Stupid Traffic Jam
By Rachel A. Schrock
There are probably thousands- even millions- of people driving right now, somewhere. They all have homes and jobs and families and friends and obligations, but I couldn’t bring myself to care about any of them if I tried. All I can care about are the cars in front of me that steadfastly refuse to move.
Mentally, I urge them forward. Come on, let’s go, let’s go, not today…
I should have expected this. It’s a Friday. People want to get home. It happens every week. I just thought-
“MOVE ALONG! I GOTTA GET HOME AND SEE THE GAME!”
I am seething, wanting to turn around and shout back at him- whoever he is- and tell him that there are more important things going on in this world than a football game, but what would it solve?
I am one car away from the next street, where there’s parking. My apartment is five blocks away after that street. I could run there much quicker than I could drive, I know. If it wasn’t for the light post and the pedestrians, I would seriously consider driving over the curb. As it is, I silently curse the cacophony of car horns and angry drivers around me.
Finally, the car in front of me moves, getting the same idea as me and heading off to search of parking. I follow, using a huge amount of force to keep my foot from slamming on the accelerator. I soon snag a parking spot and jam in enough money to keep the meter fed until three or four in the morning.
Before I race off, I send a quick text: “I’m on my way. Please, please, please wait for me!”
Not half a block in, I get a call from my wife.
“Please tell me you waited.”
“Adam…”
“You didn’t-”
“She’s been waiting nineteen years, Adam. I couldn’t-”
“You know I wanted to be there, El.”
“Listen, if it makes you feel any better, Corrie wanted to wait, but I just thought that-”
“How could you, El, I was just as excited as she was!”
“I know, but-”
“I was in the middle of a traffic jam! I was trying, El, I just needed ten more minutes!”
My wife sighs. “Listen, I’ll send you the video I took, okay?”
“…Okay.”
I hang up. Seconds later, I get a text linking to a video. I laugh. My wife chose to share this moment on YouTube. Of course she did.
When I play the video, I see a close-up of my daughter’s face. Her eyes are wide and excited and already a little wet. She gives a meek thumbs-up. From off-screen, the TV blares, “Next up, the magic begins with ‘Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone,’ only on ABC’s Harry Potter weekend!” There’s silence for a moment, and then the music plays. My daughter smiles. She doesn’t understand, yet, the significance of the music, but she closes her eyes and sways to the tune that she has finally discovered beneath the blackness.
Dumbledore, I know from memory, approaches the cat on the wall and says the first line of the movie, a line my daughter has only ever seen in white print at the bottom of the screen.
Corrie covers her mouth with her hands and her eyes overflow.
For nineteen years, my daughter has lived in a soundless world. For eleven of those years, Harry Potter, her very favorite book series, has been her escape. I watched her dress up like a Hogwarts student every Halloween. I’ve seen her waving a fake wand at pretty much everything. And when she thought I couldn’t see, I noticed her pointing the wand at her ears, wishing to summon the magic that could make her hear.
Four days ago, my daughter got a cochlear implant. I’ve seen her react to hearing my voice, her mother’s, her own. I’ve looked on as she prodded the cat, trying to force sounds out of it, laughing, and then getting distracted by the sound of her own laughter. But I have to see her hear the voices of her saviors secondhand.
You can’t know how much it breaks my heart.