Wednesday, December 20, 2000.
    Evening.

    I can never decide what music to dance to until the last minute. It is totally dependent upon my mood, so I had recorded the tape just an hour before. The first piece of music I had selected was a slow, gooey number. My workshop on floor work was slated for January and I wanted to do some advertising for it, so the luscious Natacha Atlas piece would be perfect for the opener. The ending of my performance would be a drum solo—two shorties fused back-to-back because I couldn’t choose between them.
    Weaving my way around the hills of boxes still to be unpacked in my living room, I collected the remaining items I would need—a flowing robe to hide my costume before I danced, makeup for touch-ups, my finger cymbals for the general dancing after the show. Of course, none of these things were boxed—my costumes and other dance paraphernalia had been the first items unpacked when I had moved into the new apartment at the beginning of the month.
    I had never had a two-bedroom apartment before, but between starting a new office job in November, and the amount of teaching and dancing I was doing, I had begun to earn enough money to move up in the world—ooooh... I now had my bedroom with a double closet—one side for clothing, one for costumes—as well as an office and a sparsely furnished living room which I planned to use as more of a dance studio. William had given me nearly 30 mirrored tiles to fill the large wall at one end of the living room. I couldn’t wait to put them up! It would augment my nightly rehearsals as well as the private lessons I gave. In the meantime, I diligently worked on turning the place into my own private haven. It was coming along nicely.
    Once packed for the evening, I gave my appearance the final examination. I wondered if I should grow my hair out again. It was finally long enough to put into a ponytail. I had chopped it off a year ago. It had been waist-length then but, like many things in my life, I had decided that the 7-year growth had to go. Yes, perhaps it was time to let it grow again.
    Finding my appearance satisfactory, I tossed on my coat, boots, gloves and fuzzy black earmuffs, and headed out. When I arrived at Tajine Alami, a good number of the students were already there, dressing and laughing in the dimly lit back room. A row of arched mirrors lined one wall. I stepped over the glittering, shining, richly textured piles that littered the floor, around their owners, tucking, pinning, tugging, putting on makeup. As I lugged my own bags in and claimed a spot, the hostess swirled down the aisle, answering questions and urging everyone to be ready on time.
    I went about my preparations, dressing and discussing last minute details, helping anyone who needed an extra hand. And then it was time. As usual, the show ran smoothly. I manned the music, cheering and grinning and letting out loud, trilling zaghareets from my spot behind the room divider. Then at the end of the night, I took my turn at performing. Very few had ever seen me do floor work—only those who had ever seen a full show at one of the restaurants—and there were quite a few raised eyebrows and wide mouths when I did an arching backbend that skimmed the floor, but never touched it. I ended with the drum solo.
    The hostess closed the show with her customary intense performance, complete with veils, floor work and drum solo of her own, then led us into the hafla. The dancers twirled back out onto the floor, encouraging the patrons to get up and dance. I wove my way throughout the three plush rooms, playing with friends and strangers alike, dancing with whomever I came into contact with, until the music finally died down and we all traipsed backstage to undress.
    Stripping out of my costume bits except for the top and harem pants, I put my big boots back on and covered myself with my coat. Just as I was packing everything up, the hostess called out that she needed a ride home because her truck had broken down. With a grin and shake of my head over the constant trouble with that truck, I said, “I can take you."
    After dropping her off, I realized just how close Christmas was and that I still hadn’t finished my shopping, so I stopped at Wal-mart to pick up some things. When I had accumulated the mound of goodies, I came to the only checkout line that was open. I moved to place my items on the counter, but the checkout girl pulled out a “closed” sign, saying, “You’ll have to wait about five minutes. I have to do the midnight close out.”
    Sighing in annoyance, I slumped into one hip and prepared to wait. Finally, the whirring of the cash register finished, the new roll of receipt tape found its place, and she checked me out. Stowing my Christmas booty in the back seat of my little Mazda, I headed home. Customarily I avoided I-25, but it was after midnight and the freeway would not be plagued with its usual traffic jams. In a last-minute decision, I veered onto the entrance ramp, relishing in the complete desolation. I enjoyed driving at night. In summer, I drove with the sunroof open to allow the night air to blow on my face, to hear the hush and ride beneath the stars. It was winter now and it had snowed recently, so my car was sealed tight with the heater on. From the CD player, ZaZa crooned, “…we came like water and like wind we go…it’s nothing but a Magic Shadow Show…” From her Nights, One and a Thousand.
    Approaching the long-standing construction zone before the Uintah exit, I slowed down in case of black ice. Thankfully, the pavement was dry. As I passed beneath the mileage sign indicating that I was nearly to the Uintah Street exit, I flashed a triumphant grin at it, glad that I would no longer have to take that route infested with orange cones and narrowed lanes. My new apartment was off of Fillmore, two exits down.
