December 2010

From my living room on that late, gray afternoon, I noticed a police car parked on the street outside the apartment. Weird, I thought. It hadn’t been there a few minutes ago.

Almost immediately, I heard a knock at the front door. It was a state highway patrolman.

What had happened? Why was he here?

My heart fluttered, rising, and lodged itself at the back of my throat. I inhaled deeply to catch my breath and opened the door.

“Ms. Young?”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering if I could come in and speak to you for a few moments.”

“Of course.”

As I opened the door to welcome him inside, I suddenly remembered that I had never returned their call after the accident.

“Please, Officer, sit down.”

The highway patrolman perched along the edge of my beige leather couch and leaned forward, elbows on knees, a clipboard in his hands. He was tall, and he looked uncomfortably out of place in my small living room. He cleared his throat then, dark eyebrows resting under his hat like two fuzzy caterpillars.

“I’m from the Ashland Highway Patrol Post, Ms. Young, and I’m here to talk to you about the accident you were involved in, back in July.”

So that was it. The accident. It had been over four months.

“I never gave a statement. Is that what you need?”

“No, that’s not why I’m here actually…but if you’d like to give your statement in writing, we can do that,” he offered.

Hmmm. Why was he here if it wasn’t for my version of the accident? I was confused.

“I’m here because toxicology reports came back for the other driver involved, and— ”

Oh no.

I already knew what he was going to tell me.

He flipped a few papers back on the clipboard so he could read from one, and I wanted to plug my ears. I didn’t want to hear this, I just wanted the whole thing to be over.

“—the other driver tested positive for marijuana…and…”

I knew it. I knew it.

Wait. He said “and.” There was more?

“…uh…”

His dark brows furrowed, and he looked at the paper as if it were a puzzle.

“Benzo…”

He wasn’t sure how to pronounce it.

“Um…Benzodiazepine,” he said.

I wanted to see the word. I leaned forward, and he turned the clipboard around to show me.

“I’ve never heard of that before.”

“Neither have I, actually,” the officer replied.

Unbelievable. That and marijuana. I wondered how the combination of those drugs might affect someone.

“Since the other driver was under the influence, I have to inform you that you are now officially the victim of a crime,” the officer said, “and you are entitled to certain rights as such.”

Victim of a Crime: a new title to add to my otherwise prestigious collection. It would fit nicely up against Supermom, award-winning teacher, Ricky Martin fangirl, local “Holocaust lady,” and heart attack survivor, wouldn’t it?

He handed me a pamphlet about being a victim of a crime. How could a pamphlet possibly help? I wanted to ask. Why would knowing I was the victim of a crime and that I had certain rights matter now? It wouldn’t. Nothing could change or fix or soothe what had happened nor what I now knew for a fact: why it had happened.

“I’ve heard so many rumors about him,” I said.

“Well, now you know.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” he said.

“Do you know how fast he was going that night? I’ve never seen any reports.”

He flipped through a few more pages of paperwork and finally gave up.

“I don’t see it here anywhere, and I wasn’t the officer who wrote the report. I wasn’t there that night,” the trooper explained.

“It’s okay; I understand.”

“You can always call the post and speak to the officer who was on call that night,” he said. “He could tell you.”

“Thank you. There was a voicemail on my phone after the accident from him, but I never returned the call. I forgot.”

“You can give a statement now if you’d like,” he offered.

The patrolman handed me the clipboard with a blank accident report on top to fill out.

“I was going about 55 mph south on Route 60 toward Loudonville, and out of my peripheral vision saw lights, and then it seemed there was an instantaneous crash, impact on my left-side door. I noticed immediately my front tooth and then there was a man talking to me outside my car. I couldn’t respond,” I wrote.

I handed the clipboard back to him, so he could read it.

“What injuries did you receive?” he asked.

As I told him, he recorded a list, raising his dark eyebrows in surprise.

“Well, you look like you’re recovering nicely,” he said. “You’re a teacher, right?”

“I am, yes.”

“Have you returned to work yet?” he asked.

“No, I’m going to wait until the new semester starts in January. I’m taking a little extra time off to make sure I’m ready.”

“That’s a good idea. And I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear, but I hope it can bring you some peace,” he said.

With that he stood up, tipped his hat in respect, and said, “Have a good night, ma’am.”

I closed the door behind him.

Wow.

How could knowing bring me peace?

I thought back to my hospital bed in the Trauma Clinic and the unfinished threat I made. I better not find out the driver of that car was drunk or high…

Or what, Aimee? What are you going to do about it? What can you do about it?

Nothing. There was nothing I could do.

The other driver had broken the law. He was under the influence, just as I had suspected. I had the word of authorities, and they had toxicology reports. Concrete facts.

Things I couldn’t change. Things that don’t go away or bring peace, no matter how much I longed for them to. They just become a part of the experience, a part of me, forming another scar.

And what was one more?