Rushing to an End

by
Norma Budden-Aningat

I gaze into the flickering candle flame, on the coffee table in our living room, thinking about the events of that day which seems like a lifetime ago. Even now, it seems too much to believe!

My twin brother, Marty, and I had been riding our motorbikes, smiling with anticipation, as the wind pushed us from behind.

Ten more minutes, I thought, and we’ll be home.

Excitement rushed through me and I was tempted to accelerate, but decided against it. Mom said she has a surprise for us. I wonder if she, finally, quit smoking? It would be wonderful if she succeeded. Her asthma wouldn’t be as bad.

I was deeply absorbed in my thoughts, until I heard a revving sound from behind, and glanced to my left to see Marty riding beside me.

“Speed up, little brother!” he shouted. I barely heard him over the hissing of the wind as it rushed by my ears.

“No way!” I shouted back. “I’m sticking with the speed limit.”

“Well, I’ll see you in a few minutes,” Marty replied with another shout before pulling in front of me and speeding off into the distance.

I looked at my speedometer and became worried. Marty is driving way too fast.

Three hours later, I sat in the chapel of the local hospital, staring at the flame of a candle. I hadn’t learned what Mom’s surprise was. By the time I arrived home, she was sobbing uncontrollably, unable to speak a word.

“We have to get to the hospital, son. Marty’s been in a terrible accident,” Dad had said as I looked from him, to Mom, in bewilderment.

“How bad is he, Dad?” I asked with a whisper, while gazing at the floor, though my heart was beating so loudly I could hear it rushing through my head.

“They don’t know if he’ll make it. He was driving too fast when a deer bolted in front of him. He lost control of the bike.”

I looked at Dad and saw the tears he was trying not to shed. “We’d better go, Dad. Just in case.” Dad nodded his head and we all filed to the car. I was trying to hold back my tears, too. I wanted to be strong for Mom.

I don’t know what my parents were thinking as we drove to the hospital, but one prayer kept screaming through my head: God, don’t let Marty die! I beg you. Please, God, let him live!

Finally, while glancing into the soft glow of the candle’s flame, I was able to release the tears I’d been holding, and they didn’t want to stop. My eyes kept filling. The tissues in my hands had become soggy, and torn, so I used my shirt sleeves to dry my eyes.

Why, Lord? Why did Marty have to drive so fast? Why did he have to take a different route? We only had a few minutes left.

I heard the chapel door open behind me but didn’t pay attention to it, until I felt a familiar tap on my shoulder. I turned to look into Dad’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, son. Marty didn’t make it. There were too many internal injuries. He’s not coming back to us.”

I stood to my feet and embraced Dad while sobs engulfed us. I had never felt such grief before and wondered how I’d ever survive without my twin brother. We shared everything for seventeen years, and had planned to attend the same college in the fall.

But, despite the hole in my heart, time continued. The clock didn’t stand still because Marty was dead - because I felt my life was over.

I learned that Mom’s surprising news was that she did quit smoking, and I was proud of her. I gave her a bear hug, accompanied by the first smile to light up my face and eyes since Marty died, and was rewarded with her endearing smile.

Now, six months later, I sit in the living room, with hands folded, and slowly shift my eyes to look at the floor. The smell of bananas is wafting through the air and my stomach is beginning to announce it’s hunger.

“Mom, Dad, I’m going to skip college this year. I’m going to travel for a while on the motorbike.”

Mom gasps and my head jerks back, in reaction. Dad looks into my eyes without saying a word.

“It’s time! I have to get back on the bike,” I plead.

“Son, are you sure you’re ready?”

“Yes,” I reply with a heavy sigh. “Besides, this time I’m going with a message to anyone who will hear me.”

“What’s your message?” Dad asks as Mom fixes her eyes on some point behind me.

“Jesus saves but speed kills.”

Dad stands to his feet and grasps me in his arms. “Marty would be proud of you, son.”

Tears fill my eyes again and I know it won’t be for the last time but, this time, there is hope behind them - hope that someone will pay attention to my story.

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