Ice Cream by Kimberly Patterson September 24 Today I met Dr. Wyatt. He is the psychiatrist here at the hospital. He dresses kind of weird. (Who wears bow ties nowadays anyway?) He is a good listener, though. I reckon I like him pretty well. He gave me this nifty journal. "Expressing emotions is good," he told me. "If you don’t get it out of your system, it isn’t healthy." He also wants me to write to remember as much as I can. I told him that with all of these I.V.s and everything that it’s not like I am going anywhere. I might as well give it a shot. What do I have to lose? I’m going to go ahead and write down what I can remember. It’s not much, so this shouldn’t take too long. I got an A on a math test. Man, I studied for that test for weeks. I deserved that A. So my parents decided that we should celebrate by going out for ice cream. You may be thinking, "Big whoop. Ice cream." However, my parents know that it is my one downfall. I crave ice cream like there’s no tomorrow. Anyway, we all piled up in the car and headed out for the Dairy Queen. The next thing I remember is waking up here in this horrible hospital room two days ago. Do you see the problem there? When I woke up I heard voices. Some of them sounded familiar, and some of them didn’t. I also heard a lot of machines whirring and beeping. When I opened my eyes, I scanned the room. I noticed everyone was crying. This was weird. They all sniffled "hello" to me and then in some kind of silent conversation they decided to leave me alone with my aunt Molly and my uncle Dave. I thought this was even more odd. I wanted some answers. After everyone left the room, Molly gave me a hug. They asked me what I remembered. I told them that I was in the car with my parents before I woke up in the hospital. My parents…where were they? Where was Brandon? Molly and Dave exchanged glances and sighed. My aunt took my hand and held it. "Well, Caroline," she began. "You and Brandon and your mom and dad were in an accident." The word accident seemed really loud to me and it kind of hung in the air like a word in a comic strip. I frowned. "Caroline, baby," said my uncle. "They were all killed. You came here in an ambulance that night and you were unconscious. You stayed in a coma for four days. We thought we’d lost you." My aunt was crying again. "Killed?" I murmured. "That’s impossible. I was just with them. They were laughing and singing along with the radio. Brandon was sitting next to me in his car seat. He kept laughing because Mom and Dad were. Everything was fine. We were fine. What happened?" Molly explained what the police told her. A drunk driver swerved into our lane and hit us head on. "Why don’t I remember that?" I thought. I was confused, and I was getting sleepy. That’s when the nurse came in the room and announced that visiting hours were over. Molly promised me they would come back the next day. October 17 A lot has happened since I wrote last time. I have been busy with physical therapy for my legs. Right now it’s just a bunch of exercises and stuff. Later when my legs are stronger, I get to walk. I can’t wait to be able to walk out of here. I have had numerous visitors—people from church and school have stopped by my room. Finally, I have cards lining my walls and flowers on anything that will sit still long enough. This is starting to look less like a hospital room. It’s not just boring wallpaper and a bunch of machines and a t.v. that sticks out of the wall. Now it’s homier, and I don’t mind it so much. That’s good, I guess, since I’m going to be here FOREVER. Molly and Dave come by every day after work to check up on me. Yesterday they brought me some newspaper clippings about the wreck. I didn’t know I was so famous. One newspaper had a picture of our car. It looked like it had been run through a giant trash compactor. It was completely trashed, and the roof had been peeled back like a can of sardines. Dave explained that the roof looked like that because of the Jaws of Life. I had heard of that before, but I was never sure what it was. The Jaws of Life pried me out of that heap of twisted metal that used to be our car. I had been trapped inside. I still don’t remember any of the accident actually happening. Right now, I think that’s a good thing, especially after seeing those pictures of the car. I don’t know if I want to remember what happened. Lately, though, I have been feeling…oh, I don’t know…kind of robbed. I don’t have my little brother or my parents anymore. They never did anything to hurt anyone. Why did they have to die? What’s worse is that I never got the chance to say goodbye to them. Their funeral was conducted while I was still in a coma. Those pictures of the car helped me to finally digest what had happened. I had been jilted. What kind of person thinks having a beer is more important than the lives of my family? What kind of sicko has so much to drink and is deluded enough to think it’s okay to drive home? I don’t understand what could have gone through his brain to make him think that what he was doing would be all right. If I ever meet