    I glanced in my rear-view mirror—took in a startled breath as I caught sight of headlights that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Their reflection was filling my mirror, growing larger by the second. My eyes widened in alarm. That’s gotta be nearly twice my speed! A cop on the chase? I reflexively checked my speedometer: 52 in a 55. He wasn’t after me, and besides, there were no flashing lights. I looked back at the reflection, squinting harder. There was no light bar at all and this person was flying up the highway like their tailpipe was on fire!
    “I hope the cops get you!” I grumbled, glaring at the two swelling orbs.
    Zaza’s voice floated into my disgruntled thoughts. “Words of wise-men ring in my head…words that will haunt me until the end…”
    Maintaining my speed, I huffed out a sigh as I waited for the car to pass, but the lights continued on their course directly behind me in the right-hand lane. My brows furrowed. Oh, I hated hot-headed punks in fast cars who waited until the last moment to zip out from behind and almost clip bumpers in passing! But the derelict car sped on. My eyes darted from road to mirror and my heart gave a loud thump. “Pass me. Now.”
    “Where lies the answer? Who holds the key?”
    “Pass me, damn you!”
    “What of our soul once it’s set free?”
    The orbs flashed in the mirror. My frantic gaze swept across the road. I couldn’t make the exit. I could either swerve into the passing lane or ditch the car in the ravine. The left lane would be safer. Or would it? Could he still pass at the last minute? I chose to slam on the breaks, grit my teeth and hope I didn’t flip the vehicle in the ditch—
    It was too late. The other car rammed straight into mine, a jolting, jaw-slamming impact that threw my whole body toward the steering wheel. My vehicle catapulted forward like a stone skipped on the water. It swung sideways and skidded across the centerline. A horrid screeching sound filled my ears. My foot ground the break pedal—it was already on the floor. The seatbelt strained against my chest and hips. Through the windshield, the construction median loomed, seemed to hunker down, glared at me. Gray hunk of unyielding concrete. Headlights flared in the south-bound lane across the median. Would it hold when I hit it? My white-knuckled hands wrestled with the shuddering steering wheel to no avail. The sickening screech roared on. Then a great crunching boom as my car smashed into the median. The whole left side of the vehicle shot up into the air. Everything went sideways. The black road, the black sky, the white lines, the golden glow of the streetlamps, the stars all whirled as I was thrown sideways.
    Oldest of recurring dreams, year after year since I was a child... It looked just like this. Horrific screeches, rollovers, metal-crumpling impacts, explosions. That last moment before death. That final farewell to life and earth and family and loved ones. One last, “I’m-sorry-I-love-you-goodbye-I’m-ready-take-me!” before the bolt upright in bed with a ragged gasp or a scream.
    In an instant, I said goodbye to family, friend, lover, pet, life, love... Warmth surrounding me, like a loving embrace from behind…I mused inside my head, “So this is really what a rollover looks like from the inside. I wasn’t quite ready to go yet, but I guess it’s time. OK…”
    But my hands were still jerking on the steering wheel and my voice was still tearing out a determined groan and my foot was still grinding on the break and someone must have done their job really well when they constructed that median, because the car did not flip. It careened around on its passenger-side wheels—a miraculous stunt to have been caught on video! Curving back across the road, the car dipped, wavered, righted itself, landing with another body-rocking thud. I bounced up off the seat, pinned in by the belt, and my head slammed into the door frame. More screeching. Car lurching like Frankenstein. Groan! Burning rubber stench. Growl! Skidding sideways across both lanes again—please don’t let there be anyone else behind me! Grunt! A crunching of gravel and a final jarring stop.
 
    Silence.

    Black sky.
    Blackish grass in the ditch I had been aiming for. Never got that far. Music resumes. ZaZa, mid-track. “…caught in the storm day after day, your arms are the only shelter that I see…” Dashboard lights glowing softly.
    Hands still wrapped around the steering wheel.
    Am I breathing? I think so. Can I move? I don’t know.
    Headlights zooming from the frontage road into the ditch. A truck. A guy clambering up the ravine. Car door opening. A man’s voice. “Are you all right?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Don’t move. I’m a fireman. I’ve called 911.”
    Is that a flashlight in his hand? Don’t know. Maybe it’s the headlights. Maybe the street lights. Some light somewhere. Questions about how I am, my name, what happened. A blonde lady brings a blanket.
    Dashboard lights. Orange. Dome light. White. I blink slowly. “Is the other person okay?”
    The blonde lady sniffs. “Yeah, she’s up hoppin’ around, looking at her car.”
    Shivering, shivering. So cold with the door open. Teeth chattering.
    “Are you cold?”
    “Yeah.”
    Hands pulling the blanket closer around me. They roll down the window and close the door. “Don’t move. We don’t know what kind of injuries you have.”
    “Okay.”
    So cold. Body trembling. So dark. So quiet. Voices so far away. So long. How long? Time and time and time on the dark road before the red and blue lights fill my periphery, bounce off the roof and windows of my car, mingle with the dashboard lights.
    Finally a police officer. “What happened?”
    “I was driving home and this car came so fast from behind and I couldn’t get out of the way and they rammed me from behind and I hit the median.”
    “Uh huh.”
