A Strong Rebirth

This short story got published in an anthology called "Soul Survivors: From Trauma to Triumph" - 2016. 

Every hairdresser who ever washed and blow-dried my hair felt the bump on my head, which was fortunately veiled beneath my dark strands. “An accident?” they would often question, for it was too intriguing for them to ignore its cause and thus my story commenced.

The car I was riding spun in the air, rotating several times before it pounded the ground. What was meant to be a blissful holiday spent in the farm resulted in my nanny’s death — she jumped out of the car — my father’s coma, my head being cut open, and breaking a limb. I was a toddler, but I still remember the incidents that followed vaguely. “How old were you?” the hairdressers from the diverse salons persisted.

“Not more than three.” At such a young age, what we actually remember is often painted with scenes described by other people — in this case, family members. My sister who is two years my senior, for example, often recounted the sounds of the sirens approaching before the ambulance whisked us to the hospital. She also remembered the fierce red between her fingers as she realized that blood coated them like a sticky cobweb. My aunt reminisced of a relative covering my nanny’s corpse with his white turban. I could not recall these disturbing imageries, since my injuries and that of Dad have surpassed that of the remaining passengers. He fell into a coma, while I was blanked out.

My mother told me years later, “You were lucky. The accident occurred during the Kuwait and Iraq war, so a skilled doctor from America was around to stitch the open wound on your head.”

I smiled at her. My strong mother always managed to grasp the remnants of hope that shone brightly at the end of a tunnel with both hands. It was a trait I proudly inherited from her and compensated us both for our poor sense of direction. She was behind the wheels during that dreadful accident and my father was right beside her.

What I actually could still recall was Dad sleeping on a hospital bed in Germany. My sister and I spent hours customizing the ‘Get Well Soon’ cards he received during our visits. A classical piano occupied the vast living room in our accommodation. I sported a pink raincoat with two large pockets, each one portraying a picture of Precious Moments’ caricatures, whilst my sister was shielded beneath a shiny red raincoat from the heavy rain. When my father could finally walk again, he would take us out for strolls, while we wrapped our small hands around his large thumb. I felt that Germany’s relentless winds swore to make me soar along with my umbrella, no matter how firmly I held its latch. Hence my young mind could recollect the events that progressed through the trauma, which was mostly during the therapeutic stage, as opposed to the actual accident.

As I grew older, I became much more aware of my mother’s strength. She was in her early twenties, and had to witness her family’s anguish quietly, harboring the guilt even if it was never her fault. Her beloved husband slept with broken limbs on a bed, whilst she pleaded God to spare his life. Her children who did not yet surpass the age of five had to endure the aftermath of a car crash at such a young age. It was like riding a rollercoaster that collapsed. The childish songs we chanted in the car on our way to the farm were hastily replaced with screams. She had also lost our nanny for good. No matter how much I tried to liberate her confounded shock and pain through my words, I know now I would never be able to bring her feelings justice. Although the price my mother paid was high, for she never rode a vehicle again, she still held her family firmly. Not once did I remember tears gleaming from her pretty face and despite the turmoil, I only recall us laughing by Dad’s bedside, our art that embellished the hospital’s wall, our failed attempts at weaving a classical piano song and our walks together.

As an intense child, awful memories resided in my mind, no matter how hard I tried to shut them out. Friends and relatives often expressed their surprise whenever I detailed incidents that have occurred years ago. Therefore, I was certain that my strong, yet sensitive mother managed to conceal in front of us how broken she actually felt after the car crash. As a mother of four myself, and older than Mom at that time, I knew I would never have been able to cope the way she did. My silent tears would have constantly drenched my face, causing my children to panic. Sometimes dreadful accidents occur to demonstrate the true colors of those around us and I believe that my mother would never forget the people who did not point blaming fingers at her and supported her during her fall. It also solidified the bond between her and Dad. We were fortunate to have escaped death, for it was not yet our time and more blessed to have Mom as our mother.