Broken

This is a true story, as told by three familiar characters.

ADRENALINE:

She’s holding her seven-year-old daughter’s hand as they walk to the grey Volvo in the parking lot of cheer camp Thursday afternoon. Mom stops when she sees the shattered glass of the passenger window. Confusion tries to take hold, as Mom’s eyes process whose car this is, who this could be happening to. Her daughter screams. I knock Confusion to the side and fly into place, planting myself firmly within Mom. Her muscles tense. Her blood pumps furiously through her veins. Her grip on Daughter’s hand tightens as Daughter folds in half, trying to make sense of this broken world.

It’s okay, it’s okay, Mom says, without a clue about its validity. That’s just what Moms say to their crying daughters. Mom and Daughter approach the vehicle. Mom sees her small purple purse is missing from the front seat, but her phone is there. This is my only regret, this next part, moving her arm in this way. Mom reaches in to grab the phone, cutting her arm on the broken glass. She doesn’t notice at first, also my doing. She has other things to worry about. The blood can wait.

Mom calls 911, in shock that her phone is still in her possession. She thinks of the photos and notes that have not been backed up. Fleeting thoughts that I successfully block from her mind so she can focus on the call. She is on hold.

ANGER:

I remind Mom of the moment only days before when her husband had to call the police due to gun shots. This is not an uncommon sound in their city. But this time, they were close, and he was worried about the gas station across the street, that someone might be hurt. Binoculars in hand, he gazed through the window while he waited for 911 to pick up. He was on hold for ten minutes.

ADRENALINE:

Others flock to the scene, three cheer coaches and a mom who was in her car when it happened but heard and saw nothing. One coach investigates the car, asks Mom questions. I knew it would happen eventually, Mom says. It’s happened to countless people I know. She doesn’t want the coach to feel bad. A dispatcher picks up. Amidst the cacophony of the coach’s questions, the crying daughter, and the dispatcher’s voice, Mom makes little to no sense in her explanations of the scene. The dispatcher asks if she wants to drive the vehicle to the station and report it.

How would I drive there? They stole my key, she says. It was in my purse. The dispatcher says they can send someone. The cheer coaches disperse, two looking around for cameras on the buildings. The third takes the daughter inside.

The other mom stays nearby. Mom hangs up with 911. The two women stand where the criminal stood moments before. In the sudden quiet, she realizes her car was locked, so the key would have to be with her. She pats her front pocket. There it is. She told 911 the wrong information. She could drive the vehicle if she wanted, leave this place behind for good. She tries to call her husband. He doesn’t answer. He always answers. She works with the other mom on next steps. The other mom is hugely helpful, even though she didn’t see anything from her car parked right next to the grey Volvo. Or maybe she is helpful because she didn’t see anything, and she wants to make up for it. They decide Mom needs to cancel credit cards, that that is the only valuable thing in the purse. No cash. No keepsakes from her daughter.

GRATITUDE:

I poke my head in. Adrenaline shoots me a look like I’ve got this, thank you very much. Mom calls the bank while the other mom calls the credit card company. Mom appreciates the quick customer service. She even remembers her mother-in-law’s maiden name.

ADRENALINE:

I help with that.

GRATITUDE:

Customer service locks and cancels the cards, promising to ship new cards with new numbers right away. Mom exhales, knowing she has won a small battle. Mom thanks the other mom. They discuss the insanity of these moments, the unpredictability. The two minutes Mom was away from her car.

ADRENALINE:

Two minutes. Someone must have been stalking, the other mom says. They were watching your car, waiting for you to get out. I never even heard the glass break. Mom shivers. She tries to call her husband again. If he sees any more missed calls, he will think the worst. This is not the worst. She knows there are worse things. This is manageable.

ANGER:

And stupid. And mean. And unnecessary. And the criminal gained nothing, absolutely nothing.

ADRENALINE:  

Mom texts her husband a quick explanation. She notices she is bleeding. She remembers her daughter. She thanks the other mom and goes inside the cheer camp. Daughter is quieter now, but tears still pool in her lower lashes. Daughter wants answers, justice. A plan. Something, anything to hold on to. She wants her mom to be okay. Mom asks where the restroom is, goes to clean up her arm. A cheer coach delivers a bandage. It is too small, but it will do.

Mom and Daughter wait inside. For the police. For her husband to call back. In the waiting, Mom thinks the worst. The gunshots the other night. The Volvo today. Her husband not answering. He always answers. She reads a lot of fiction. She imagines if they were diplomats or politicians, hated by many. If someone had planned an attack on her family. For that attack to happen all at once.

GRATITUDE:

Daughter needs consoling. We are safe, we are good. Dad will call back soon. We will get the window fixed.

