The following is a former winner of the Amazing but Incredibly True Story Contest.
Copyright Muse Enterprises for the author, 1997
About nine years ago I worked for a small restaurant as an assistant manager. The manager was a woman named Kathleen. She was around my mother's age and I had a great deal of respect for her. She was warm and maternal but expected the best from her employees and ran the restaurant in a firm but gentle, no-nonsense manner. One could tell by the way she looked that it would be hard to put one over on her. Kathleen was the type of person whose approval was treasured. At the time my marriage was shaky, and I was able to confide in her knowing she truly listened, and she encouraged me to have confidence that I could make the best decisions for my children and myself.
December 22nd and 23rd were special days for her as one was her birthday and one was her middle son's, although I don't remember which was which. They were especially close, partly because both his brothers were married and partly because he was her "wild child." I believe he reminded her a little of herself when she was young. That year Jason was turning 23.
On the night of December 23 I was at home blending and bottling homemade Irish cream liquor to give as gifts. The phone rang and it was one of the waitresses at the restaurant asking me to come down right away because Kathleen had gone to the hospital because Jason had been in a terrible accident. Of course I dropped what I was doing and got ready to go, trying not to alarm my children, who were four and one, and apologizing to their father who wasn't altogether happy I was leaving. We closed the restaurant without hearing anything about Jason's condition, and everyone was pretty upset for we all knew Jason and loved Kathleen.
The following day we found out the worst... Jason was not to recover from his injuries. All the employees were heartbroken, and we knew that what Kathleen would need more than anything from us was to take care of the business for her. It was a very sad Christmas, and it didn't help my failing marriage for me to be at the restaurant every day to open and close it.
The funeral was set for December 27. My husband had to work, so I arranged to take my son and daughter to a friend's home while I attended. It was raining, so I left a little early for the ten minute drive to drop them off. I was driving on a road flanked by fields of vegetables, going almost 10 miles per hour below the 55 speed limit because of the wet pavement, and up ahead I saw a van at the right side of the road. All of a sudden and with no signal the van pulled out to make a U-turn, oblivious to my approach. I braked and hit the horn at the same time, my heart pounding as I realized there was no way I was going to be able to stop. I skidded toward the van, which was now perpendicular to me, and crashed into it broadside, still going about 40 mph. I slammed into the steering wheel hard, stopped from going farther by my seatbelt.
There was silence for a split second, then both children started crying. The driver ran up to my door, asking if I was ok, and all I could think about was getting to the back seat where the kids were. My door was bent but we got it open, and I was relieved to find that they were both alright except for having bitten their lips, thanks to proper car seats. There had been someone else in the van, and he was uninjured also. We were just past a rock and gravel business, and I went with the CHP officer to their trailer to wait for my husband to arrive and get out of the rain. My car was totaled.
My husband picked us up and we headed for the hospital to have me checked out, even though I wasn't letting on that I was really starting to hurt. On the way there, I asked if we could just stop by the funeral so I could hug Kathleen, which seemed like a perfectly logical question at the time, though it didn't seem the least bit logical to him! My daughter and I were X-rayed and sent home. It also seemed logical to me to want to go to the restaurant that night to be there for the evening shift and to close. I have to forgive my then-husband for being upset with me for that one, but all I could think about was not letting Kathleen down. I had lost a car... she had lost her son. There was no comparison in my mind and heart.
A few days later Kathleen called at work, her first contact since Jason's accident. The phone was right by the kitchen, so I went out to the pay phone and called her back. I told her how sorry we all were, and assured her that there was nothing to worry about at the restaurant, and she thanked me for the flowers we sent. Then I said, "Kathleen, I'm so sorry I couldn't be there." I was hoping to avoid telling her why I hadn't made it to the funeral because I didn't want her to worry about the kids and me.
She said, "What?"
I repeated that I had tried to make it and that I was sorry, but she interrupted me and said,"What are you talking about?" I figured she was still dazed from the whole experience and needed me to be clearer, so I started to explain that the only reason I wasn't there was we got in an accident but were all fine. She was quiet for a minute, then she said, "Mary, I don't know what you mean. I saw you there."
Now I really thought she was confused, and I started to try and tell her, gently, that it must have been someone else, and she stopped me again and said, "No. I remember standing in line, my friend Joannna was next to me and I told her to remind me to thank you for the flowers. My heels were sinking in the grass because it was wet, and then I remember hugging you. I could smell your hair."
Now I got chills. I said, "But Kathleen, I-" only to be interrupted again.
"You hugged me. I remember my cheek against your sweater, it was grey and white," she said evenly, "and I smelled your hair." My stomach was fluttering, but I knew she wasn't confused. I didn't know what else to say. "Kathleen," I stammered, "My heart was there with you."
The grey and white sweater I had been wearing was new, and I knew she had never seen it. The first time I ever put it on was the morning of Jason's funeral.
To contact the author write to Mary.
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