The 694 Split

My dad has been a used car dealer since 1992. 

In 1997, I frequently transported cars for him as a newly licensed driver. We’d drive to another dealership and pick up a load of cars with several other drivers. We were to stick together on the route home, as you never know what could happen in an untested vehicle. 

On this particular July day, I’d had my license for exactly 60 days. As was customary, we were coming back from a run, and I was following the tow truck with a loaded vehicle. I was staying directly behind my dad like I knew to do. 

As we approached the old 694 east/35w split I put on my turn signal to get over. It was a busy rush hour and melt your face hot. There is a large truck behind and to the side of me. I was driving a small Pontiac 6000, a 4 cylinder. His truck was full of stumps he was hauling. It was heavy, the speed of traffic was high. I keep signaling. 

I’m now heading at guard rail. 

This is it. Do or probably die. So I do, before I die. 

I get in front of the driver. At 65 miles per hour he hits my bumper. 

The little car begins to spin. Suddenly I find myself facing the truck windshield to windshield bumper to bumper. He hits me again. I spin across the lane. The large truck overturns metal screeching against concrete. 

My dad is witnessing every second in his rearview mirror. Breath held. Pulse racing. 

Stumps roll. A cloud of dirt envelopes the entire scene. 

My dad forces the truck into gear pulling over. He runs up on the scene.

My car is in the ditch. I’m not in it. The front end is crushed completely to the fire wall and maybe 8” off the ground. Without the motor , there’s not much left of the tiny to begin with car. The dump truck had driven over it before he over turned. 

The heat is rising in waves of the concrete.

He sweeps left and right. He’s panicking wondering what he’ll tell my mom. I’m gone. 

He sweeps right again. I’m standing in the ditch in a cloud of dust that’s beginning to settle. The ink on my Back to the 50’s t shirt is smeared from the seat belt rubbing it. My collar bone length herringbone chain has been stretched to my navel. 

I’m alive. It’s like a mirage in the desert. 

I unbuckled my seat belt and got out of the car and ran into the ditch. Stuff had been flying everywhere and I was afraid I’d get hit by another car. 

My dad runs to me teary eyed—rubbing them I disbelief. “Dad!! I’m here!” I yell and wave my arm. 

He did have to call my mom that day. There’s two ways this call can go:

Cyndee, everything is ok, but there’s been an accident.

Cyndee, there’s been an accident, but everything is ok. 

I don’t remember which way it went, and it doesn’t matter. When you get that kind of call, your heart plummets into your stomach, even though physically that’s not possible. 

That night on the evening news, my crushed car, a overturned dump truck and a load of stumps was shown from the Birds Eye view of the Channel 5 chopper. 694 had been closed for hours for the cleanup. 

That night my family thanked the Lord, for He’d given me and the other driver, the opportunity to wake up one more time.