The Accident

Blake’s socks slid across the hardwood living room floor as he twirled to the last chorus of “Party in the USA,” which was cranked to maximum volume on the Alexa in the corner. The coffee table and couches had been shoved against the walls. Blake waved his arms over his head and smirked at his reflection in the glass doors of his mother’s antique hutch. He was impressively graceful, considering his only dance training was a two-week unit in his fifth grade gym class over a decade ago. He closed his eyes and imagined he was performing in the Super Bowl for millions of adoring fans. He sidestepped, spun again, and then his socked foot slipped, launching him sideways. He opened his eyes just as his shoulder slammed into the wooden wall of the hutch. It tilted beneath his sudden weight. When he realized what was about to happen, Blake tried to push off the wall to redirect his momentum, but his feet only slid further away from his center of gravity, and he landed on top of the hutch as it hit the ground with the cha-chink of shattering glass.

Blake jumped up and backed against the wall. Myriad shards of beautiful ceramic covered the floor in glittering, taunting fragments. The hutch was split nearly in half, with one door wrenched from its hinges and a shelf poking through the back. He had destroyed a hutch that had been in his family for three generations and his mother’s proudly displayed china dishes. Shame and helplessness splintered Blake’s conscience. He couldn’t put the dishes back together, couldn’t fix the hutch, probably couldn’t even sweep carefully enough to prevent a delinquent shard from embedding itself in someone’s bare foot. With his luck, it would be his mother’s.

His mother who would come home any minute.

Blake was already the disappointment child. His two older sisters had finished college, gotten married, and started working in high-paying jobs in other states, while Blake had dropped out of college after a semester and was now twenty-four, working part-time at a grocery store, and living in his mother’s house. Or he used to be. When his mom saw the earthquake-struck living room, Blake might be homeless. At the very least, he’d have to pay for the damage, which would more than empty the 240 dollars in his bank account. And he’d have to endure weeks of long-suffering sighs and snide remarks. He’d knocked over the Christmas tree two years ago, and his mother still brought it up.

“Alexa, stop,” Blake said when a new upbeat song started to play. Alexa obeyed, and Blake stepped over some dishes to reach the doorway to the kitchen. He grabbed his phone off the counter. His mother should have been home about twenty minutes ago. There was no way to know what had delayed her or how long it would take, but maybe he could buy time. He started typing a text asking her to buy him some deodorant on her way back.

Before he could press send, an incoming call overtook the screen. His mom. He answered, because ignoring her call would put her in a bad mood before she even saw what he'd done. “Yeah, Mom? What’s up?”

“Blake.” White noise from the background muffled her voice. “I got—” she said something he couldn’t hear.

“Mom?”

“Sorry,” she said, her voice louder. “I got into an accident on the way home. I’m okay, but they’re taking me to the ER.”

For two seconds, Blake forgot all about the broken hutch. “What? You what?” Then he remembered, and the clever part of his brain linked the afternoon’s two events. His mom’s misfortune could be his salvation. “I’m so sorry, Mom. What should I do? Want me to meet you at the hospital?”

“Oh, would you, Blake? That would be wonderful. Thanks.”

“Of course. Anything for you, Mom. I love you. See you soon.”

“I love you too, Blake.”

Blake grabbed his keys off the windowsill and strode across the kitchen without a glance toward the living room. What were a few broken dishes compared to a car—not to mention a risk to her life! And his mom could hardly scold him the same day he showed up for her in a time of distress. He pushed away the nagging protests of his conscience. “I would have gone to the hospital anyway,” he insisted, stepping outside and closing the door behind him. “I’m just happy about the timing, that’s all.”

“You shouldn’t be happy at all,” his conscience replied scornfully. “She could have died! And if she had, you’d be relieved.”

Blake slipped into the car, turned the key, and shifted into reverse. Maybe so, he admitted. But how could he pass up this kind of luck? He would go to the hospital and stay as long as necessary, holding her hand and saying it would be okay, he loved her, he was here. At the right moment, he’d confess that just before leaving, he’d been so concerned about her that he didn’t look where he was going, and he crashed into the hutch and broke it. It was an accident, and he was so sorry to add to her bad day, and he’d go with her to pick out replacement dishes. She wouldn’t yell at him. She wouldn’t even be upset. She would be so thankful for her son that she’d hug him, and help him clean up, and pay for the damage. Blake would make sure of it.