rivers_bend

In honour of Mother's day being today (UK), I dug this out yesterday, and with some greatly appreciated help from karaokegal (who bumped me to the front of the queue, even though her own stuff was in said queue) edited it to make it less stream of conscious and more something a person might want to read.

Superheroes coming to the rescue in this day and age. Who would have thought?

~2000 words, general rated.




Abby
I’m hardly listening as we drive, but the odd phrase penetrates, usually bringing to mind something else. “… yesterday was plain awful”, and now I’ve got that damn song in my head. I grip the wheel tighter and manage not to scream “Shut up!!! Will you just shut up?”, at least not on the outside, nor do I cry, though the frustration burns behind my eyes.

I don’t hate my mother, or even see her very often. Since I left home at seventeen (not because home wasn’t fine, but there were things to move on to), we’ve talked mostly on the phone and exchanged pleasantries more than secrets, and this forced closeness of a road-trip makes me a bit uncomfortable.

The trouble is, I went north and my sister went south, so mom is somewhere in the middle, driving-wise anyway. What with the arthritis in her hips and the medication for this and that, she doesn’t like to drive herself. With dad gone, it’s up to me or Ruth when we all get together. Ruth’s the one getting married, so it’s my turn with the driving.

It seems almost indecent, this marriage thing. Ruth and Joseph have been together for sixteen years, not a diamond in sight, their senior prom picture still stuck to the fridge. Now with the baby coming, it's florists and caterers and the whole shebang like they invented the rituals themselves. Ruth labors under the delusion that she looks like a medieval princess in her dress. I doubt she'd care for my thoughts on the matter (there’s no way to make hot air balloon sound like a compliment) so I’ve smiled and nodded and let her get on with it. Mom is over the moon of course, no hot air balloon or a rocket ship required, so it’s opinions all round I’ve kept to myself, and not just about the dress.

The empty tank light flickers on, conveniently just as I see a sign for the turn-off to a station, so I signal to get over to the exit lane. Mom winds down her monologue on the current wedding-related subject to complain about the mileage on my car. I walk or ride my bike to work and around town, so I only use the car for Costco or trips like this so there’s no point in getting a new one. Mom refuses to understand why I shouldn’t ‘treat myself’.

“A car’s not a treat, it’s a curse,” I mutter, but she hasn’t paused for breath so I doubt she hears me anyway.

The hand-written sign hangs crookedly from a bit of string, Pay at the pump out of order, so I head for the shop. The man behind the register appears to be at one with his stool and hardly looks up when I come in. Whatever has claimed his attention is below the lip of the counter, but, seed catalog or motor magazine or whatever it is, it doesn’t surprise me at all that he finds it more interesting than yet another customer he’ll never see again. I debate handing this guy my credit card or using the cash I keep for emergencies. The sight of his antiquated carbon swipe machine convinces me that this is an emergency if I’ve ever seen one. I and lay two creased $20 bills on the scarred wood. “I’ll fill up, and where’s your restroom?” I finish the entire sentence before he bothers to look up at me. With a sharp nod towards the back in reply, his hand slides the bills towards the register. He’s looking down at his lap again before I even take a breath.

Through the smeary glass I can see mom sitting primly in the car just waiting, not thinking even for a second that it would be helpful for her to get out and start the pump while I’m inside. Rage boils up in me for just a second and then I remember that it was dad who did everything, absolutely everything, the whole time they were married, and forty-eight years is time enough and more to get set in your ways. I take a deep breath and go out to set the nozzle before retracing my steps back to the restroom.

The mirror is a sheet of polished steel and in it I look every inch of my thirty-eight years, and that’s being kind. If you told me the woman looking back at me was ten years older I wouldn’t be the least surprised. An attempted smile makes me look like a serial killer, and I move off towards the cubicle in disgust. I keep my eyes down as I wash my hands. The water’s cold and stained with rust and even that is less depressing than the look I saw in my eyes.

