Sleeping in Cars

When I was younger, a lot of my time was spent traveling in a car. Whether it was from state to state, city to city, house to house, wherever- my family was usually on the move. From the time we moved from Ohio back to Pennsylvania to the time I switched schools six times in my elementary career alone, cars were almost a second home for me. Riding in cars became more of a constant situation when my Dad got partial custody. My sisters and I spent every Friday packing up the car with our suitcases, bags, and toys, just to unload it Sunday night when we made it back home.

Surprisingly enough though, I didn’t hate riding in cars. In fact, I found a lot of serenity staring outside at blurred trees and endless blue skies singing made up tunes. The worst part for me was getting out of the car. That was when I had to face whatever was waiting for me, whether it was a new school, a new house, or another step-parent that I had to get used to. I could always feel it in my gut whenever we came close to our destination, a gnawing feeling that made me want to keep myself strapped into the car, a feeling I learned to grow accustomed to.

Around the age of eleven years old, I would learn that my sisters were the other constant thing in my life. Whatever new situation I was placed in, they were usually along for the experience as well. 

Although we argued various times a day, slowly we would begin to recognize the truth in the statement our Dad would tell us after we finished arguing: “You guys need each other, because when no one else is there, your sisters are.”

I remember the day I went to Pittsburgh. It was bright and sunny; the atmosphere was hopeful with endless possibilities, even a miracle. The entire ride, I stared at the sky and sang along with the roar of the sound of wheels on the highway. I imagined a choir of angels singing along with me, which to me at the time meant that God must be on my side. I believed in my heart that He could make my miracle come true, but at the time I also didn’t realize how great of a task that really was.

We made it to the hospital waiting room; my sister Lila and I played computer games in the kids’ area. Most of my family from my dad’s side was there, and a lot of them were close to tears with no hope left in their eyes.

I remember thinking to myself, Don’t they know God can save her? It can’t be over yet.
Then the nurse asked who was there to visit. She saw the three of us girls and whispered in a low voice to my dad and his current girlfriend at the time, “I just want to warn you that it’s really graphic.”

Her eyes glanced at me, “We usually don’t let anyone in under the age of thirteen.”

Someone looked at me and asked me something along the lines of, “Do you think you can handle it?”

I immediately nodded yes. Whatever happened to my little cousin, I needed to know. After a few words were passed back and forth, the nurse nodded and my dad’s girlfriend took my hand, leading me into the room.

I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t what I saw. My eight-year-old cousin strapped to a machine, eyes closed, tape over her mouth with a long tube protruding from it. At that point in my life, the only time I had seen situations like that were in the drama shows I watched on television. I felt strange because the people in the hospital rooms would never be this young. My eyes couldn’t look at her empty face that was stripped of her identity. Instead, I focused on the SpongeBob toys and the beeping machine beside her bed with numbers I couldn’t understand, but would never forget.

My mind kept returning to the fact that I hadn’t seen her in so long- as if my visit would have stopped all this from occurring, as if I could have somehow protected her in some way from disaster. I continued to visit, and revisit, and revisit the last time I had seen her: my two older sisters watching the T.V. in her room, while she and I jumped on her bed playing with her stuffed SpongeBob, giving him different voices which would make us both break down in giggles.

When it was my turn to say goodbye, I couldn’t bear to hug her or kiss her, or even weep over her body like everyone else had.  To me it wasn’t her.

The most I could manage was to think, Goodbye, I’m really going to miss you. But I hope you’re happy and safe now. Maybe it should have been more, but I had no idea what to say.

After I left the room the tears began and didn’t stop the entire ride home. It was my sister Angela who heard my quiet tears and hugged me. Each time I asked why God would let something this awful happen, Angela responded with a soothing voice that seemed to hold me like her arms did. Then, it was my sister Lila who sat by me, which was enough to slow my tears and begin to heal my broken heart. That was the first time I realized that my sisters had always been by my side, which is something I would need from then to every moment after. I since have realized I would need my sisters to get through every dark night and every long ride.