Long Live the Honda Pilot

I haven’t been to Target in seven months! I’m not Target-obsessed like some moms, but it is the perfect place to go when you need a new pair of flip-flops and your husband is completely out of his favorite cereal. And your neighbor has had a really rough week and it’s only Tuesday and she needs a pick-me-up. Where can I buy women’s sandals, Quaker Oatmeal Squares, and a bag of Reese’s Take 5 candy bars?

Target is the only solution. 

So, on Tuesday, knee-deep in pandemic, I sent Nate and Sam off with their homeschooling cohort, dropped Tess at preschool, and took Lou to Target for the first time in seven months.

He had fun stumbling around the store waving at mannequins, moving toys from one shelf to the next, and trying to guess the facial expressions of the employees under their masks. When he had had enough and was ready for a snack, we glided through the self-checkout—no lines!—tucked our plastic bags into the back of our Honda Pilot, and secured Lou into his car seat.

“Come on, nugget,” I said, handing him a blueberry muffin to give him something to keep him busy in the car. “Let’s go to the playground.”

Playgrounds are his happy place, especially now that he’s mobile. He loves being able to climb and run and slide and stare at other kids. He was a difficult baby, but he’s turning into an easy toddler. As long as he gets some playground time in, and his face actually lights up at the word “playground.”

He was not as thrilled with the muffin, and I saw him toss it onto the floor as we cruised through the parking lot and turned left onto Ward Parkway, headed north towards the 85thstreet light, about 50 yards away. The light was red in our direction so I idled off the gas, but it turned green as we approached, so I started to accelerate through the intersection.

And you know how, just out of habit, you still look left and right and left again as you go through an intersection? Well, I did that, and took note of a black sedan coming from the west at a pretty high rate of speed.

“Hmm, that car is coming pretty fast,” I said to myself without even realizing that I said that to myself. It was one of those subconscious, unaware inner monologues, like when thoughts are ideas and shapes instead of coherent words. And incorrectly, I assumed the car would still stop, so I fixed by gaze forward, on the road ahead of me.

And that’s when I felt the driver’s side door crumble in around me. Or maybe I heard the door—is it aluminum? Plastic? Some doors are apparently made of magnesium? I don’t know, I’ll actually never see that car again. It got towed away and is officially totaled, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Anyway, I don’t know if I feltthe door crumble or heardthe door crumble first. Or maybe I felt the jarring jolt, stopping my inertia first? Then the door crumbled? I don’t know.

I think we slid across the intersection first, the black sedan smashing into the side of the driver’s side of our blue SUV and pushing it into the curb until it flipped and spun 180 degrees on the roof, now facing the opposite direction.

Or did we roll upside down first and then spin around 180 degrees and then slide into the light post on the opposite side of the four-lane road? Actually I think that’s right—we rolled, spun, then slid. Upside down.

The details are fuzzy to me because I immediately began screaming. Like a scream so shrill and high-pitched I don’t think I’ve even made before. 

First I just screamed just a series of vowel sounds, like a banshee on a roller coaster. It seemed like we were rolling and skidding for an eternity, though it was probably about five seconds. And the whole time, I was just thinking: Did I buckle him properly?

I mean, I know how to buckle him. Fasten the buckle across his chest, then the buckle between his legs, pull the straps tight, and make sure the chest buckle is up towards his shoulders, not down by his belly button. That’s how babies get ejected from cars in rollover crashes. 

But did I do that just now as we were leaving Target? 

He’s so squirmy and resistant. Which is why I usually encourage compliance with the word “playground.” Or I hand him a snack or a toothbrush or a plastic fork. He loves those plastic forks and spoons and I’ve been keeping a few spares in the car. 

My uncertainty seemed to be funneling out of my body in the form of a scream. 

Once the car finally skidded to a stop, I began screaming, “My baby! My baby! My baby!” 

I sounded like a crazy person, I’m sure. In retrospect, it’s a tad embarrassing how dramatic I was. I just wanted anyone and everyone nearby to know that my baby was inside. I have a baby and he needs to get out now. Someone check on him and save him! I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared of anything in my entire life, and that includes my four C-sections, wrong turns through west Baltimore, and the entire year when I was eleven and I thought I had breast cancer. Turned out I was just developing boobs. 

I don’t remember unbuckling my seatbelt, but apparently I did so. Being upside down didn’t even faze me, I just had to get to Lou. 

Putting my feet down onto the ceiling of the car—never thought I’d type that phrase—I twisted around and laid eyes on Lou. He was screaming like I was, which meant he was alive and conscious!

He was looking to me, his eyes wide, his face red, all the blood rushing to his head. He was, as I had hoped and prayed without words, secure in his car seat, his shoulders pressing into the straps. There was space between his legs and the seat itself, gravity is not a myth.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay! You’re okay!”

I don’t know how I maneuvered through the car to get to him, but I did. I unbuckled him and let him drop into my arms, spun him to turn upright, as some good Samaritan outside of the car peeled his door open. 

