Are You Okay?

When I was 16, I became a statistic.

Driving home from school on 3rd West in Downtown SL, I ran a red light and hit a truck with my mother's car.

I remember watching the hood crunch between me and the truck, amazed that this was actually happening, just like they'd said it would in Driver's Ed. (I have never owned a blue car since... BAD LUCK.)

I remember thinking the man who drove the truck I hit deserved 5 gold stars - count 'em - for walking across the intersection and ignoring me instead of - I don't know - screaming his head off at the stupid teenager who'd ran into his truck.

I remember going into a nearby business to call my mother and inform her I had totaled her only car. The one that she let me drive to school, while she rode the bus to work.

I remember the two kind men who stopped and told me that "this is what insurance is for, you know." That I "shouldn't worry." I remember thinking that they should date my sister because they were so nice.

But most of all, I remember what happened when my brother showed up to collect me.

You see, my brother Joey is 10 years older than me.
I am the only one who calls him Joey, but I think I deserve it. Consider the evidence:

1. When I was small, Joey used to chase me around the house with a porcelain rabbit my grandmother had given me. For some reason I was deathly afraid of this rabbit, a fact he was more than willing to take advantage of at any opportunity.

2. When I turned 8 and he baptized me, he threatened to hold me under the water where I couldn't breathe. And I think we all know how afraid of water I am.

3. His dog Murphy systematically chewed up all my prized stuffed animals when I was little. This is actually documented in photos. Bunny Care Bear with missing ears? Check out the Brittany Spaniel with the fuzz balls in his teeth. Do we doubt who took the pictures?

4. He regularly told me my entire body was covered in a birth mark, and that the small mark near my belly button was my only piece of "real" skin.

I could go on... but this is not the point.

Because that day, when I became a statistic, when I watched in slow motion my mother's car crunching to pieces, I didn't cry.

I calmly got out of the car.
I calmly made a phone call to my mother.
I calmly watched the police analyze the scene around me, and I calmly informed them that it was most definitely my fault.

And then, my brother came to get me.

I was waiting in the car. Staring at the hood.

Joey slid into the passenger seat, and he said:

"Are you okay?"

Because he loved me (full-skin birthmark and all).

And that is when I started crying.

****

When I was 28, I became a statistic.

And last week, when this happened, some poor college student was sent to deliver sandwiches to our house.

I opened the door and stared at him like he was insane.

"Yes," I said.

"I have a delivery," he said.

I - of course - hadn't ordered anything. But I can read - miracles of miracles - and I saw the message from the person who'd sent us a meal that day.

Poor delivery boy. He didn't have a clue what he should do.

Because that is when I started crying.

Kind of like when a friend agreed to make phone calls for me earlier in the day.
Or when a doctor we'd just met said, "No, it's not okay."
Or when E said, "Mom, why are you squeezing me so tight."
Or when M said, "Oh, I miss him."
Or when flowers and meals showed up.
Or when a mother at ballet asked for a hug.
Or when my sister called me - despite the fact that we don't make phone calls - and left a message - because guess who didn't answer her phone.
Or when my cousin told me to stock up on disgusting vegetable drinks.

Because they loved me (full-skin birthmark, and all).

And that may make me cry,

but it also means that I'm okay.