I only looked away for a ­moment.

That one phrase haunts a parent when something tragic happens to their child. It echoes in the mind like an accusation. Or a ­curse.

“I only turned my back for a second, but somehow he managed to reach the handle of the frying pan . . .”

“I just went inside to answer the phone. I thought the gate to the pool was locked . . .”

It’s a cry for understanding, a challenge to the universe. I hear the guilt, the recrimination, and I understand: If only I had been paying ­attention . . .
He wouldn’t be ­burned.
She wouldn’t have ­drowned.

I didn’t look ­away.

We believe that vigilance can prevent tragedy, that if we pay attention, we will be strong enough, wise enough, fortunate enough to counter ­fate.

“If I had been watching . . .”

It’s a ­lie.

It’s a trick that the universe plays, a way of increasing the guilt and despair while seeming to explain it ­away.

I didn’t look away. I wish I ­had.

Sometimes we can only watch, mute witnesses as our lives change in a moment, in a heartbeat, in the time it takes a ­three-­year-­old girl to take a single step from our ­side.

I let go of her ­hand.

I didn’t look ­away.

And my baby is ­gone.

April 1996

“Jubilee, this is A32. We have two, repeat two, en route. Hit and run. ETA four minutes. Clear.”

“Copy, A32. Please advise condition. Clear.”

“Copy, Jubilee. Advise one adult female. Some bleeding. Shock. Holding stable. Clear.”

“Copy, A32. Advise.”

“Copy, Jubilee. Advise one female child, three years. Severe head trauma with decreased level of consciousness and spontaneous respirations. Severe bleeding from cranium. Clear.”

“Copy, A32. Trauma One will meet you at the gate. Clear.”

KAREN BARRETT

Sherry and I were walking to the mall, holding ­hands.

Hillside Shopping Centre is only a few blocks from the house, and every Wednesday morning in the food court clowns and jugglers and musicians perform for the kids. I had dressed Sherry in her little blue dress, the one with Winnie the Pooh on the front. She had chosen it herself: “my ­sky-­blue dress, because it matches the sky.” I zipped up the back carefully, so as not to catch any of her wispy hair between the metal teeth. I tickled her gently under the arms as I ­finished.

Was that the last time I heard her ­laugh?

Sherry loved the clowns, and the noise of all the other children packed into the food court was like a wall of pure joy. We usually had a snack, a muffin or some french fries, before we walked home, and by the time we got back it would be nap time for both of ­us.

It was a beautiful spring day. The sky was a clear, cold blue, but there was no chill to the air. In fact, the air was heavy with warmth and growth and green and flowers as we walked through our neighborhood. We stopped to pet familiar cats, to smell the lilacs just in flower, to pick up stones that weighed down my ­pockets.

I checked both ways before we stepped into the crosswalk on Hillside. I always do. The street is too wide to take any risks: three lanes in each direction with a concrete median, and the cars and buses just roar through. There’s no light at the crosswalk, so I’m always careful to check. Better that we wait a few seconds than take any ­chances.

We waited for a station wagon to pass from the left and I saw a truck a good distance away on the right, but it was perfectly safe. I took her small hand in mine.

Perfectly safe.

We walked quickly. Six lanes is pretty far for a ­three-year-­old, but we’d done it plenty of ­times.

We should have waited at the ­median.

The next time I looked up, the truck was right there, maybe 100 yards away. It was old and beat up, red with white fenders. And it was roaring toward ­us.

I felt her fingers slip from mine. Felt her moving.

“Sherry,” I called as she skipped away. We were in the same lane as the truck, so all we had to do was get to the next lane. It wasn’t far. No more than a couple of ­feet.

I should have picked her up. I don’t know why I didn’t pick her up.

She turned to look at me.

“Sherry!”

I watched her pudgy white legs scamper across the pavement, her little white shoes, her little blue dress.

Her sky-blue dress.

When I turned to check, I could almost see the face of the driver in the truck. He had shifted lanes to go wide around us, weaving into the next lane, the lane in front of us, the lane that Sherry had just quickstepped into. The roar of his engine blocked out all other ­noise.

I reached for her, my fingers just brushing her blond hair before the truck pulled her away from ­me.
I could hear, over the roar of the engine, the sound of her body hitting the bumper as the truck took her beyond my ­reach.

I could feel the wake of the truck as it sped past me, as I threw myself toward her. Tried to reach ­her.

There was a squealing of tires. A ­scream.

And the next thing I saw was the ceiling of a hospital emergency ­room.

“9—1-1 Operator. How should I direct your call?”

“I just killed a little girl . . .”

“Sir–”

“I swerved . . . I swerved around her . . .”

“Sir, where are you?”

“I’m at the Hillside Mall . . .”

“Where are you at Hillside Mall, sir?”

“I only looked away for a minute. I checked my mirror. I changed lanes. I swerved, but she . . .”

“Sir, where are you calling from?”

“I just killed a little girl . . .”

“­Sir . . . Sir? Sir?”