrs. Ford" in many years. I could hear her physically take the phone from my brother, and she spoke into it.
"Roger?" She said my father's name, her ex-husband of nearly twenty years. I could not remember the last time I had heard them call each other by name.
"Is he okay?" My father asked, short of breath and still red in the face.
"They're checking him out now. We're going to the hospital. I'll call you when we know something," she finished.
"Mom," I said.
"I know," she replied absently, and hung up. My father and I stared at each other across the kitchen.
Later, we found out that my brother had stopped behind another car at a crosswalk in front of a daycare center, where a group of children were waiting to cross the street. The person behind him, driving over 80 kilometers an hour, didn't stop. The impact dislodged my brother's seat inside his truck, and he was thrown around inside. The woman driving the car in front of him had pulled him from his truck when it had begun to leak gasoline. When he came to, he was in a rage, shouting at the driver of the tiny import that had hit him, whose engine was now in the driver's lap. This was when he'd called home. The police said that the only thing keeping the first car from going over the crosswalk and onto the sidewalk beyond where the daycare was, was that there was one more vehicle - my brother and his truck - between them.
My brother's goal of becoming a mechanic ended there. The impact had damaged his spine so badly that, to date, he has had three surgeries on his spine, and wasn't permitted even to hold his first child when he was born.
Don't think that this makes him some kind of hero. The reckless driving that had caused the accident was not wholly unfamiliar to my brother. I'm just grateful that, when the inevitable happened, he was the one who got hurt, because as bad as it sounds, I would not want him to be responsible for the kind of damage this accident has done to him, or our family.