Looking Through a Windshield

Did I ever tell you about the time I was hit by a car? Even my husband doesn't believe me. I was about 18 years-old and visiting a family in northern Ontario. They were a pastor and his family who I'd grown close to; a sporty guy with a wild sense of humour and his sweet wife who cooked, cleaned and looked after anyone who crossed their doorstep.

One night the pastor and I went walking. I think we were headed to the YMCA. When I think back to that night, it was raining and I was wearing my brown leather jacket. I can remember crossing the street at the intersection, and from around the corner came this car.

The car hit me in the legs and knocked me so hard I rolled up onto the windshield. I could see the look of shock on the lady's face as this blond teenager flew up into her view. My friend reached out and grabbed my arm before I flew over the rest of the car, and brought me back down to the street.

The driver got out and asked if I was okay. I could tell she felt bad, worried, and frightened. I felt all right, probably from shock, and told her it was okay. We kept walking. It was really weird. In hindsight, I probably should've gone to the hospital, but we went for a swim instead.

Ironically, the only part of my body that hurt was the arm my friend had pulled to rescue me. Many sessions of physiotherapy ensued.

And the next day, every time someone came to the house, my friend shouted, "YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE WHAT HAPPENED TO HER LAST NIGHT! I SAVED HER LIFE!!"

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This summer I ran into my friends again while delivering a wedding cake. We laughed about old times, including this story. Funnily enough, his version involves a lot more of him shouting, running, and lifting me, and the car (and driver) was much bigger.

My version of the story, I think, is closer to the truth and, ultimately, is used as a scare tactic to make my kids hold my hand as we cross the road.