An Accidental Memoir by Wendy Reed

Author:Wendy Reed [Reed, Wendy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: An Accidental Memoir, NewSouth Books, Wendy Reed, memoir, autobiography, essays, short stories, Southern Gothic
ISBN: 9781603061988
Publisher: NewSouth Inc.
Published: 2013-04-07T16:00:00+00:00

Part II

Memoir of a Wrongful Death

How I Killed Someone

Rear-view mirrors in automobiles are merciless.

—John Updike, Self-Consciousness

I

“Open wide, let’s practice,” I say as I unwind Reed’s seat belt. He hates having to sit in a car seat in the back. He wants to be big like his sisters, sit next to mommy in the front, turn the knobs that make music. He’s been gifted with intensity: Mike Tyson tendencies. This could be bad for the dentist, so I’m preparing him for his first visit.

Maybe a little friendly competition will help. “Can you open wider than Mommy can?” He looks me in the eye and squeezes his lips together so tight they pucker.

“See? Mommy can open wide. Look at Mommy.”

Before I even get the sentence finished, his eyes are also closed. I didn’t know eyelids could pucker. Had he been my first, this power struggle might’ve been a big deal. But he’s my caboose. So his little streaked-with-chocolate-milk-and-Pop-Tarts face contorted in defiance amuses me. At least he got in his car seat without a fight.

The Montero’s back seat is a lot higher than my Maxima’s had been and it takes a while to find the buckle where the metal thing goes in. I find it, but it’s wedged down in the seat; pulling it out far enough so I can get the metal tip down and snapped is proving to be a pain in the ass. I didn’t know that a prerequisite for my new four-wheel-drive was elastic arms. Reed’s oblivious. And still all puckered. As the buckle snaps I kiss his arm because I can’t reach his mouth and make a pop sound with my lips. This doesn’t faze him. He keeps his eyes squeezed closed.

I know the appointment isn’t that big a deal, but since it will be an annual pilgrimage I want it to go better than the visit to Santa. Who, I heard, healed nicely after he got the stitches out. I didn’t read the Mr. Rogers Goes to the Dentist book to Reed or do any kind of prepping like I normally do because I completely forgot about the appointment. I blame CRS disease (can’t remember shit) on being OLD and a MOM. Bri, Reed’s eight-year-old sister, didn’t forget.

At 7:30 a.m., we were waiting for the school bus on our front porch instead of out in the cul-de-sac because of the rain. She unzipped her backpack and pulled out her sunglasses. They had zebra stripes and were specked with glitter. You couldn’t get any more cool or any more big kid in Reed’s eyes than his sister’s sunglasses.

She put them on and grinned her “I’m-a-badass” grin. “If you’re brave at the dentist,” she told Reed, “you can wear them home.”

I should’ve been impressed. She’d managed to mix memory and bribery while upping her cool factor. But my brain was too busy rescheduling the plumber. Bri held the glasses above Reed, just out of reach, and added, “But no putting them in the commode.”

The day before, Reed had flushed his Rugrats sunglasses down the toilet.

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