LJ Idol 10: Take A Hike
The afternoon my mother was officially diagnosed with dementia, I jumped into my Jeep and took off down Route 3 toward the Cape. I passed the exit to work, the exit to my mother-in-law's, exit to one sister-in-law, another sister-in-law. I had no idea fast I went, only that I whooshed past signs, trees, and other vehicles, eyes half on the road, mind somewhere in blank space. My husband was with my mother, no doubt panicked and angry at me, while trying to do...well, whatever he had to do to contain my mother if she already wasn't floating in her own fragmented world.
I didn't care.
It suddenly occurred to me as I neared the bridge where mainland ended and Cape began that maybe I should turn around. She's my mother, after all. What kind of a daughter are you to dump her on your husband?
He's better at handling her.
True, but you're HER daughter.
She's not the mother I know.
Nor are you ten years old anymore, like the time you took the train to the city by yourself because you didn't like what she said. What was that about anyway? You were angry, and instead to crying you scooped change from her bureau, took the bus to the station, got on the train, got off downtown, walked around for a bit, then returned home. She nearly killed you when you waltzed through the door.
I caught myself smiling in the rear-view mirror and softly chuckled.
Or maybe it was like the time I purposely skipped freshman math class because I thought Mr. Freedman was a jerk for yelling at the kids who couldn't comprehend the Pythagorean Theorem. Throwing Marty Harris out of class for “insubordination” during one of those instances sent me down to the girls' room during second period where I hid in the last stall, blowing cigarette smoke into the vent next to the toilet . Freedman found out, of course, and cuffed me during lunch.
I should've hit him.
No, you would've gotten into more trouble than you were already in.
He was a shit teacher.
Maybe, but the school system thought otherwise.
There were other incidents, of course, like the time I discovered I was a front for my in-the-closet boyfriend, a guy I was violently, horribly, in love with who never proved he felt the same about me. He was lucky I just took off without a word instead of throwing things at him. Or the time I took off on another boyfriend I wasn't terribly crazy about but who was violently, horribly in love with me. He wound up with a mutual friend of ours and they eventually married.
Or the time I walked off a job. No, make that two jobs. I liked desks as long as I could sit there doing what I wanted to do.
I passed the exit to work. Glanced down at my phone. Four missed calls.
I pulled over at the rest stop before Exit 8, thinking I was going to cry because that heavy, hot molten feeling in my stomach bubbled into my throat. I didn't, though. I cut the motor and stared blankly at the pavement.
You HAVE to go home. You know he's going to be angry. You can't blame him because if he were in your shoes you'd be angry too. Your mother isn't going to understand. She's only going to care that you're there. Just don't fight in front of her or it'll cause more problems and who knows, maybe you'll end up in New Brunswick the next time.
Hey, New Brunswick! That's right, the border's only 6 hours from here!
Start the motor. Go home to your husband and your mother.
I pulled into the driveway twenty minutes later, cut the motor, and stared blankly at the street.
I didn't care.
It suddenly occurred to me as I neared the bridge where mainland ended and Cape began that maybe I should turn around. She's my mother, after all. What kind of a daughter are you to dump her on your husband?
He's better at handling her.
True, but you're HER daughter.
She's not the mother I know.
Nor are you ten years old anymore, like the time you took the train to the city by yourself because you didn't like what she said. What was that about anyway? You were angry, and instead to crying you scooped change from her bureau, took the bus to the station, got on the train, got off downtown, walked around for a bit, then returned home. She nearly killed you when you waltzed through the door.
I caught myself smiling in the rear-view mirror and softly chuckled.
Or maybe it was like the time I purposely skipped freshman math class because I thought Mr. Freedman was a jerk for yelling at the kids who couldn't comprehend the Pythagorean Theorem. Throwing Marty Harris out of class for “insubordination” during one of those instances sent me down to the girls' room during second period where I hid in the last stall, blowing cigarette smoke into the vent next to the toilet . Freedman found out, of course, and cuffed me during lunch.
I should've hit him.
No, you would've gotten into more trouble than you were already in.
He was a shit teacher.
Maybe, but the school system thought otherwise.
There were other incidents, of course, like the time I discovered I was a front for my in-the-closet boyfriend, a guy I was violently, horribly, in love with who never proved he felt the same about me. He was lucky I just took off without a word instead of throwing things at him. Or the time I took off on another boyfriend I wasn't terribly crazy about but who was violently, horribly in love with me. He wound up with a mutual friend of ours and they eventually married.
Or the time I walked off a job. No, make that two jobs. I liked desks as long as I could sit there doing what I wanted to do.
I passed the exit to work. Glanced down at my phone. Four missed calls.
I pulled over at the rest stop before Exit 8, thinking I was going to cry because that heavy, hot molten feeling in my stomach bubbled into my throat. I didn't, though. I cut the motor and stared blankly at the pavement.
You HAVE to go home. You know he's going to be angry. You can't blame him because if he were in your shoes you'd be angry too. Your mother isn't going to understand. She's only going to care that you're there. Just don't fight in front of her or it'll cause more problems and who knows, maybe you'll end up in New Brunswick the next time.
Hey, New Brunswick! That's right, the border's only 6 hours from here!
Start the motor. Go home to your husband and your mother.
I pulled into the driveway twenty minutes later, cut the motor, and stared blankly at the street.