Chapter One:
Whitney is barbaric. She stands about eight
feet tall, wears animal print with every outfit, and sports a uni-brow. With
teeth like that she will never get promoted and it is likely that she’ll never
get married to Richard. Her glasses are too large for her face, her hair is a
frizzy black mess, and she always has snot hanging out of her nose. Whitney is
not pretty nor is she desirable, perfect, or charming. This is exactly the kind
of pep-talk I give myself while I defile the engagement picture that arrived in
today’s mail.
“Laura, sweety, that wall has got to
be cleaned up!” My voice, mocking that of my mother’s, resonates through my
bedroom. She doesn’t understand why I collect these pictures and plaster them
on the wall by my window: the window that overlooks the veranda where I have
tea on Sunday afternoons with my very own prince charming. I glance out my
luxurious window with the hopes of fading away in my fairytale, only to be
distracted by the neighbor stopping to pick up the present his poodle left on
our lawn.
“At least he isn’t leaving it there
today; I guess the note on his windshield got her point across.” My mother is
opinionated and graceful, but not at all afraid of confrontation; her neighbors
love and fear her. I wouldn’t doubt it if my father left over the complexities
of that woman’s personality. If I had finished my psychology degree I could
probably conclusively tell you that my mother was certifiably crazy in some
way, but I don’t finish most of the things I begin.
“Laura, sweety, it’s time to go!”
This time the tart voice yelling at me is actually my mother. I have the
forethought to finish tacking Whitney and Richard’s photo to my wall-o-shame
before tossing the announcement in the trash, picking up my duffle bag, and
heading downstairs. Ellen-Grace, my mother, decided that we needed a
mother-daughter weekend to ‘bond and do other amazing things.’ My mother might
be insane, but she is an optimist while she does it. The plan for the weekend
is to drive to Portland and attempt to relax while we shop.
I step into the garage just as the
motor-driven door comes screeching to a halt above my head. The trunk of our
Camry is already open and full of dandy girl-tastic treasures. I throw my
duffle into the mix and glance at Ellen-Grace as a small thump follows the thud
of my bag landing at the top of the heap.
I stare down the glare I’m
receiving. “Can you go one day without breaking something?” My mother asks. I
grin, “It is very unlikely.” I turned towards the passenger door of the car in
an attempt to avoid the conversation I knew would last the hour drive from
Hallowell. I have been told that I am bitter since being stood up on my wedding
day. Andrew texted me as I stood in the foyer of our church and told me he had
changed his mind. I think I was more upset that we are in such a degraded
society that it was considered ‘socially acceptable’ to share such heavy
news with me this way, more so then the
fact that I would not be getting married as planned.
As expected my mother is still
talking as she settles into the driver’s seat and properly closes her door. I
try to ignore her as she turns to me, but I was raised better than that.
“..moreover, you need to grow up. It has
been almost a year. Laura Margret? Are you hearing a word I’m saying?” My blank
stare generally answers these kinds of inquiries better than my words ever
could, so I let my glossed over eyes do the talking – it doesn’t dissuade her.
“You are 25 years old, Laura. I’m not going to be around forever,” oh boy, that again. “You need to start
venturing out into the world and making friends. It is time for you to start
dating. You are afraid of getting hurt after what Andrew did and I understand
that, but it’s time to take some risks.”
I guess I feel like this deserves a
response, because my I can’t keep my mouth shut. “Andrew didn’t hurt me nearly
as badly as everyone assumes that he did. I’m pretty convinced he didn’t show
up because he knew I didn’t plan on staying. Did you notice that I chose
rhinestone blue Converses to adorn the dainty, perfectly pedicured feet below
my wedding dress?” My sarcasm never amuses her. She scowls, I grin, and we pull
out of the driveway.
Since childhood I have found it a pleasure
to glance out the back window of our car as we drive away from our house. I
always pictured it like they show it in those sentimental made-for-TV movies,
and imagine that someone is standing on the curb waiving us off. The scenario
of our departure changes a little each time we go, but overall there is usually
someone who doesn’t want me to leave; this time Andrew is standing in front of
our canary yellow home leaning on the weathered fence with tears glistening in
his eyes. I enjoy picturing him in pain. It is here that I have the realization
that I might actually be bitter about his choice to leave me alone in that
church.
My vision fades as the sunshine of our home
falls behind the corner as we turn to head towards the bustling thoroughfare of
Water Street in Hallowell, Maine. I turn back around and watch the Kennebec
River float into view behind the green trusses of Russell’s Gems. I throw my
hands up as we coast down the steep hill towards the river and my mother throws
her right hand up to protect her face from my flailing. “It’s a roller coaster
of doom!” I scream as we bounce over the train tracks. My mother glares at me
and hoarsely whispers my full name; I let her believe I felt that a good
indication to behave.
“Just remember, this was your idea lady.” I
often pretend to feel threatened by her attempts at discipline. I haven’t had
an incentive to follow the rules since I left home to go to college at 21, but
I believe it is better to feed the mama bear honey rather than tease her with
vinegar. Isn’t that how the saying goes?
Chapter Two:
“You are lost.”
“No, I know exactly which road I should not
have taken.”
I stare at my mother in disbelief. How can
we be related? I may not believe in things like GPS and Smartphones, but I
never get lost. Having a firm hold on where I am and where I am going is a gift
I have had since childhood. Ellen-Grace has the internal compass of a poorly
decorated cub scout and the pride of a lion.
“Do you want me to drive?” I inquire,
already knowing the response.
“No, we are almost there.” She grimaces as
she leans forward to see the road signs she is passing at well below the speed
limit. “How far is Lewiston from Portland?”
“How long have you lived in this state and
you don’t know that? Pull over, I’m driving.” I had to put an end to this
foolishness. The problem with insisting that I put an end to the foolishness
just encourages it to continue; I don’t know why I try.
“No you are not. If you had renewed your
license on your birthday three months ago I may consider it, but now you are
stuck where you are while I turn around.” I never meant to imply that my mother
was the only reason I couldn’t resolve the foolishness. I firmly believe in
laws like the ones that exist in Florida –at least I think it’s Florida- where
you only have to renew your license once in your life and generally by then you
are dead, or worse, retired. Things like license renewal mean that the local government
can check up on you to make sure you are driving where they licensed you to
drive. I am not a fan of Big Brother.
We pull into an empty lot amongst a spray
of Firs. I brace my feet against the dash board as my mother creeps her way
around a large rock and back onto the vacant road. As is the case with many
things, Ellen-Grace did not find my blatant over-reaction humorous. She glares
at her windshield and ignores my antics.
As we find our way back onto I-95, I rest
the right side of my face against the cool glass of the passenger side window
and zone out to the whoosh of the sea of Evergreens whipping past me.
