Sister Phillips dropped the H.E.B. Pumpkin Pie Ice Cream in the cart.
“After today, we’ve earned it.”
It’s Monday night. Missionaries should be proselyting, not shopping. We exhaustedly joined the checkout line.
“Howdy, sisters! What are you doing here?”
Brother Johnson from church waved at us. He didn’t know what happened that afternoon.
We were driving our red minivan down FM 1488 when the light turned red at Old Conroe. The black suburban ahead of us stopped abruptly. We braked fast. Nothing new in Houston.
Sister Phillips adjusted the music’s volume. I glimpsed the rearview mirror. The white Mercedes SUV stopped a few feet behind.
A piercing scream mingled with the sound of breaking glass. We jolted forward violently, my whole frame sliding to the seat’s edge. Just as suddenly, my head slammed back into the head rest.
Sister Phillips and I shook as we exchanged horrified stares. The remaining muggy afternoon was a blur of police sirens, phone calls, tow trucks, and insurance paperwork.
The Ford pickup driver who caused the four-car pileup never noticed the red light. He was going nearly 60mph when he hit the SUV with enough force to total our minivan and propel us into the suburban.
“We were in a minor car accident.”
“Have you sisters eaten? My wife has dinner ready!” He detected the fatigue in our faces.
We raced through the checkout and followed him in our “temporary replacement” Corolla. Chicken and peas have never tasted as good as they did with Sister Johnson, ardently following our hourlong play-by-play of the day’s events.
We drove back to our apartment under the indigo sky. We rushed to carry the groceries inside from the hot car, putting away the cold items first. The H.E.B. Pumpkin Pie Ice Cream was still frozen.