In Like a Lion

Tonight, we were having Warren and Sharon and their toddler S. over for dinner. After a full day of teaching, I still had a few groceries to snag, so I flew through Costco, grabbing veggies and bread (oh, and a case of Greek yogurt—loving that stuff!). I filled up my car’s gas tank and headed home, running a little late, but not enough to worry over.

However, just before the second to last bridge on my way home, traffic stopped. Parking. Lot.

I then, conveniently, remembered that my car has, shall we say, a little problem. Lately, if the car idles too long it heats up. It’s a fairly easy problem to forget, as I’m not often in bad traffic, and I had been putting off the repairs. I figured I could make it to spring break (in a week and a half) when I’d have the time to get it fixed. Plus, our February budget took a beating with the new tires my car required and the whole coyote ordeal. March would be kinder, I hoped.

As I inched my way toward the bridge, I saw the temperature gauge go up. And up. I knew if I could just get the car moving, it would cool down and everything would be fine. I just had to get over this bridge. The traffic, however, was just not budging.

(Oh, and I should mention that the bridge has no real emergency lane or shoulder.)

It took nearly fifteen minutes to get from the light to the base of the bridge. The engine was still heating up. By now, I was past any place I could pull over and let it cool down. I just needed to get over the darn bridge.

Sharon called, as she’d heard I was stuck in traffic. I told her about my car, told her I was close—so close—that once I got over the bridge I’d be fine.

On the very top of the bridge is when I smelled the burning. And saw the steam.

I panicked, still on the phone with Sharon, saying something like, “My car is smoking! My car is smoking! My car is smoking! Oh nooooo!” and she told me to get off the bridge and pull over, so that’s what I tried to do. I turned off the engine and put it neutral, coasting little by little down the bridge.

“Do you have your emergency flashers on?” Sharon asked.

Oh! Right! I switched them on.

I watched the steam, smelled the burning, cars boxing me in, nowhere to go, and kept coasting. It felt like twenty minutes, but it couldn’t have taken me that long to get off the bridge and pull over at the first opportunity.

I was fifteen minutes from home. I was so close. I had gotten off the bridge. And I had ruined my car.

“I’ve ruined my car!” I wailed. “Dad told me to get it fixed and I didn’t!”

Sharon said soothing things in a soothing tone of voice and told me to call my dad. Warren had already called Jesse to tell him what happened. All I needed to do was wait a little while.

Meanwhile, the car kept smoking.

I called Dad. Up until this point, I had not cried, but as soon as my father picked up the phone, I blubbered: “I have a problem with my car!” (And, yes, every sentence I spoke did have an exclamation point at the end.) What I was really saying was: Why do you live several states away and how can that stop being the case because I need my dad and I’m homesick and growing up is hard! (I’m not sure he got all that from the sentence I actually managed to get out.)

He told me I needed to make sure the car had water in it. By now, traffic was picking up, so cars were speeding by at nearly sixty miles per hour. I was beyond frazzled. All I could think about was the accident I’d been in in Florida, seeing the headlights in the rearview mirror and being able to do nothing to stop them. The truck just hadn’t seen us. I wondered how well the cars coming over the bridge could see me.

So, water. I didn’t have water. I had a water bottle with about two drinks of water swishing around the bottom. Not enough, obviously. Cars kept speeding by. Sometimes, I can still hear the sounds of the truck hitting our car just as clearly as the night it happened. I try not to think about it. But tonight was one time when the sound echoed loud in my ears. I needed to get away from this bridge.

Dad then had the particular misfortune of asking, “Hasn’t your car had this problem for the past couple weeks now?” (To my ears: Didn’t I tell you to get it fixed already?)

Not. Good. The blubbering took on a new dimension of desperation.

I know I’m not good at taking care of my car. I don’t keep it washed as much as I should. I go over on my oil changes. I’m bad at basic maintenance. I ran out of gas at least twice during college. And my yard is full of weeds and I’m sure behind the oven is really dirty and there is this piece of my back door that has kind of rotted out that I should have fixed by now. Apparently, I have a bad habit of augmenting my father’s actual words with layers of my own disappointment. I suppose the conversation I was having and the conversation he was having were two totally different conversations.

I cried, and Dad tried to get me to calm down.

I watched as a police car drove past me. Didn’t even slow down.

I hung up the phone and took a deep breath, telling myself that Jesse would be by any minute now. We hadn’t carpooled (thankfully), and he had left a little later than I had. I watched the cars coming up behind me and looked for his. Then, I put the obvious two and two together: have Jesse get water on his way. Duh.

By now, I had been stuck for about twenty minutes or so (it was hard to tell). Traffic was getting faster. The sun was setting. I re-buckled my seatbelt, imagining a distracted driver slipping just a little too far to the right and slamming into me. I heard the sound—the metal on metal, the bang, the airbags exploding. I wondered if airbags deployed the same with the car off. I wondered if I’d ruined my car and rendered the airbags useless. I looked behind me, hoping to see the headlights of Jesse’s car.

I called Jesse to have him get the water, and he said, “Oh. I’m already home.”

…

…

“You left me?!”

Now, the hysterics that had been showing themselves in spurts really let loose. I imagined him driving past my car, emergency flashers and everything, heading straight on home.

It turns out, he hadn’t driven by me. He’d gone a different way home and had missed me altogether. But, he would be right there with water. Just hang on.

I hung on. I watched as another police car drove past. Without stopping.

Sometimes I wonder if some brave part of me was broken in that accident, turning me into the kind of person who imagines the sound of two cars slamming into one another, who doesn’t want to get out of the car to prop up the hood. Then, I think–what would I do? Pour imaginary water into that dirty white plastic tube? I know where it is. I would have been able to do it on my own. But, no water. And I just wanted to be home.

Finally, after what seemed like three months, but was probably only fifteen minutes, Jesse showed up and put water in my car and after a few tries got it to start and drove it home while I followed in his car. As I walked inside our house, I wailed, “I ruined my car!”

Let’s be honest: I have an old car. Fourteen years old. And things were bound to happen. But what was not supposed to happen was my failure to fix a minor problem, allowing it to become a potentially major problem. This is not in the budget, I thought, not when we’re trying so hard to save money, not in the middle of a stressful semester, a week and a half before spring break, when all I’m trying to do is just hang in there, just make it. I’ve got a little less energy and emotional resources to deal with the normal stressors in my life right now; this was too much.

I whined and blubbered some more, but there was dinner to fix and our friends were coming over (I assured Sharon that I needed the distraction). Of course, the moment S. started to laugh and smile, I felt better. Dinner turned out well (how that happened, I’ll never know). We watched American Idol and added our own critiques. By the time they left, I was feeling much better.

We’ll take the car to the shop tomorrow. Fingers crossed for “not ruined.”

What’s that saying? March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb? I thought that was supposed to be the weather. Here’s hoping the end of the month is more lamb-like.