December 15th: The Bookstore

December 15, 2001

The next day was a Thursday, and my father told me that I wouldn’t be going to school. We argued about it, but to no avail. Eventually, I knew I would have to call in my absence. 

I called the headmaster’s secretary and told her exactly what my father said was happening. I figured this way, at least somebody would be aware of my situation, no matter how it turned out. After she heard my reason for the absence, she decided to pass me off to the assistant headmaster. The assistant headmaster picked up the line, and again, I explained to her what my father said was happening. There was a long pause.

“Okaaaay. Is somebody with you?”

“Yes ma’am. My mom is here. We’re all here.”

She asked condescendingly, “Mmmkay. Can I speak to her, please?”

I handed the phone to my mother. I was glad she was taking over so this snooty woman couldn’t accuse me of making this up, even if it was just her snap judgment. I knew how good my mother was with people. She could explain even the hardest situations so they seemed normal and straightforward, and always with kindness. It’s what made her a wonderful nurse, and one of the many reasons why so many people loved her. 

After that was handled, my father wanted to go back home and check on the house. His reasoning wasn’t important to me, I was just happy he was leaving. He said that Evan would come with him, and my mother and I would stay there until they got back. 

When they were about to leave, my mother’s fighting spirit came out again. 

“Well, we’re packing up and getting out of here. My sister’s coming.” 

She said it in such a way that offered no room for discussion, and my father looked at her in shock, as if he had been the one betrayed.

I remember wishing she hadn’t said anything so my father wouldn’t be presented with another opportunity to be unpredictable. My mother refused to be intimidated by anyone, no matter how sweet she truly was, and I know there was a part of her that enjoyed reminding my father of that. There was a part of me that got a kick out of it, too.

“Where would you go,” he asked her. 

“To my father’s house,” she responded in a way that made his question seem ridiculous. 

“Fine. But that’s the only place you can go,” he softened.

He knew she had reached a new limit, and it terrified him, even if only subconsciously. His change of tune after her hard stance, again, led me to believe more and more that my father was losing control over his own narrative.  

A few minutes after they left, my mom crossed the room and looked out the window. 

“Was this where the car was parked,” she asked as she looked.

“I dunno.” 

I stood up and walked over to her. I pulled back another curtain panel and looked for anything familiar from the night before. My eye caught a glowing sign from across the street. 

“Yes,” I  said, excited to have figured it out. “I remember that sign!”

My eyes darted to the area of the parking lot where our car would have been parked. I saw an empty McDonald’s cup tipped over on the blacktop. More evidence of my father.

“Alright, come on. We’re getting out of here,” my mother said, grabbing her purse.

“Where are we going?”

“I don’t know, but we are not staying in this room.”

I followed my mother out the door, feeling giddy and excited, regardless of the unusual circumstances and how they had led us to that point. I loved it when it was just the two of us. We could easily forget about the other stuff going on and enjoy each other’s company, which was how we made it through a lot of strange stuff. Her humor was our best stress reliever, and I think I have more memories of us laughing through misery than laughing for any other reason.

We left the building from the side door of the hotel. There was a shopping mall that sat just on the other side of a four lane highway. I asked if we were crossing it. She didn’t respond, probably because she was focused on finding the best path to get there. I felt self-conscious that people might suspect we were running away from something. My mother, on the other hand, didn’t have enough room in her exhausted body and mind to be self-conscious. She pressed on to the finish line, regardless of what drivers-by might have been thinking, or how we looked holding onto each other as we moved across the highway two lanes at a time. When we made it to the other side, I asked her with a chuckle, “Where are we going?”

“I’m going to cash a check and then we’re going to Barnes & Noble.”

After my father lost his job, cashing checks was basically how we bridged the gap between my mother’s paychecks. Debit cards weren’t a big thing yet, and any credit cards my parents were allowed to have I’m sure would’ve been maxed out. I felt ashamed of that, and often wondered what my friends would think if they ever found out.

I remembered one conversation I had heard between my friend and her mother when she asked about the fast cash places.  

“Oh, pff. It’s a rip off is what it is. I feel sorry for the people who get scammed in there. That’s where people go who don’t have any money because they won’t get a job. They think they’re gettin’ easy money by writing a check. They don’t know you get slammed with interest and end up paying way more than what they gave you. But, that’s why you shouldn’t spend money you don’t have.” 

As I sat there listening, I couldn’t help but recognize how ignorant she sounded. I thought to myself, Lady, you don’t know shit. And yeah, we do know about the interest.  

My mom and I walked into Barnes & Noble. She bought me a large italian soda with raspberry flavoring and a black coffee for herself. We sat down in the cafe’s overstuffed chairs, and my mother looked at me in a way that said, Well, here we are. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes as she fell back against the cushion. Right then, her cell phone rang. It was her sister.  My mother told her where we were, and within a few short minutes my aunt Carol walked through the door. She returned the same look to my mother that my mother had just given to me. They had a way of communicating with each other by merely giving each other that look. I listened to them talk about what was going on, absorbing the shock on my aunt’s face as she listened to what we had been through. 

I’m not sure how long we were there, but at some point we were all laughing about the absurdity of our reality. There was something about watching my mother and her sister talk through difficulties that allowed me to feel as if everything would be okay; that no matter what, my mother would always have her sister, which meant I would always have them both. The purity of their connection; the unconditional love they held for each other, offered me a sense of safety and understanding that led me to recognize that, yes. This was home.