him, I think I’m going to deck him. I’ll deck him and then I’ll kick him. He’ll be better off if he is locked up somewhere. Note to self: study up on giving someone the death penalty. Lately I have had dreams of revenge. They have been great. Every time I dream about him, I avenge my family’s death. One thing I can’t figure out is that I never see the guy’s face in my dream. I know I haven’t seen him, but it’s still a letdown. Why did this happen to my family? Why couldn’t that jerk have been killed? November 12 I am still in therapy for my legs, and the doctor says that I am going to be fine, or that my legs will be fine, anyway. My psychiatrist liked that joke. He insists that the rest of me will be fine, too. I have started remembering things about the accident. Dr. Wyatt says that what I have figured out now is probably all I will ever remember. He said I didn’t have to write about that in my journal if I didn’t want to, but I think it will be okay…so here goes. We were riding in the car down Main Street, a few blocks away from Dairy Queen. I remember seeing the drunk guy’s car weaving all over the road while it was a pretty good distance away. Mom expressed some concern about it, but Dad seemed to think it would be fine, so we kept on going. Then right before the guy hit us, he hit his brakes. I can hear the screeching in my mind now. It was a hideous sound, and we all cringed from it. Dad couldn’t drive into the next lane because there was a car there. Then there was an enormous jolt, and everyone in the car flew forward. We were hit head-on and then the car turned so that it hit Brandon’s side. Before that impact, Brandon was crying with confusion, but after his side was hit, his cries were silenced. I think he was killed instantly. I could hear my parents whispering for help. I tried to call for help, too, but the pain of my legs being crushed was too much and I became unconscious. I woke up for a second while the paramedics were pulling me out of the car. I saw my parents. They were holding hands. Then I woke up here. I’m not so angry now than I was when I wrote last time. Now I feel guilty. Why did I have to make an A on that math test? Why did I pick NOW to start studying? Couldn’t I have put it off a little longer? If I had failed, Mom and Dad and Brandon would still be alive. If I had failed, we wouldn’t have gone out to celebrate. If I had failed, I’d be grounded right now instead of being stuck in this hospital room. If I had failed, I’d still have a family. This is all my fault, and if I ever get to go back to school, I won’t ever study again. December 11 A couple of weeks ago we would have been sitting around the table eating turkey and sweet potatoes. We would have had such fun pulling the wishbone. Right about now, Mom and I would be stringing popcorn for the tree. Dad would be fixing the tree into its stand, making sure it looked even and straight. Christmas carols would be playing on the stereo. "I would be"—those words are depressing. Dear Santa, I know I haven’t written you a letter since I was seven, but I figure this is as good a time as any. All I want for Christmas is my family. I miss them. Love, Caroline P.S. I don’t have any milk and cookies for you, but maybe I can snag some green hospital jello. It’s not SO bad. I don’t mean to sound like an ingrate. I’m awfully lucky to be going home with Molly and Dave. They’re great, but they’re just not Mom and Dad. January 5 Well, I am going home—to Molly and Dave’s—tomorrow. We have had several discussions about what to do with the house and stuff. I told them that I just wanted my stuff and some pictures. The rest of it could be sold or auctioned. I wouldn’t feel comfortable seeing all of the stuff all the time. It would creep me out. They explained that I would get to keep the money that is made from selling all of it. It would go in a trust fund that I would get in four years, on my eighteenth birthday. I read back in this journal earlier today. I am glad Dr. Wyatt gave it to me. I don’t know what I would have done without it. I see all of the emotions that I went through. Now, I just feel lucky—lucky to be alive—lucky to be able to walk—lucky to be able to go home with Molly and Dave—lucky that I got to have my parents and little brother for as long as I did—and lucky to have good memories of them. They were so loving. I know they tried their hardest to instill in me good values. I promise not to let them down. You know, I’ve been thinking. Maybe I won’t go back to school to fail. Maybe I’ll go back and study really hard so that I can be a lawyer. Then I could go on to help people whose families were killed by drunk drivers. That’s something that would make my parents proud. That’s something that would make ME proud. Well, I had stop writing now. The nurse just brought in my last dessert from the hospital. It’s ice cream. Copyright, 1998 - 2005. All Rights Reserved. http://www.angelfire.com/al3/thecabin The groovy border, button, and bar are courtesy Windy's Web Designs. The great cabin graphic is courtesy Microsoft's Design Gallery Live.