my head dropped. I swore I felt her pain.
This tank of a car had kept my girl safe and now faced being sold for parts and flattened. “Thank you,” I said to her.
By midafternoon, I sat on my couch, looking out at gray skies that seemed to hold the type of rain that came down by the bucketful. Tuesday had been hot and sunny, but the weather had returned to the usual cold dampness that came with fall in Washington. I tried to be thankful that we didn’t have to stand out in the rain that day. I couldn’t believe it had only been two days before.
I paced the square of open floor in my apartment, phone pressed to my ear, listening to scratchy classical music. A policeman called to notify me that the other driver had a minimum amount of insurance, so I called them right away. “Well, just send me the model number of the car seat, and we’ll send you a check for that,” the agent from the other insurance company said on the phone after several minutes. “I can get you paid for your missed work, too. Also, we’ll get you a rental and move your car to another lot. We should have reimbursement for the repairs or the cost of the car by next—”
“Wait,” I said. “So, it’s not my fault? You’re taking responsibility?”
“Yes,” she said. “We are taking full responsibility for this accident. You were pulled over to the side of the road, you had your hazards on, and you were parked. You are not at fault for this accident.”
Her voice was so full of sincerity. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault. I even started to believe it.
Most of my life as a mother had been tiptoeing uneasily on a floor, both real and metaphorical, becoming hesitant to trust the surface at all. Every time I built back a foundation, walls, floor, or even a roof over our heads, I felt sure it would collapse again. My job was to survive the crash, dust myself off, and rebuild. So I made a decision to trust my gut; and when I went back to work, I told Pam that I could clean only one house a day. By the time I dropped Mia off at day care, drove to one house, and cleaned it, the prospect of driving to another and starting all over again was too much. I was done.
Back at the Clown House two weeks later, I lugged my supplies up the staircase, past the moving eyes to the master bathroom. The bathroom had double sinks, a stand-up shower the size of a formal dining room table, a jetted tub on a corner platform. The tub, again, stopped me. There was something about the idea of feeling cradled, or held. I sat inside with one knee up while I dialed an attorney. I still needed to figure out how to survive the financial ruin the accident had caused.
I told the lawyer everything about the incident and what the insurance company said they’d cover, but the amount they offered for my car would barely pay off the loan. I needed a car immediately. He gave me a few key phrases to use the next time I talked to the woman who’d been assigned to my case. When I called her a few hours later, my voice shook as I repeated the rehearsed lines.
“My daughter and I have been extremely affected by this accident,” I said, trying not to sound like I was reading from notes. “She isn’t sleeping well and startles easily at loud noises.” I told her about our neighbor’s car backfiring, how Mia now jumped, startling herself, sometimes to the point of running to me in tears. I mentioned my own stress level, how I was now unable to juggle and complete tasks that I’d previously been able to do with ease. “The emotional stress we’ve been under, feeling the constant tremors from this accident, along with my financial inability to afford a replacement vehicle, have put us under great amounts of hardship.” I took a deep breath. “We need treatment for this. I need therapy, and possibly medication. Mia needs help, too. There’s no way I can afford that on top of the expense of a new car.” I paused to take another deep breath. “If your company is not willing to cover our costs from emotional trauma, I will seek legal counsel in order to be properly compensated.”