Taxi Cab Memories
Written by: Ana Arruabarrena
A mother and her daughter walked along a wide urban sidewalk hand in hand. A red head and a toe head in a sea of olive skin and black locks; they were both viscerally aware of the attention they called just for the way they looked. But there was no time for self-conscious thought today. Mom was in a hurry, and her youngest was in a daze typical of a toddler, following her gentle but insistent tug.
They stood at the edge of a curb, mom taking a long step into the street to meet her little one’s leap forward. What was to follow was merely screeching tires and an insistent horn that would leave most passersby un-phased, but to that small toe head, those sounds marked the beginning of a series of events that would unravel the mysteries of healing and memory.
Toddler bliss.
City life.
Mom’s hand.
Jump off the curb.
Tires screech.
Loud horn.
I’m lying on the street, and so is my mom. She picks me up into her arms in one fell swoop and we start to run. I am dumbfounded, at a loss of sound as we enter a tapas bar I recognized as our friend’s. It was dark in there, a stark contrast to the sunny day we walked inside from. The sounds of the espresso machine and smell of cigarettes were familiar to me, and the hum of my mother urgently asking for the key alerted me to what was next.
My mom propped me up on the bathroom sink, and I turned around to an image of myself, white hair upright, face red with blood. Sound and breath returned to me and I began to cry, or shriek, not out of pain but in response to the bloody faced child I just met. I noticed my hands, scraped and raw, as my mom began to wash them with warm water. She repeated “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry”. I looked at her tear soaked, worried eyes and thought, but it was me who jumped into the road.
There’s a gap in memory, and then we’re in the back seat of my dad’s taxi, my mom holding me close to her as she cries. No buckles, no car seats, just a tight embrace and the whistle of a cracked window. The voice of my father fills the Renault and for a minute it is the only sense I can take in. Booming. “What is wrong with you?! What were you thinking?! Puta! Idiota!”. The sound filled every fiber of my being. Even though I knew he was talking to my mother, there was no difference between me and her. And it was me who jumped into the road.
This story played out in my life for 30 years. How many gruesome ways did I dream I died in the back seat of a cab? How many times did I scold myself each time I made a mistake, again and again, “what were you thinking, you idiot! I’ve had enough of you, you are so stupid!”. How many times did I think it was OK to use those words to punish someone I loved?
Too many.
A mother and her daughter walked along a wide urban sidewalk hand in hand. Mom was in a hurry, and her youngest in a daze. They stood at the edge of a curb and took a large step forward.
Toddler bliss, city life, mom’s hand, jump off the curb, tires screech, loud horn. I’m lying on the street, and so is my mom. She picks me up into her arms in one fell swoop and we stand for a long moment in an embrace. I can feel our hearts pounding. She quickly finds a safe place for us and props me on a bathroom sink. I cry. She cries. She repeated “it was an accident. It’s ok, we’re ok”. I look at her tear soaked, forgiving eyes and think, I’m so happy you’re with me.
My dad walks into the bathroom and holds us both. I hear his deep, resounding voice calmly speak, “These things happen, it wasn’t your fault. I’m so glad you’re both ok”. No buckles, no car seats, just a tight embrace and the calming sense of relief in the Renault. We’re safe, it’s ok, these things happen, I’m here.