The counterman grunts at me as I pass and I look his way. “Change?” his voice is flat with no sign of the grumble I expected from looking at his grizzled cheeks and nicotine stained fingers. He hands me four crumpled ones, a quarter and a nickel. As I lean forward to receive it I see it’s a comic on his lap, Superman, or maybe the Justice League. A genuine smile twitches at my mouth, the first I can remember in a while, at least since this wedding business started. Even more surprising, I get one in return. My smile widens and he says, “G’day now, drive careful” and suddenly the rest of the journey into the hell-hole that is LA seems less daunting.

Superheroes coming to the rescue in this day and age. Who would have thought?

Elizabeth
Forty-eight years is a long time to be cooking and cleaning and loving somebody only to be left with a flurry of paperwork and a closet full of worn out clothes. The girls both came to help me, Ruth cleaning out, and Abby, always better with numbers, sorting all the insurance and bank details for me. She’s done something so all the bills get paid direct, and tried to talk me into doing the banking on a computer, but those computers make me nervous, and so does she to be honest, so I begged off. George tried to teach me all that, but I was happy enough to let him get on with it, and now it’s too late.

I hadn’t had much to look forward to the last eight months, and then Ruth phoned up with news. “We’re getting married!”, she said and I thought for a minute she’d met someone new. She sounded like a girl again, not a settled woman of thirty-three, with the same man for half her life. I waited nervously for the next sentence, but certainly didn’t expect it when it came. “…and having a baby!” She was giggling as I dropped numbly to the chair. Then I realized this meant I was going to be a grandmother and I laughed along with her.

She came up the next weekend with all her magazines and we pored over the pages. She told me all about the church, reminding me of how she used to come to me and ask for help picking out her formal dresses for the dances at school. Not like Abby, who never much cared for the dances. When she finally went to her prom she just took the money from her after-school job and I never saw the dress. She went off to a friend’s house to get ready, and I never even got to see the pictures. They’re like chalk and cheese my girls; maybe I waited too long after Abby to have another child. With us living so far out, she was a solitary girl ‘til she got set in her ways.

She always had her nose in some comic book or another. Even when I shooed her outside, I’d find her under a tree or in the old tire at the edge of the property, knees up to her chin, flipping pages. She drew her own too, but never let me read them. George always shushed me, told me to leave her be when I pestered. She took them all with her, or maybe burned them, when she left home. I bet they were good. She makes money at it now, working for some advertising firm up in San Francisco. I’m sure I’ve seen her stuff, but I wouldn’t know which it is.

Abby stopped on her way to LA for Ruth’s wedding, to take me down. The resentment came off her like the fog in that city of hers, thick and creeping, but I ignored it. I gave her the option of flying down and I would get the bus, but she probably thought it was a daughter’s duty. The bus is more comfortable to be honest, and I wouldn’t have minded. Probably would have ended up with better company as well. She drives an old Toyota, the same one she had back when she was at college. With all the money she earns, I just don’t understand it.

I told her about the new neighbors who are breeding pit bulls in a pen on the property line; the noise is atrocious. I watched her knuckles going white on the steering wheel and changed the subject to Ruth’s wedding, though she didn’t appear to care about that either. I was so happy for Ruthie, though she seemed perfectly happy with her life the way it was, and pleased for myself to be having a grandchild on the way, but Abby just sat like a stone, eyes on the road or off in the distance. A niece or nephew for her and she didn’t give a damn. Suddenly she pulled off the highway even though we weren’t half way there yet.

We drove into a gas station and she got out, looked at the pump and wandered off inside. Didn’t bother to ask if I wanted anything, and a cold drink would have tasted good in the heat. Dust blew all around the forecourt and I saw the heat shimmering on the road as it bent off into the town. With Ruth I wouldn’t worry, sure she’d come out with something for us both, I didn’t trust Abby to think of it. I was wearing one of my ‘mother of the bride’ dresses and I didn't want to get it dirty so I couldn’t get out myself. I tried to look into the shop, but the window was smeared with grime and the sun was glaring. All I could see was a blurred reflection of the pumps and me stuck in the car.

I saw Abby at the door looking out and then she clomped up to the car and fiddled with the pump for a moment. I still hoped she’d ask if I wanted a drink but then she left again before I could even get the window down.

She came out empty handed, but with a smile on her face that evaporated my irritation in the time it took for the door to swing shut behind her.

I can’t remember the last time I saw that smile. She’s a good girl my Abby. I know she tries.