In Cars

1

When I was eighteen, my father invited me out on the dune buggies. He was a redneck and we had absolutely nothing in common. He enjoyed his beer, I didn’t drink. I liked classical jazz, while he preferred songs that warbled about dead dogs, ex-wives and traitorous best friends. He was my father, though, and I desperately wanted to impress him. So I said yes.  2

I screamed. The safety harness dug into my ribs. My head, encased in an over large helmet, pinballed between the back of my seat and the door. I screamed when we went up the sand dune, terrified we’d crash into a vehicle coming up the other side. I screamed when we came down the sand dune, certain we’d roll. And I certainly screamed when, at the top, all four tyres left the ground.3

My father never screamed at me for it. He just gave me a look that said, “You are not my daughter.”4

The mind has a marvellous way of blocking out the traumatic, so I don’t remember the accident. But I know for certain that, when my husband’s car went off the road, I didn’t scream.5