Death in Bed

I.

A car crashed into our house one time. I was sleeping and saw the headlights flood my room and get brighter than usual and there was a huge thud and the whole house rocked. My Legos fell off the shelves and shattered. I remember how deadly quiet it was after.

I ran to my parents’ bedroom and they were looking out their window, down a floor to the front steps, where a Saab was crunched. “There’s a crumpled body in the car,” my dad said, his voice wobbly. My first thought was, Great, now the house is gonna be haunted. We watched a lot of Ghost Adventures and TAPS.

We called 911 and went out onto the lawn. There was nobody in the car. Just the driver’s seat throttled up to the steering wheel and the airbag blown out.

I remember a news helicopter over our house, but my parents say that didn’t happen. The story didn’t even make the local papers. I remember the firemen out there and how nice they were. I always hoped I’d see one of them around town because he was such a nice guy. Rosy cheeks and chapped jowls. I guess I wanted to thank him, give him a hug.

The car totally smashed our concrete front steps and left muddy tire tracks all the way up our lawn, deeply embedded in the grass. An inspector came a few days later and said the house wasn’t pushed off its foundation, so that was good. But the whole front entrance was demolished, and we got new granite front steps that were really nice.

The driver was a teenage girl who had been coming from a party down the street and apparently fell asleep at the wheel. I remember being frustrated that no one would tell me whether or not she was intoxicated. Soon after, she actually came to our house with her mother to apologize. I was embarrassed that we had to do this.

After the crash, every time I heard a car coming down our little cul-de-sac at night, I would wake up and see headlights and get scared it would happen again. My parents sent me to a therapy session with my middle school principal’s husband who had a local practice. I don’t know what we talked about. I never went back.

II.

Waiting for my mom to get home. Certain she’d been killed in a car crash. It would be a beautiful summer night in Massachusetts farm country and I’d lie there and hear the peepers and the crickets. My window would be open and the breeze would gently blow my white lace curtains. Or it would be a winter night and I’d look out the window and, if it was snowing, I’d notice the way the light pole in the middle of our front yard was dimmer than usual because of the buildup of flakes. I’d lie back down, listening intently each time I saw headlights stream through the curtains as car after car turned the curve on our dead-end street, listening to hear if the engine hum got lower. If it did, it was her.

She should have been home by now, I’d think.

If there was some kind of storm, I’d imagine her spinning out and flipping her car over, her body crumpled and unrecognizable. She always pumps the breaks, drifts in the lanes, runs red lights. It would be her fault if she died.

I would stay awake until I saw headlights illuminate my room and I would know that a car was turning onto our driveway. And she would drive down the driveway and open the garage manually because we didn’t have an electric garage door opener and I’d hear the door slam down. It rumbled my bedroom floor and made my heart shudder a little, but I’d smile then sleep.

III.

Sometimes, just before going to sleep, I would lie under the covers, close my eyes, and, as hard as I could, think: I’m going to die.

My body would tense up and a shiver would go through it. I’d get dizzy as I thought about how big and old the universe is and how small I am and how soon I will die considering how long the universe has been alive. I would pursue the thought as far as I could, intentionally, thinking how I will not exist. It was like mining deeper and deeper into a coal mine that got darker and darker and the light from the outside got dimmer and dimmer. Denser. Like biting down on a jawbreaker that won’t break.

I really will not exist. There will be a time when I die. And that is real. It won’t be long either. Maybe I’m even halfway there.

Terrified, I’d quickly roll over and bring my legs close to my chest and put my hands over my face and clench my eyes, like, please make it go away please make it go away.

I’ll die. I won’t be able to talk or see. I’ll lose my senses. And the world will go on without me.

And my whole body would get tighter and tighter and my teeth would clench and I would bury my head in a pillow.

I’ll be out there, in the universe. No one will be with me.

“Please please please please please,” I’d whisper aloud, desperately, not entirely sure who I was talking to, begging. My eyes were closed so tightly I could feel my cheeks rise to almost cover them. I lost all awareness of my room and could only hear my voice and the rustling of the sheets. I’d kick my legs like I was treading water, messing up the tucked-in bedding. I’d hyperextend my knees like I was trying to push a huge stone off a cliff.

“No no no no no no,” my voice hoarse and young almost like crying but with no tears.

And I’d stay like this for maybe thirty seconds, holding my breath, before the thought of death began to feel less real again. I didn’t have any control over when the thought would stop. It would just sort of get less and less dense. The thought would shed its layers. My body would start to relax and I’d take my hands off my face and open my eyes and breathe out. The tightness in my body from the terror would turn into numbness. My brain would feel refreshed. The room would appear again and I would hear my parents clanging dishes or walking up the stairs. Maybe that’s why I would rather be blind than deaf.