    Disbelief.
    Why disbelief?
    Alone in the car. All alone. So dark.
    He comes back. “Have you had anything to drink tonight?”
    “No.”
    “How fast were you going?”
    “Fifty-ish.”
    “Uh huh.” More disbelief. “It’s a fifty-five zone. So more like seventy-ish?”
    My vision wavers as I try to shake my head. “Nuh uh. It was a construction zone. It snowed yesterday. I wanted to be careful.”
    “Where were you coming from?”
    “Wal-mart. I went Christmas shopping cuz I knew it would be empty. I hate shopping there during the day. It’s a zoo. I almost got all my presents. I hope everybody likes them. They’re in the back.”
    He leaves again.
    Car door opening. I’m horizontal, staring up at the sky. Stars. A stream of clouds obscuring one patch. How did they get me lying down? Duct tape sound. My arms and head and legs are pinned to the board. Many young paramedics. Cute. Heh. All grinning down at me as they hoist me toward the ambulance. “You’re gonna be okay.”
    “We’ve got you now, miss.”
    “You’re going to be just fine. We’re taking you to the hospital. Which one do you want to go to? Penrose or Memorial?”
    “I live near Penrose. There, I guess.”
    “All right. Just relax now and try not to move.”
    “Okay…” I grin up at them. Toothy grin. “Just wait until you guys see what I have on under this coat.”
    Heads snap toward me. “Oh? What’s that?”
    My grin broadens. “A belly dancer costume. Heh heh heh…”
    They all laugh and exchange looks.
    Humor. Humor good in emergencies.
    It’s really bright in the ambulance. Why is it so bright? Shouldn’t it be more calming? Relaxing ambience to keep people calm? But it’s bright. I squint. The lights are all on the ceiling. Someone with me. Male voice. Hmmm, we’re driving over the Uintah bridge. Very close. Almost got hit there. Good thing I wasn’t speeding or I might be dead. Off the Uintah bridge. Wheeee…. Good thing I did something right and didn’t flip the car or I might be dead. Good thing…

    Blinding light.
    Why are hospitals so bright? Shouldn’t they be more calming? White ceiling. Wince against the light. How did we get here? Faces above like that gurney shot in the movies. White coats. More questions. Wheelie wheelie into another room. All alone. Again.
    Alone.
    Alone.
    Alone…
    Finally it comes. The choking of my chest and the trembling of my breast and the burning of my throat. I want my mommy and daddy. The hot tears slide down my face into my hair and I sob low and hard. I sob a long time.
    Finally, white coats come in. Pokey, proddy. Questions. Lots of questions.
    I wrinkle my forehead up. “Is it weird that I didn’t feel anything before, but now my neck and shoulders are really starting to tighten up?”
    “No, that’s pretty common.”
    “Okay.”
    Pokey, proddy—
    “Ouch!” Sharp pain in my left hip just inside the pelvic bone. Sore left arm. Forearm. The single abrasion on my whole body.
    “We’re going to take x-rays to make sure your vertebrae aren’t fractured or broken.”
    “Okay.”
    Greenish room. Dark and greenish. Young guy. He tries to get my necklace off. Can’t figure out the clasp. I can’t help cuz I’m strapped to the board. He shrugs. “Well, I guess you don’t really need neck x-rays.”
    “Okay.”
    He knows what he’s doing, right?
    I’m given the thumbs-up. No broken anything. No lacerations. No punctures. No nothin’. They un-strap me and put me in another bright, white room to fill out paperwork. Can’t read it right. Which line goes with which question? I blink and shake my head and finally fill it out. I hope it’s right.
    Waiting, waiting, waiting—
    Something stabs me in the back. A knife in the base of my spine. I stagger forward and clutch the gurney. Then another stab. My knees almost give out. I hobble out to the nurse’s station to tell them. They send me back into the room, certain it’s just a muscle spasm. “If you have any pain in the next few days, give us a call and we can prescribe something.”
    “Okay.” They know what they’re doing, right?
    More knives before the policeman comes in. Burly. Official with his clipboard. “Well, she was drunk.”
    My eyes widen. Loathing and outrage consumes me. “Yeah. I guess that would explain some things.”
    He smirks. “She tried to tell me that you were in front of her and just spontaneously crashed into the median, then hit her car.”
    I glare. I snarl. Am I foaming at the mouth?
    “Yeah.” He sniffs. “I went back to look at your bumper and saw the chunk taken out of it.”
    I snarl again.
    More questions. More paperwork. He gives me his card. I’m cleared to go, but I have no way to get home. I call various people. No one answers. Finally they arrange for a cab to bring me. It’s not far away. Only a few blocks. I limp out the front doors. The cab driver is an older guy, graying hair. “What happened?” he asks as I buckle in.
    “Drunk driver rammed me from behind on the freeway.”
    His eyes pop open. “By Uintah?”
    “Yeah.”
    “That was you?”
    “Yeah.”
    “And you’re walking?”
    “Guess so. Heh. They say I’m fine.”