A Life Without Ice Cream
Or was it two too many? I couldn’t say. All I know is that you were having a great time with your friends. It was your senior year of high school, so you had every right to live it up. The only downside of the night was that you ran out of beer, so you’d have to make the ten minute drive to the nearest convenience store to get more. You were going to use your older brother’s ID.
Herbert Darcy. Seventy-four. On his way home from a quick run to the store for ice cream. His grandkids always wanted vanilla, even though they poured in enough syrup to turn the ice cream chocolate. It was a fun tradition. His grandkids were four, seven, and ten, and they all loved their weekly ice cream and movie nights. It made his heart happy to know that his grandkids loved spending time with him as much as he loved spending time with them.
But the thing is, you didn’t need more beer.
Cindy Morton. Thirty-two. On her way home from a late night at the office. All those late nights had finally paid off, though. She was getting a promotion. The promotion. Her face hurt from the huge smile she couldn’t wipe off. She and her husband would be able to afford to go on their dream vacation next summer. Maui. She couldn’t wait to tell him.
You’d already had way too many.
Layla Knox. Eighteen. On her way home from her university, four hours away. She was dancing and singing at the top of her lungs to all her favorite songs. Not only had she passed chemistry with a ‘B,’ she’d been accepted into nursing school. She’d always dreamed of being a delivery nurse, and now, her dreams were coming true. Her parents would be so proud. Knowing her family, they’d probably jump around for an hour with their arms wrapped around each other.
You probably had no idea how much you were swerving.
You made it to the four-lane, two minutes from the store, before you got into any trouble. You thought you had a green light, but the green light you were seeing was for the right turn. You were going straight. That signal was red. Herbert turned right, while Cindy and Layla went straight. They all had a green light.
Time moving in slow motion.
After what felt like a lifetime, you came to your senses. You were in a wreck, but you were fine. Your cellphone had been firmly wedged in your pocket the whole time, and even though you flipped, you landed upright, and your phone was still there. You called 911. You stumbled out your totaled car and ran to the other three totaled cars, one at a time, and you sobered up a little more at each car. From what I’ve heard, you haven’t been sober since. When the ambulance arrived at the scene, it was decided that you were the first priority, since you were the only one who still had a chance.
One officer, three houses to visit at nine o’clock at night.
The most overwhelming loneliness a person could feel.
Melanie, the teenage neighbor whom Herbert asked to watch his grandkids while he went to the store, held onto Herbert’s three grandchildren as they cried high-pitched wails, not even trying to hold back her own tears as she frantically called the children’s parents, telling them what had happened to their own father. She felt as though she was the one ruining their lives.
Joseph Morton screamed at the police officer to fuck off, then punched a hole in his living room wall. When he collapsed to the ground in agonizing sobs, the officer couldn’t help but rest a hand on Joseph’s shoulder, if nothing but to keep him from falling apart any more.
Tony and Susan Knox couldn’t breathe. Every inhale of air got stuck in their lungs, until they were suffocating, until they were hyperventilating. They held onto each other, all they had left. Susan couldn’t see anything through her tears. All Tony could see was the framed photo of Layla from her kindergarten graduation. She’d always insisted they take it down, but they never did. Of course not, she looked beautiful. Their little girl was so beautiful.
Kids without their grandfather.
Parents without their daughter.
All because of you. All because you weren’t having enough fun at your party. All because you decided to drive drunk.
That was ten years ago. Sometimes, I’ll still hear car doors slam outside and, for just a second, think it’s Papa, finally getting home with our ice cream. I’ll see him doing his funny dance as he so carefully drops the perfect amount of sprinkles into each of our bowls. But it’s only the ghost of a memory now, and soon enough, Papa leaves me, just like he did ten years ago.
I’ll never eat ice cream again.
