diary of a 20 something

Before I was born, my grandpa bought land with acres of green forest and hilly pastures for his horses (they are all in Georgia or horse heaven now). He had a cabin built on the land, a real-life Lincoln Log cabin.

It’s a place I’ve always been proud to show my friends because it’s absolutely beautiful and being off-the-grid is really the best for bonding. Great things happen when there’s no cell service and spotty wifi. 

Throughout the years, we’ve taken friends there to sleepover, swim, and have birthday parties. But earlier this month, when I wanted to bring friends to the cabin, it sparked a family disagreement about liability. Thankfully, I was still able to host a weekend getaway for Jake’s 25th birthday there.

But I understand why they’re afraid. My 10th birthday party, a sleepover at the cabin, was the biggest liability of them all. 

It was a brisk but sunny November day, 15 years ago. The party started early, a camping style sleepover. We did three-legged and potato sack races (except we used giant sacks from my aunt and uncle’s coffee roasting business, Chief Cooker).

My dad was giving out dollar bills to the winners. And when he ran out, he made an IOU to my friend Noah. 

He gave us rides in the Gator (a utility style golf cart used for yard work around the property), piling at least seven kids in the back, wind in our hair as we roamed across the property. We basked in the beautiful fall day. 

Once it had grown dark enough for a bonfire, it was time for s’mores. It was chilly now, a gentle frost gracing the grass. As we finished, still sticky with marshmallow, we begged my dad for one more ride in the Gator.

Relenting, he let us jump into the back and we took it once more up the big hill. We hooted and hollered as he drove up, the feeling of riding in a roller coaster, albeit a small one. But as he took the same turn he had taken all day, something changed; the frost, the angle, the darkness. As I sat crouched between my friends in the bed of the cart, I could feel it. 

The golf cart was flipping. 

Several kids jumped out early, also feeling the wheels of the cart leaving the ground. But I was in the middle of the pack. Screaming, I tumbled around in the back of the cart as it rolled. When it stopped, I was trapped under the bed of the golf cart, facedown in the grass, my legs pinned by its weight.

From a distance, I heard my dad yelling, “ABIGAIL! WHERE’S ABIGAIL?”

My face in the grass, I tried to respond. Hinged at the knee, I kicked my feet to say, “I’m here! I’m here!” 

His yelling got closer and I kicked harder and attempted to scream.

“ABIGAIL,” he yelled again.

When he got close enough, he saw my black converse thrashing in the air paired with my muffled screams. He lifted the golf cart, freeing my legs at last. 

I don’t know how long I was out there, but by the time he carried me back to the cabin, police cars and an ambulance had already arrived. 

I remember them asking me a lot of questions, but I didn’t care. I had a busted lip, that I could handle. My legs would bruise, but I could stand alright. I was scanning the room, checking for all of my friends. Where. Was. Noah?

“Noah got hurt,” I overheard, “he’s in the garage with the paramedics.”

Running down the stairs to the garage, I found him on the cement, motionless, but awake, surrounded by paramedics (and my mom, an ER nurse). They had cut off his brand new coat, the scraps on the floor beside him. 

They were preparing to load him into the ambulance.  

My mom, noticing me, urged me to go back upstairs,”You need to give him space, Abigail. You have to go upstairs. Now.”

I needed to go with him. I cried, begging her to take me too. To not let him go without me. Please.

That’s the last thing I remember from that night besides the gut-wrenching guilt and fear that I would never see Noah again.

The next day or two after, I visited Noah in the hospital. He had broken his hip and his arm, but he was okay. When he saw me, he smiled at me and said, “I still want my dollar.” 

I can’t remember if he ever got it.