Page 71 of Life, Love, and Other Messes

“You can’t stay for lunch?”

“I’ll get something on the road. I need to be home in time to go through my lesson plans.”

“I’ll make you a sandwich.”

Dad caught my eye over the car and smiled. I had to look away so as not to laugh. “Okay.” If she had any idea how many warm ham and cheese sandwiches I’d thrown away at the first rest stop, she’d never speak to me again. “Thank you very much.”

Chapter Seventeen

I lay awake texting with Lisa for two hours that night. We joked about my mother walking in on us having phone sex and about how poor Gerald was surely busy flogging himself for kissing me. I wanted to leave for home first thing in the morning so badly I almost couldn’t stand it, but I knew I needed to stay just this once.

I woke up at eight and realized when I went to use the bathroom that my mother was already cooking. The smell of coffee followed me back into my bedroom and it almost made me want to get up. Almost but not quite. It was nine when my door opened. “Breakfast is ready!”

I was wearing a T-shirt, but I yanked the covers up to my chin anyway. “Mother. Will you please knock?”

She ignored that. “Well, it’s breakfast time. Come get some pancakes before they’re cold.”

“I have to shower first. I’ll heat them up if I need to.” What I needed was more sleep, but I waited until she’d closed the door again and dragged myself out of bed. By the time I had showered and put my church clothes on, Dad was sitting at the table too.

“Do you need me to heat anything up?”

I shook my head at Mom. “I can do it. I’m sure everything is fine.”

“Are you wearing that?”

I set my pancakes and bacon in the microwave and poured myself a cup of coffee. I was in nice pants and a sweater, nothing offensive. “Yes.”

“You’re not wearing a dress?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Most of the ladies wear dresses.”

“I do recall that. I’m going to be wearing this.”

Mom sighed, but Dad interrupted her with the Illini score from the previous night. Even though she and Dad had already eaten, Mom sat at the table with us and sipped at a cup of coffee. “Are you sure you can’t stay for lunch?”

I shook my head. “I need to get going right after church.”

“There’s a wonderful little restaurant down the street. It has sandwiches and soup and those flatbread pizzas.”

“Sounds nice, but I really need to get home.”

Mom nodded, although I could tell she still wasn’t happy. “Well, we’ll get going in about forty-five minutes.”

“I can drive myself and just take off from church.”

“Oh, no. We’ll all drive together.”

Of course we would. After eating, I went to busy myself with packing up. It took about thirty seconds, but I pretended it was an epic project so I could text with Lisa. At ten fifteen, we packed into Dad’s car, just like always. I hated sitting in the back seat even when I was going somewhere with friends and I really hated it with my parents in the front. If coming to Saulsbury made me feel like I was thirteen, being in the back seat made me feel like I was seven. It was chilly and the heat didn’t get back to me. I was glad I hadn’t worn a dress.

When Dad pulled onto Maple Street, I saw it two blocks down: scores of white wooden crosses planted in the front lawn of the church. For a moment I was surprised, since one of the liberal churches in Memphis did that for World AIDS Day. Before I could mention it, Mom turned toward the back seat. “They’re in memory of all the unborn babies that were aborted in the region this year.”

My response was involuntary. “Oh my God.”

“I know! So many. It’s so awful.”

I was stunned. My mother had never been pro-choice, but both she and the church seemed to have crept further and further right before I realized it had happened. I knew there was nothing I could say, and I hated it. There was nothing that wouldn’t be inflammatory, that wouldn’t drive her into a frenzy, that wouldn’t fuck up the whole weekend. I just stared at the crosses, all the crosses, and stewed. I wondered how they defined “the region.” I wondered where they got their statistics. I wondered why this was my life.