If I were to tell you that I think you are full of shit would that mean anything to you? I think that it is quite clear that you are using bravado to cover up a great deal of pain. That which is so obvious to the rest of us, is negated by you as stupidity. And when I try to think of something to say to you, I grow cold and angry. So I guess I will write a story.
The air in the car is stuffy and sweet. Fragrant - a mixture of my mother's perfume - slight, left over from her evening preparations, and her cigarette which is lit, but remains placed daintily in her hand unconsciously burning. She never brings it to her lips. Usually the smell bothers me in a closed car, but tonight I find it comforting and familiar in a way that nothing else could at this moment.
It is cold, bitter, and windy and the car lists from side to side on the snowy road. My mother is nervous, tense, and usually she is quite chatty - gabbing incessantly in that hysterical high pitched train that she has mastered - Tonight she is silent. I am grateful.
I know she is worried that we will get in an accident. She doesn't like to drive in this weather. We have a long way to go. A long way to go. Cars are pulled over to wait out the storm. The ditch in the center is deep and several cars have slipped in where they will remain until help can be found or the grass is seen again.
I am frightened, underneath I think, but really just numb, staring straight ahead, afraid to move - afraid to change the balance of things. Afraid I might break. I fear we will not make it and pray that we won't.
I want my mind to be blank. I want it to stop. I'm afraid if I move all those thoughts will come back to me. The phone ringing. My mother's scream, and then her silence. I remember thinking she must be okay. Maybe somebody said something funny. The scream didn't sound like laughter, but it has been so long. Maybe, just maybe. But I know that my memory registers a different sound as my mother's sense of fun. She has been on edge, feeling burdened and worried about what will happen to us. She tries to hide it, she tries not to let me see it, but I do. I hate my father for bringing us to this place and I wish we had never come.
My mother sighs - a deep pensive breath. We quickly glace at each other and I see the tears just beyond her eye lids. I turn away - willing myself not to lose it. She tosses her cold cigarette in the ashtray and reaches for another one. I push the lighter for her and she smiles, strained, but a smile nonetheless. She lights another cigarette that she will not smoke. Maybe she finds it comforting like I do.
I look out the window. The snow is soft and fluffy in the medium. It looks fresh and beautiful. I want to crawl under that snow - cover myself with it like a soft shroud of white - wishing myself into a deep sleep - the sleep of death - hoping to find my lost brother.
I know he is close. It is as if I can feel him - hovering over me just over my right shoulder - right behind me out of sight but close enough to catch if I turn around real fast. Do I dare? Will he be there if I turn around or is he like a ghost who will disappear if I try to touch him? Maybe I could just glance - he won't see me looking. I know he's not really there, but in my head somehow I also know he is all around me.
I'm afraid to move - so I sit and stare. The snow is growing deeper and more and more cars have given up the fight. What will they do? My mother's hands still clutch the wheel. She is forward in the seat and I know her body is rigid and tense - if I touched her she would break or remain still like a statue - permanently installed in its venue.
She sighs again, but I don't look over. I can hear the wavering in her breath. I wonder if she is taking in any air. Is she only breathing when I hear her? She is so still, so quiet. I fear she has gone somewhere else leaving me behind. She has gone somewhere I don't want to go.
I feel a stabbing pain in my chest as if someone is pressing on my heart from the inside. It's not a pain really but a hurt; a deep ache - a pushing feeling that makes me want to retreat - holds me back from moving forward. I feel like I must be imagining it. My heart hurts? How is that possible? Does that really happen? Is this what it means to feel your heart breaking?
I look out the window and blink. A drop of water falls on my bare hand. I blink again and realize that I am crying. Tears have flooded my eyes and are covering my face. The tears feel clean and pure - innocent like the snow. I try not to sniff or wipe my face. I don't want my mother to notice I am crying. She might not be able to handle it. She might dissolve, disappear and leave me by myself. What would I do? Where would I go?
I could follow that snow bank and vanish. But my mother is still there - clutching, tense, sighing occasionally, still. I want to scream, holler out loud, beat something up, cry, yell, but I don't. I remain quiet, as still as my mother like a stature in the park made out of stone. Unfeeling, unyielding, quietly dropping the tears of my broken heart.
My mother sighs again and I look up. There's a sign for Lincoln - another hour - or probably longer in the weather. She tosses another cold cigarette in the ashtray and closes it with a force. The snow seems to be falling less now, but maybe it's just because there's more lights on the road. It seems too bright. It bothers me, makes me mad. I want to bury myself in the snow - make it dark again, block it out, make it go away.
My mother says, "you okay" and reaches for my hand. I squeeze it for a second and grunt out the lie, "yea." She nods knowingly, understanding that I'm not. I never will be again and either will she. Something has happened. Something horrible. It feels like a net is around us carrying our car through the snow - somehow protecting us, but I'm not sure from what.
I see signs for the airport. I realize that at some point my tears have stopped falling, dried up like a sudden desert crossing my face, unexpected, unaware even but welcome nonetheless. If only for the relief it gives me that I can hide from my mother just a little bit longer. I tell myself I am protecting her and in a way I am. Knowing that the sight of me crying will surely send her over the edge. Knowing that if I were to catch even one glance in her eyes I would feel her heart breaking too and I could not bear it.
The airport is getting closer and I wonder what we will do with the car. Leave it there of course, but what will happen to it? Will someone come to get it? Will we be back? Can they fly cars to Ohio? I worry over the car for several minutes not realizing that is the last time I think of it. I never know what happens to that car.
|
