By: Jennifer Gautier
Pickering College

8:36 a.m. June 10, 2007

I like to go fast. When I’m driving, the only things that dictate my speed are the cars in front of me. I go as fast as the fastest car ahead of me and, if there are no cars, then I go as fast as I can. Today, I’m running late for work again. I have a long drive downtown, and I left fifteen minutes late. I obviously didn’t plan on leaving late, but we were out of the fast food I usually grab for breakfast; so I had to make something, instead. Now I’m driving on the highway, making up time by passing people when I can. The highway drive is boring, though, so I take out my cell, and call Cally. She’s my best friend.

****
1:23 p.m. March 13, 2007

It’s my Dad’s birthday and his favorite dessert is lemon meringue pie. I’m not a very good cook so I bought one of those tin pie dishes with the crust already inside of it, and the lemon gel stuff from the can. I’m going to make the meringue from scratch; my dad says that’s the best part, anyways.

I look up the recipe and directions on the internet: it says in bold letters to hand beat the mixture until hard peaks form. After a couple of tries, I manage to break the eggshells without breaking the yolks and separate four egg whites. I toss the ingredients into a bowl, get a whisk, and make a start at hand-beating. A couple of minutes go by and the mixture is still completely liquid. A couple more minutes and almost nothing has changed; at this rate, I realize it will take ages for this stuff to harden. I decide to get the mix-master out. Five easy minutes later and perfect hard peaks form. I laugh when I think of all the poor suckers with burning arms who aren’t as clever as I am. I spread the meringue on the pie and stick it in the oven.

That night, it’s finally time for dessert. I bring out my pie and serve everyone. They all say how great it looks. Curiously, however, the pie's hard to break with my fork. I manage to get a piece and put it into my mouth, only to suffer a blinding pain in my tooth as I bite down. The meringue is hard as a rock! I look around. Everyone has weird, uncomfortable looks on their faces.

My dad leans over, “I think you might have beat these a little too hard. Did you follow the recipe?”

I turn red, and the cleverness I had been feeling all afternoon quickly vanishes.  Seriously, though, you can't expect me to beat a bunch of egg whites all day.

****

8:37 a.m. June 10, 2007

I push number three on speed dial and wait for her to pick up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, babe, it’s me! What you up to?”

“Oh, nothing, just on the train to work…making the usual stops. So, what are you up to?”

“Yeah, I’m on my way into… just on the 404… should be there soon. You can't control the speed on that train! I don’t get why you take it.”

Suddenly, I notice that I’m about to pass my exit.

“Jeez, Cal, hold on!”

Quickly, I have to make a decision: cut across traffic and over the solid white line to make my exit, or get off at the next exit, turn around and come back? No time for a detour. I check my blind spot quickly. I’m good. I pull over the first lane of traffic, and just as I’m going over the white line into the off ramp, BANG. A car clips the back corner of my car, and I go spinning towards the guard rail. All I can hear are car horns and screeching breaks, and everything is spinning. Suddenly, I feel a hard thud, and all is black.

****

9:47 a.m. June 10, 2007

I wake up with a pounding headache. It feels like ages before I get the strength to open my eyes and look around. I feel like I’m about to throw up. I’m lying in a small bed, in a white room, and there’s a bunch of medical stuff around me. I see what looks like my mom’s purse and my dad’s coat on a chair; well, at least they know where I am.

My body is killing me; it feels like every inch of me is bruised. When I gather the strength to lift my head to check myself out, I’m in shock. My right arm and leg are in casts. At least my left side seems fine. My arm just has some bruises on it, and my leg doesn’t hurt at all. It actually doesn’t feel like anything.


****

12:24 a.m. June 11, 2007

I hear people talking, but it’s fuzzy. It sounds like listening to them on a radio. I lie there for a long time, trying to decipher what they’re saying; I finally open my eyes to take a peak and somehow everyone notices. Suddenly, I’m surrounded. My vision focuses, and I see my mom. She’s crying. When she catches my eye, she hugs me hard. It hurts, but I don’t mind.

She starts asking me some easy questions, “Honey, do you remember your name? Do you know who I am?”

I clear my throat, “Yeah, mom, don’t worry”.

The nurse tells my mom to let me rest for a bit, and I gladly close my eyes.

****

10:47 a.m. June 11, 2007

When I come to again, the room is empty. I find the remote button next to my bed and begin pushing it to get someone to come. I push the button repeatedly until my parents, and the nurse from before, come in.

“How are you feeling?”

My dad has a weird look on his face, almost like he already knows how I’m feeling.

“What did they do to my legs? Why can’t I feel them? Am I on painkillers or something? It’s freaking me out not to feel my toes.”

My mom looks like I’ve just stabbed her in the heart.

“What’s going on? Why is mom so upset? Tell me!”

The nurse steps in; she explains objectively what happened. My arm and leg broke on impact. The guard rail compressed the lower half of my car, twisted my back and trapped my legs. I became paralyzed. I won't walk again.

I begin to cry. I convulse with fear. I'm going to be sick.

****

6:34 a.m. June 13, 2007

I wake up because it's morning and the hospital blinds are useless. My dad walks in and I finally ask him.

“What happened to the car that I cut off? Are they all ok?”

A somber look passes over his face. “Honey, when you cut off that car, it clipped your left rear bumper, and went spinning in the opposite direction, right into oncoming traffic. The car was hit; it was t-boned by another vehicle.”

“Jesus! Is everyone ok?”

“Well, the guy in the car that hit them was fine. The airbags deployed. But… the car that hit you, well, there was a little boy in the back seat. Unfortunately, he wasn’t strong enough to handle the impact, and he died almost immediately. I’m sorry to have to tell you this -.”

My head starts spinning with nausea. I roll over and dry-heave into a bed pan. I am sick and disgusted with myself. I bury my face in the pillow and weep.


****

2:13 p.m. September 25, 2007

After a pretty horrible summer, I'm starting to get used to the whole wheel chair deal. I’ve been doing a lot of physical-therapy and my doctor thinks I might be able to regain a little bit of leg function one day - if I'm patient. In the mean-time, I’ve picked up a hobby. I like cooking. Cally is over today to help me tackle my next challenge: a chocolate soufflé. I bought premium chocolate from a specialty food store, and I’m slowly but surely chopping it up into tiny little slices to melt in milk.

Cally asks, “Why don’t you just throw it in the food processor? That would save you tons of work and time.”

“I dunno. I think it’s better this way. Can you start whisking the egg whites?”

Cally grabs a couple of eggs, carefully breaks them open to get the whites out, and then tosses them in the mix-master.

“Wait!" I scream. "You don't do it like that.”

I want my soufflé to be good, not hard as rocks. So, I grab the bowl and start whisking it myself. If I’m going to bother making one of these, I’m going to take my time and do it right.

I have time now.

Lots of it.

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