Nobody Ever Died of Terminal Weirdness - excerpt

"I'm here about an accident," the police officer began.
"Whose accident?" asked my father. "None of us have had any accidents. Kent," he turned, "were you in an accident?"
"No sir," the police officer answered for me, "this is about witnessing an accident. I think it's your wife we need."
"What did you do this time?" my father asked my mother.
"This is pretty routine and shouldn't take more than a few minutes."
"Like the surveys in the grocery store?" I asked. "They always say that, and then it takes half an hour, but they give you some food samples at the end."
"I don't think we get any samples," my father said.
"Come in," said my mother, opening the screen door. "Would you like a cookie while we talk?"
"No thank you, ma'am. But do you have a table, like a kitchen table, where I could put my notebook down?"
We all wandered to the kitchen table. "This is about the accident this morning," the officer began.
"Were you in it?" my father asked my mother.
"I saw it," said my mother.
"No damage to our car?" my father continued.
"I saw it," my mother repeated. "The car next to me started up and gently drove into the car before it. We were all at a stoplight."
The officer's pen scribbled. "Were there any distractions, say an emergency vehicle? Was the light changing? Did the drivers say anything to each other? I mean, before the accident?"
"No, no, and no," said my mother.
"He needs more than that," said my father. "This is an official report. And a statement for the insurance companies."
"I'm sure they will all sort it out," said my mother. "Are you sure you would not like a cookie? Fresh. Chocolate chip. I baked them this evening."
"No thank you, ma'am," answered the officer. "So there was no apparent cause, like the first car did not move forward, and the second car did not think the light had changed or something?"
"Cars don't think," said my mother. "Drivers do. Or not. Sometimes I think it would be better if they let cars drive themselves; maybe cars would think better than drivers."
"Yes ma'am," murmured the police officer. "But what was the driver of the second car thinking when she let her car hit someone?"
"I knew it was a 'she,'" said my father.
"'What was she thinking?'" my mother repeated. "What do you mean, 'What was she thinking?' How am I supposed to know what she was thinking? I don’t know what goes on in people's minds. Do you know how impenetrable a mind is? Do you know how people can be thinking almost anything, that they like you, or hate you, or love you, or would like broccoli cheddar soup for supper, and none of that shows on the outside of their head?
"I don't know what my husband is thinking. I've been married to him for twenty-five years, and I have no idea what he is thinking. I never met this woman. She drove her car to the same stop light as I did. I never saw her before. How would I know what she was thinking?" My mother stopped, breathing hard.
"When they ask me, 'How long have you been married?' I say, 'Ten happy years. And out of twenty-five, that isn’t' bad,'" said my father. "Of course my wife doesn't like that answer. So I guess I should just say, 'Twenty-five years.'"
"What is truth?" asked my mother. "How do you know what truth is? Let alone know someone's thoughts."
“Of course she used to talk with me more," added my father to clarify his opinions.
"Truth is an abstract. There is a truth for each person," continued my mother. She waved her hand at Truth, somewhere beyond the ceiling.
The officer's pen remained above his paper, poised for its swan dive. "What I meant was," he interrupted, looking from one of my parents to the other, "What I meant was, did she say anything to indicate why she might have done that?"
"I don't talk to strangers," said my mother.
"She is a stranger," said my father.
The police officer capped his pen. "Thank you for your time," he said slowly, "I'll add this to the report, but I don't think the insurance company or the department will be contacting you again. It all seems pretty straightforward."