A few hours later the peaceful morning sun warmed my face as I crested a hill on Route 15 just past Point of Rocks – then, almost instantly I could not process the scene on the roadway ahead. A white pickup was rolling away from me in my lane onto the grass. A black Escalade was stopped in opposite lane facing the oncoming traffic, and a small sedan was skidding sideways toward it. I had an audio book blasting and heard no crunching metal, just a silent, sickening, slow-motion movie playing out before me.
I had plenty of room to stop and braked hard. In my rearview a long line of cars braked behind me. I punched on my flashers, and stared for a soul-searching moment. A part of me wanted to sit right there and pretend it was a dream. It was not. I turned off the ignition, took a deep breath, swallowed, opened my door and ran headlong for the white truck.
It lay on its side in front of a trail of smashed metal and glass. Black smoke poured out of the crumpled hood. I looked around as I approached; the scene was still only seconds old and I was by myself. Another deep swallow and I climbed up to the driver’s side window which faced the sky. Below me a middle-aged man was pinned motionless behind the steering wheel. The collapsed, sagging airbag looked pitifully small.
I shouted, “Can you hear me?” Nothing.
I shouted again. This time he stirred slightly. He began to claw out the open window. I grasped his forearm imploring him to stay still, help was on the way. He moaned. I told him my name and said I would stay there with him until help arrived. He whispered his name, Scott.
I heard a hissing sound behind me, and looked over my shoulder. Bystanders had gathered and someone was dousing the hood with a fire extinguisher. I was glad, as I realized the black acrid smoke had been searing my nostrils. Only then, when I turned back to Scott did I see the small child lying below him against the smashed window pressed to the ground.
I stepped down from truck trying to figure out how to get in. The back window was intact with the pilot window shut tight. The front windshield was shattered and crumpled but still clinging tightly around the edges. I took off my fleece, wrapped it around my hands and pulled at it through some fist sized holes, but it would not budge. I felt so incredibly helpless and wanted to kick it in but realized I would do more harm than good to the small child behind it and resolved to return to Scott and try to keep him still.
He was thrashing again with his free arm, so I held his shoulder, spoke and asked him about his girl. He mouthed her name was Savannah. I saw that she had moved, and my worst fears were allayed.
After minutes that seemed like hours I heard sirens. I reiterated to Scott that help was almost here. I stopped talking - I wanted so much for him to hear the sirens too.
The first fire truck had just four, maybe five men. They ran hoses to each of the two smashed cars. A single fireman came to the white truck and asked me about who was inside. He then shouted to a second fireman to bring a sawzall. He did, and cut out the windshield as easily as he might pull film off a microwave dish. To my astonishment and relief the little girl stepped dazed through the open windshield.
The firemen led her several feet away as I followed and instructed her to lay down. He asked me to hold her head still while he did a thorough assessment. Other than bleeding from her scalp, she said only her back hurt. She told the fireman through her tears that she was eleven and her father was taking her to her softball game. Another fireman brought a backboard. The first fireman, another bystander, and I carefully rolled her on with carefully synchronized counts. Now several more rescue units had arrived, a medi-vac helicopter hovered overhead, and my participation was done.
As I walked back to my car a sheriff stopped me to ask if I had seen the collision – No, only the aftermath. I think I heard other bystanders say the Escalade had crossed the centerline and hit the truck head-on. Both vehicles were likely traveling forty, fifty, maybe faster.
On their way to softball. Jesus. How precious each and every day is.
