The Hard Truth (Book Part 8)

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Chapter 2

Therapist: What kind of relationship did you have with your Mom?
Me: It was ok. 
Therapist: Did you feel close to her?
Me: Not really. It’s weird, but I don’t respect her. My memories are of her burnt out from cooking, cleaning, working, and dealing with my brother. 
Therapist: Dealing with your brother?
Me: Yeah, they had a weird relationship. On the one hand, he was her baby boy, and she treated him all coddly-like, and then on others, she’d snap, go off on him, and egg my Dad to spank him harder. 
Therapist: What was your role in the family?
Me: I just tried to be good and quiet and not cause any problems. 
Therapist: How do you think that’s impacted your life?
Me: I had all this pent-up stuff, like lava bubbling under the surface, that I didn’t know what to do with. I think that’s why I like alcohol and drugs; they mute those sorts of feelings.  

Day 4, still
A back road in Wyoming
Destination: A Camping Spot

Jim’s directions are scrambled eggs; I turn around and start again. And again. On the third go, I pull onto the shoulder, unable think straight. My anxious thoughts feel like a Chinese finger trap; the more I push against them, the more they strong-arm me into place.

It’s January 14th, 2008, my 16th birthday. I’ve repeatedly dreamed of this day, and it’s finally here. My Mom works as a nurse at a nearby elementary school but is leaving early. The plan includes the driver’s test, lunch, and, hopefully, driving myself back to school. When the intercom signals, everyone in my class knows why; I pick up my things, get waves and good luck, and I’m off. 

Three weeks later, I’ll be driving on a back road with a fresh-printed license tucked into my wallet, and my birthday – of lunch, of that rite of passage – will be as fresh in my mind as newly shoveled dirt. Compared to how I feel, this day will feel like a piece of paper ripped in two. I’ll be unable to stop my foot from pushing the gas pedal to the floor, my eyes will blur, and crazed thoughts I’ve never thought will swarm me. What would it matter if I blew through the upcoming stop sign? Reality’s razor-sharp edge will nearly slice me in two. I’ll slam the brakes and lurch forward. I’ll sit with the most brutal truth I’ve ever known: My Mom is dead, and will never be coming back.

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