“Oh, my God!” I said. 

All I could see was several pairs of legs and shoes, but gripping Lou under his armpits, I lifted him up and handed him to total strangers. 

I scrambled out right behind him, to a chorus of questions from the dozen or so people surrounding me.

“Are you okay?”

“Is there anyone else inside the car?”

“Yes! I’m okay! It was just the two of us! We’re okay!” I replied, taking Lou back from the man holding him. Lou had started to wail. If a rollover accident doesn’t scare the crap out of the little guy, being in the arms of a total stranger certainly will. 

He immediately stopped crying and I kissed him again and again and again and pressed his head to my chest. I have a bruise there now, right on my collarbone, which I had assumed was from the seatbelt, but perhaps it was from loving my baby too much in that moment.

Much of the next hour or so is a blur. There were sirens and flashing lights and many more questions. But I was giddy with relief and joy and gratitude that we were okay. We were standing next to our car that had flipped upside down and we were both safe and healthy!

The passersby and good Samaritans who stopped to help gradually dwindled away as I assured them that I was okay and my baby was okay. The neighbors who live on that corner came out to offer a chair, blankets, bottled water, and snacks.

“No, thanks, I brought my own,” I quipped, pointing to the boxes of Quaker Oatmeal Squares that had been ejected from the car onto the street. I’m so much funnier in times of crisis. 

One man heroically reached under the car to rescue my cell phone and stood by as I called Tighe. He already knew about the accident because Honda, apparently alerted by the airbag deployment, had called him.

“The guy went through the red light, Tighe. The car rolled over, but we’re okay!”

“Okay, do you need me to come?” That’s what she said.

“No, we’re good! Just stay at work!”

Apparently, my euphoria clouded my ability to reason. My phone’s rescuer who had overheard my conversation, quickly interjected.

“How are you going to get home?”

“Shoot, you’re right!”

I called Tighe back immediately. “Actually, can you please come get us?”

Cops and firefighters approached me, almost continuously, one at a time or sometimes in pairs to confirm that I was okay or to offer some well wishes. 

One cop, in the most flat, professional manner I’ve ever heard said, “Ma’am, you’re very lucky.” Then he exited stage right as if that’s what his script had instructed.

“Yes, thank you!” I called after him, but his lack of emotion and affect reminded me of when you’d get reprimanded by a friend’s parent. Also, is “thank you” the proper reply? Honestly, I didn’t care. I knew we had just cheated death, I was fully aware that I probably should not be standing or walking or laughing or chatting as gregariously as I was. I should probably be in an ambulance on the way to a hospital. I’ll take it. 

The police took my statement and confirmed to me that the other driver admitted fault, admitted that he had run a red light. Which was a relief. I knew that was what happened, but I also know that in accidents like that, it’s easy to second-guess yourself and your memory becomes hazy about certain facts. And crystal clear about others. Which is why I don’t actually remember unbuckling my own seat belt, but I’ll never forget what Lou looked like upside down in his car seat.

When Tighe arrived, he drove us to see a friend who’s a doctor who checked us out assessing that Lou didn’t have any signs of concussion and I had full mobility of my arms and shoulders. At least I think that’s what she was doing. Maybe she just wanted to see how flexible I am.

Lou and I dropped Tighe off at work and headed home. As I glanced in the rear view mirror, at Lou’s little body, gently dozing in Tess’s old car seat, I mused at how differently our day could have been. 

What if I hadn’t buckled him securely enough? 

Or what if I had unbuckled myself to reach back and hand him another muffin?

We could be sitting in a hospital room right now or saying last goodbyes instead of heading home to grab a snack before picking up the bigger kids from school. 

When I did finally arrive at grade school pickup later that day, after what seemed like both the longest and the shortest day ever, Nate and Sam were confused as they climbed into our black Suburban, instead of our navy blue Honda Pilot.

“Why are you in Tighe’s car?” Nate asked.

“Guys, let me tell you about our day!” I said, still happy and relieved and probably high an adrenaline.

As we waited for the carpool line to move, I showed them pictures and described every detail I could think of, careful to frame the accident as a joyful miracle instead of a horrifying, potentially fatal event.

But nothing shuts down joy like your own children.

“Well, that’s nothing,” Sam said, taking off his mask and backpack to settle in his seat. “Today, I got to be the line leader for Mrs. Smith’s* class because Mrs. Brown* left me in the bathroom because I was taking too long.”

I think Sam’s at the age where his stories will always trump mine. I clapped my palm to my forehead and tried to share in hisjoy. “That’s really exciting, Sam.”

Two days after the accident, I came down to breakfast groggy after two sleepless nights of weird dreams and flashbacks. 

Without looking up from her cereal and her coloring book, Tess said, “How do you feel, Mom?”

“Good,” I replied quickly. “Some new bruises have appeared here and here, but—“

“Wow, cool, Mom, who cares?”

Her compassion is about what I’d expect from any three year-old, which means we’ve officially returned to normal.

*Names changed