The Last Meal

“Not peanut butter and jelly again?” My very best friend Barbara complained.

“It’s my favorite,” I defended as I passed her the offered PB&J sandwich, another to her younger sister Mary and finally one, sans crust, to her little brother, Robert. Mary had thick black wavy hair with bangs cut way too short and Robert, only five years old, was adorable with little freckles on his nose and a touch of red in his golden hair.

It was the last day of summer vacation andthe four of us were no way ready to cut those ties that literally held us together at the hip. Of course, late afternoon came and their mother called out her front door for Barbara, Mary and Robert to get their rear ends home. I asked if Barbara could stay with me while they went, but Barbara said no, she really wanted to go, fishing was her most favorite thing to do. I thought she and her whole family were awesome, the way they did things together, seemingly every weekend and all summer, they had adventures together.

Their dad, not their original father, but a man their divorced mom had married many years before, was loading up their old station wagon to take the family fishing before summer vacation ended.

Their step-dad invited me along and I got very excited. I had never gone fishing, never even been to the jetty, although we drove by it every day. But, my parents had plans too which, did not involve me riding off with my best friend and her family to go fishing on the jetty. I was denied the request and promptly produced my famous eleven year old pout to no avail.

My mother rounded up my middle sister and me to go to the local discount store for some new school clothes. Historically, this was one of my favorite excursions right before school started, but I was still angst over missing the fishing trip.

My friends left in their wood-side-paneled station wagon. Parents up front, Barbara in the middle seat mixed in with a mound of fishing gear where I should have been sitting. Mary and Robert sat in the rear rumble seat, facing the traffic following behind their car. I always wanted to ride in the backward facing seat, but never did get a chance to do so. It seemed as though it would be great fun and you could see all of the other cars with their drivers going by, waving and smiling at the disheveled children in the back, making silly faces and waving in return.

As it happened, my friends car pulled out of the neighborhood a mere ten or fifteen minutes before we piled into moms old sedan to head for the awaiting store.

Barely a mile to the right of our neighborhood entrance, was a major intersection with coordinating stop lights. However, to the left of our neighborhood, ran a very long stretch of major highway called US-1. A stoplight appearing suddenly over a major highway, was an unexpected surprise to non-locals, especially cross-country semi-trucks.

Traffic was backed up for miles as we entered the highway. At the stop-light were loads and loads of police cars stopped with sirens blaring, ambulances lined the roadway and fire trucks squeezed past the congestion to offer their assistance where needed.

Slowly, we drove past at the direction of several police and the rest of the crawling traffic, a horrific accident. A semi-truck’s front tires sat completely embedded inside a convertible little red car, only the crumpled red metal could be seen; like cake icing that had been placed with a splash around the giant black tires.

A white car was crushed under the truck’s cab and another car was behind that one, all beneath the truck. Just off to the side of that melee of metal debris, sat what was once a car but, was now indistinguishable as anything but an abstract and contorted metal can. There was not even a discernible color visible, it was so mangled.

My stomach began to hurt and my heart raced too fast. I told my mom and asked her if we could turn around and go home, I didn’t feel well. My parents often accused me of being over-sensitive or even a hypochondriac. Mother told me to stop starting at the car wreck and not to think about it anymore. I could not, of course.

After two unsuccessful attempts at shopping, much to my younger sisters protestations, we finally made our way home. The accident was mostly cleared up, only a clean-up crew left, sweeping up glass and bits of plastic from the highway.

It was when we pulled into our neighborhood and turned the curve to get to our driveway, that we again saw a bevy of police cars parked up and down our street. Two cars, one police and one with official lettering on its side, sat parked next door, in my best friends driveway; my stomach lurched.

My father came out to meet us, a very rare if ever done before occurrence, ushering us quickly into the house. Sitting us down, he explained there had been an horrific car crash and five people had died. Two were our next door neighbors, my best friends siblings, Mary and Robert. Her step-father was in hospital in critical condition but, Barbara and her mother did not even get a scratch.

Another neighbor across the street, lost their grandmother in the accident. A young couple in their new red convertible, were also dead. They lived on the other side of our little neighborhood. The truck driver staggered out with no injuries besides being intoxicated and severely sleep deprived.

He had fallen asleep at the wheel and never saw the traffic light, plowing over all the cars stopped at the red light without ever applying his brakes. Records later reported he had at least two DWI’s prior to this tragedy.

At the extensive and well-attended funeral, I remember saying to myself and out loud to anyone that would listen,

“I should have made something besides peanut butter and jelly sandwich’s for them. It was their last meal.”