Asleep at the Wheel

Today, unlike any day, today, like every other, my thoughts run me. The chatter in my head pulls in one direction while something deep within nudges in another. One voice is vocal and incessant, the other an occasional whisper, one used to calling the shots, the other accustomed to being ignored.

A sharp pain shoots between my temples as I dash to the parking lot, a reminder, I tell myself, of the insanity of back-to-back meetings, each running just enough over to make me late for the next, with too little food and too much caffeine in between. Erica's early morning swim practice, deadlines at work, Jackson's parent-teacher conference, dinner, homework ...

Not enough time. Too much to do.

The clicks of my heels on the pavement warn a young mother and her daughter several yards ahead of me of my hurried approach. The mother pulls her daughter close to her, steps back, and yields the sidewalk to me. She fires a glare of disapproval as I go by. "Sorry!" I offer over my shoulder without slowing. "Thank you!"

The sight of my once-again fit body in motion reflected in the deli window sparks a surge of pride and vengeful glee. My overstuffed laptop case swings from one shoulder. My purse sways from the other. The rhythmic flapping of my necklace matches my gait and the bounce of my breasts. Divorce suits me. In the next pane of glass, I detect a jiggle in my reflection where none should be. My smile disappears and takes the spring in my step with it.

I reach the car, toss my bags onto the passenger seat, scan the back seat for the boogeyman, and ignore my growling stomach and ringing phone as I pull out of the parking lot. The clock on the dashboard chides me that it is 3:55. Jackson's school is fifteen minutes away.

The thought of arriving late to my son's parent-teacher conference makes me cringe. I can see it now. My perfectionist ex-husband will glance up at the clock when I enter the classroom. He'll shake his head and roll his eyes in mock disbelief, then let out a sigh as he wraps a protective arm around our son. The teacher, already won over by Michael's charms, will avoid eye contact with me, unwilling to let me off the hook for being late but too cowardly to confront me. And my sweet baby will have that helpless caught-in-the-middle look on his face — the one that breaks my heart.

I try to push the image of my son's conflicted face out of my mind. My imagination resists, running wild instead, fabricating one exaggerated scenario after another, details and outcome slightly altered, each prolonging my self-torment. In one scene I miss the conference altogether. In another, Jackson cries.

Why do I do this to myself?

I honk the horn at an idiot driver who causes me to miss the signal to enter the freeway.

Out the window, billowy white puffs of my favorite kind of cloud hang weightless in the blue sky. Cheerful clusters of pink and white azaleas in full bloom wave to me from the median. I am blind to their splendor. All I want is for the light to turn green.

Minutes later, I cruise down the freeway, lost in thought, my foot too heavy on the accelerator. What will I say to Jackson and his teacher? What excuse is good enough to earn me amnesty?

The ping of a new text message jolts me out of my mental merry- go-round. Without thinking I reach for my phone and read it.

"Need your final price sheet!" the message from my boss reads. In my haste to leave work, I forgot to forward the information my team needs for a sales proposal we have been working on for weeks.

"The deadline for submission is today," it reminds me.

I know I should pull over. But I don't. With my left hand on the steering wheel, I use my right to thumb a reply, glancing from road to phone, phone to road, correcting my path with a jerk whenever my Jeep wanders too close to the dotted lines.

I look up to see the blinking hazard lights of a stalled minivan in my lane. Car to the left of me. Truck on the right. Too fast. Too close. No options.

Panic explodes in my chest.

Tires screech.

I can't bear to look. I've really done it this time.

Fumes of burning rubber reach my nostrils. I hear the crunch of metal against metal. Deep within me, a question awakes from its slumber.

What was I thinking?

Gray Thoughts

Silence.

White floods my entire field of vision. My muscles tighten in alarm — each of my senses on full alert. I strain to see something, hear something.

Nothing.

As my eyes acclimate to the brightness, I distinguish movement. All around me wisps of a thick white vapor dance and swirl like the inside of an opaque cloud lit up by the sun.

Where am I? At the same moment the question arises in my head, my own voice, although I have not spoken, thunders above me. "Where am I?" I look up in bewilderment and see a wisp of gray smoke appear and waft amid the white.

"What's that? Am I alive?" my next thoughts boom overhead. Two more gray wisps of smoke join the first to dance in the dazzling white.

"Did I die?" Another gray curl materializes.

"Oh my gosh, I hope I didn't kill someone! Please, no. Anything but that." More wisps, darker than the others.

That's my voice, I think.

"That's my voice," echoes at the same instant above me. Another gray wisp is born.

How can that be? I am not speaking!

"How can that be? I am not speaking!" resounds above with the same shakiness in my voice that exists in my head. Two new smoky wisps writhe in the white.

My thoughts? Out loud?

My mind races. Tightness spreads throughout my chest. My breath is shallow, my shoulders tense.

Why are my thoughts out loud and what are those gray swirls? Smoke? Does this mean I am alive? Oh, God. Please, please, don't tell me I'm dead. Or that I hurt someone. I hope I didn't hurt someone!

I hear my thoughts. Am I in a coma?

Panicky thoughts pop in visual gray bursts like monochrome fireworks as the words reverberate above me. Each grim thought seems to generate its own wisp of gray smoke.

"Is this a dream? Am I dreaming?" Silence.

Gray wisps collide and form bigger wisps.

"Hello? Is anyone out there?" I call out.

No one answers. My fear grows as the acrid smell of smoke stings the back of my throat.

Round and round my mind paces, like a trapped cougar circling its cage to find an escape. Fear fuels my thoughts; my thoughts fuel...