ADRENALINE:

Mom gets an idea. She texts a neighbor to see if they are home. If so, could they knock on her door loudly. Maybe her husband is sleeping. He sometimes takes a short nap in the late afternoon after he logs off from his home computer for the day. The neighbor responds right away and jumps into action. Her husband calls less than two minutes later. His voice is heavy with sleep and guilt. This is my worst fear, he says. For something to be wrong with my wife or daughter and not to hear my phone.

We need you to pick us up, Daughter says. I have my key! declares Mom. She removes it from her pocket. Daughter says, But I thought outside you said—Mom interjects, I was wrong. In the chaos, I didn’t realize I had my key all along. Dad says, There’s a glass repair shop seven minutes from you.

They wait a bit longer for the police who never come. Worse crimes happening in the city, Mom guesses. Shootouts at gas stations.

Mom thanks the coaches and takes her daughter back to the scene of the crime. Mom opens the passenger door. Glass crashes onto the pavement. Shards are scattered all over both front seats like a glittery crystal craft gone wrong. The interior sparkles with danger. She tells her daughter to be careful before sitting down in the back. Mom gets a blanket from the trunk to sit on. It’s summer and she’s wearing shorts.

They drive slowly to the glass repair place. Mom explains to the attendant the situation. They can fix the car first thing in the morning. It will cost several hundred dollars. Mom does the math on what bill she will need to delay paying to make up for this cost. Mom feels naked with no wallet. Can I pay in the morning? she says. They say of course. Mom calls her husband to let him know the car can stay overnight and they will need a ride home. He’s on his way.

GRATITUDE:

Mom’s sister calls her, unknowing. Mom is grateful to hear her voice, tells her what happened. Mom passes the phone to her daughter whose mood is instantly transformed by this phone call with her aunt.

ANGER:

The family’s drive home is interrupted by text messages alerting them to someone trying to use their cards. The cards were declined. While this part is a relief, the fact that someone is holding Mom’s wallet in their guilty fingers and trying to use it feels like an icky, personal attack. Mom grits her teeth. They have her ID. They have her home address.

ADRENALINE:

The family picks up the Volvo in the morning. Dad drives the daughter in his own car to cheer camp. I dare someone to stalk me, Dad whispers to Mom. Mom does not follow them, instead drives her newly fixed car to the Department of Public Safety. She wonders about the effectiveness of their services as she enters the building. Public Safety. She orders a new ID.

GRATITUDE:

It’s only eleven dollars. She exhales. She walks slowly to the parking lot to see four fully intact windows on her Volvo. She climbs in and locks her doors, tucking her temporary paper ID into the glove box.

ANGER:

Another customer at the DPS had said to the attendant, I don’t have a computer. The attendant gave no advice for his next step in procuring a new ID. They sent him home empty-handed.

The clouds are endless for days, both over the city and in Mom’s mind. She feels hurt. She feels dumb. She feels selfish for caring about this tiny blip of an incident on this huge, pained planet. She wishes her daughter hadn’t been there. She wishes the police had come. She wishes the building’s cameras had worked. She watches the scab form on her arm. She thinks of her audiobook to get her mind off things. She realizes her AirPods were in the purse. They were a gift from her husband’s work. She tells herself it doesn’t matter. Then it occurs to her that AirPods are traceable.

ADRENALINE:

Mom pulls out her phone. She uses the Find My feature to trace the AirPods. They were last spotted eleven hours ago less than a mile from the cheer camp. She zooms in on Maps. The left AirPod is across the street from the right. She imagines the criminal driving fast, tossing one out the passenger side, one out the driver’s side, through their perfectly intact rolled-down windows. She gets in her car and drives there.

She drives slowly through the neighborhood. A couple of people are outside, enjoying the overcast, a break from the hot summer sun. She stops at the spot where the air pods were last seen. People’s front yards. She can’t trespass and search through the grass. What good would that do? She will look like the criminal then. Or crazy. She doesn’t need them anyway. She just wants to see where her personal belongings may have ended up. And maybe, just a little, her pettiest self wants the criminal to be nearby, to see her new window as she drives past. To see how fast she fixed her life after they tried to shatter it.

ANGER:

Mom feels weighed down. Helpless. She wants them stopped so they can’t do this to anyone else. She tries to forget,

tries to forget,

tries to forget.

GRATITUDE:

I keep peeking in. Now that a week has passed, Adrenaline and Anger are wearing down, leaving room for me to make myself known. I glow in the bathroom, of all places, when Mom and Daughter are brushing their teeth. Daughter says, Thank goodness that didn’t happen on Wednesday because we had makeovers at camp, and I would have cried all my makeup off. They both giggle. Then, tacking onto the end of her next thought a phrase she has picked up and uses often with a guaranteed laugh from Mom, Daughter adds, Thursdays are for car break-ins, am I right? Their cheeks hurt from cackling. A pressure relief valve has been opened.

Mom drives through the city the next day, and I go with her, no longer shunned to the backseat by the Others. She eyes the skyscrapers from her new window, then glances at the passenger seat that once sparkled with glass. She sees me, clearly now, sparkling in its place.