I drove slowly down the road, peering through the frozen rain striking my windshield. My 12-year-old son, Eric, shivered in the passenger seat while the car warmed up. I should have headed straight home after church, especially in this weather. But we had gone to visit a friend in Grymes Hill, a neighborhood in Staten Island, New York. By the time we left, the sun had set and a sleet storm had begun.
My friend’s townhouse was at the top of the hill and the way down was steep. There were patches of black ice everywhere along the winding street. I kept my foot on the brake, prepared for anything. There was a car stopped at an intersection a safe distance ahead. It seemed we were the only two foolish enough to be out on the road that evening.
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Suddenly, the tires lost their grip. The wheels spun. We were sliding! I pumped the brakes—they were useless. The car took on a life of its own. It fishtailed, picked up speed. We came up fast on the car in front of us. I wrenched the wheel to the right, but the car surged forward. We were going to crash. Eric and I braced ourselves.
“Jesus!” I screamed.
BOOM.
A violent collision finally brought us to a stop. I looked over at Eric to see if he was all right. He was startled, but fine. Fortunately, we’d been wearing our seatbelts. I looked ahead and saw a woman carefully exiting her car. God, please let her be okay…
I got out and waddled on the ice toward her. “Are you okay?” I asked.
“I was going to ask you the same question,” she said. “That was quite the skid.”
“How much damage did I do to your car?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” she said. “You didn’t hit me.”
Maybe she was in shock. I felt the impact. The way we jolted to a stop, I knew the damage had to be extensive.
“Sure I did,” I insisted. “Look…”
I walked around to the front of the car. My fender was less than two inches from her rear bumper. I leaned in for a closer look. There wasn’t the smallest dent or scrape. Our cars hadn’t touched at all. How was it possible?
Then I remembered my desperate cry.
