Sometimes a Blanket Is More Than Just the Sum of Its Parts

All the blankets in my house have names.

There’s brown blankie, which my 9-year-old son adopted at an early age as a shield against the great unknowns of this world. His younger sister, the green-eyed monster, clings to “Special,” an old crib quilt whose plastic stitching is long gone.

Heavy blankie is just that, a thick quilt used as a bed for a few months after college graduation. Then there’s alphabet blankie, Christmas blankie, dinosaur blankie. . . .

They are essential elements, every one.

Sometimes in winter, when my children have burrowed under three or four of them, I pretend that they are extensions of my arms and that I have wrapped the two people I love the most in an impenetrable cocoon.

I suppose it’s not surprising that soon after I heard the noises of the crash . . . the screeching of the rubber . . . the clashing of metal parts . . . the booms that seemed sonic . . . I found myself outside--racing toward the unknown with stegosaurus, brontosaurus and triceratops flying behind me.

*

The 9-year-old and the 5-year-old were pondering French toast when the cacophony began. You know the atonal composition of a crash, the symphony that starts with a horrible bang and seems to rise in intensity until the crescendo is unbearable. And, then, perhaps more unbearable, the quiet sets in.

At first, I was determined to ignore the accident, despising rubberneckers in any setting. To say nothing of my great hope that--someday--we will arrive at school on time. But determination is fleeting. Bad example not to get involved. What if someone needed to dial 911?

Half of the wreckage sat on a lawn 50 feet from my front door. The car was totaled but the occupants were standing outside as they stared and shook their heads. A neighbor was calling police on a portable phone. It was OK.

And then it wasn’t.

I trailed a group of neighbors and looky-loos as we rounded a corner and the second party to the accident came into view. The driver, a woman, had crawled out of the tangle of metal that once was a car, but she sagged against the side of the vehicle. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. Her eyes looked as though they wanted to weep, but no tears were available. Her hands shook as she tried to raise them. She tapped above her heart, which is when it occurred to me that a blanket was in order, even on a day when the temperatures would soar into the 90s. I was too frightened to look for blood or broken bones, so I ran inside my house and grabbed the dinosaurs instead.

*

The accident scene was a strange cross between a freak show, a block party and “E.R.” A few passersby stopped their cars, turned off the ignition and milled about--offering not aid, but curious stares. Sleepy homeowners staggered out their front doors, eyes widening as they observed the metal carnage strewn across streets and lawns.

Children, mine among them, poured out of homes as mothers hissed at them to return to their breakfasts. The green-eyed monster danced on a lawn, dressed only in her “101 Dalmatians” underwear. I draped the shaking driver in the dinosaur blanket.

Finally, one passerby stopped her car in the middle of the street, whipped out a cell phone and gently coached the woman into remembering her home phone number. As the good Samaritan dialed, the victim’s eyes rolled into the back of her head. How many minutes had passed since the police were called? One? Ten? Then the passerby dialed 911 and, for some reason, handed me the phone. Uncharacteristically, I barked at the dispatcher to send an ambulance and gave precise instructions to the intersection. I turned my gaze to the victim and barked that there was no blood, no evidence of broken bones--just a woman going into shock.

The woman’s two daughters, teenagers, showed up moments later. When they saw their mother, alive and yet not able to focus, their terror bubbled up. “Mama, Mama?” The woman’s eyes and hands fluttered. “Call my work,” she muttered. “No, don’t worry about work.” They spoke in unison as tears slipped down their cheeks. I drew the fringed ends of the blanket across her chest as if to better hold her together. It was the best I could do. And I realized my face was wet with the same kind of tears.

*

It all happened so quickly. The husband arrived only minutes after his daughters. A squad car pulled up. The ambulance was soon to follow.

The husband looked closely at the blanket and turned to say thank you. And then he slipped the cocoon off his wife. Thank you, he whispered, thank you.

The 9-year-old was ready to leave; his sister was coaxed back into the house with false promises of great excitement at nursery school. I fought the urge to call my mother and instead caressed my daughter’s bare back for the brief moment she stopped spinning. Later that night I would wrap her in Special as she drifted into sleep. Safe for another night, at least.