am not sure who she is talking to, but my bus must surely be driving farther and farther away every second.
“All the more reason for you and Del to drive the girl there,” Mr. John Deere says.
“Suppose we could do that,” the woman agrees. “We have to go there anyway.”
I look to Lorraine, since I’ve run out of people in the room who I can understand.
“That’s very nice of you, Mrs. Johnson,” Lorraine says slowly.
Everything is looming large.
Much too large. You feel all alone, like a little kid, only your mom is not coming to pick you up.
My mother left a lot of times before she left for real. All those other times, I never realized what she was doing.
But she was practicing.
For a while, I thought there was something I could do to stop her; that it was my choice, my fault. The first time it happened we were in a big store. In my memory, I am in the child seat of a metal shopping cart. There are tall shelves and aisles like highways, one of those massive warehouse stores you have to be a member of to shop in.
But that could be just a memory. I was not quite four years old.
I wanted to get out of that cart in a bad way, kicking my legs, letting my feet fly up into my mother’s chest and stomach. Gripping the bar tightly until the top of my hands were red, then white. Screaming, probably saying something to the effect of
Let me out.
I want to get down.
Down.
I wanted to see something, something this moving shopping cart had passed by and hadn’t allowed me a good look at: a cartoon character on a cereal box, a colorful package of candy. I don’t remember anymore. What I do remember is the feeling of being wheeled away against my will, trapped and stuck. I started to lift my knees out of the cart anyway, with no sense of gravity or concept of height. I had no sense that I could get hurt.
Because you can’t get hurt when you are with your mother.
Stop, Natty.
Sit still, please.
Be good,
my mother would have said quietly. She never yelled.
I clearly remember the cold metal and the sense of frustration when I couldn’t get my legs out by myself. I needed to jiggle myself free, or make enough of a stink to be lifted out.
Finally my mother let me down, and as soon as she did, I darted off down the aisle back toward the object of my desire, the cereal box or the candy. I looked back once, to see if she was right behind me. I froze at the sight of my mother turning the corner and heading away from me.
And in an instant she was gone.
I was old enough to realize that it was more logical for me to continue forward and speed around the top of the next aisle to see her again. This I did, the black-and-white tiles under my feet like a monstrous checkerboard. I quickly turned the corner, around the cookie display, but she wasn’t there.
She wasn’t in this aisle. Or this one.
Not this one. Not this one. Not this one.
I was running as fast as I could. Fast. Running. The towers of boxes and colors blurring beside me. The checkout lines were miles long, crowded with strange faces and cart after cart after cart, all looking like ours.
I was crying by that time. Hysterical. So much snot was running down my face, I could taste it, mixed salty with my crying. I didn’t care. I was blinded with pooling, seeping, drowning tears and the fear, the enormous out-of-control realization that I was truly lost.
A woman who smelled like maple syrup picked me up, and the rest is a confusion of sights, people, an office, discussions, a loudspeaker. Someone gave me a drink of water. And then my mother was there.
Here you go, little girl. See, I told you there was nothing to worry about. Here’s your mommy.
My mother looked happy to see me but certainly calm.
I remember thinking,
She isn’t crying.
The inside of the Johnsons’ truck smells like gasoline and wood. Beside me, in the back, an old gray army blanket is draped across the seat. It itches me when I lean on it. The dashboard is covered with what
“All the more reason for you and Del to drive the girl there,” Mr. John Deere says.
“Suppose we could do that,” the woman agrees. “We have to go there anyway.”
I look to Lorraine, since I’ve run out of people in the room who I can understand.
“That’s very nice of you, Mrs. Johnson,” Lorraine says slowly.
Everything is looming large.
Much too large. You feel all alone, like a little kid, only your mom is not coming to pick you up.
My mother left a lot of times before she left for real. All those other times, I never realized what she was doing.
But she was practicing.
For a while, I thought there was something I could do to stop her; that it was my choice, my fault. The first time it happened we were in a big store. In my memory, I am in the child seat of a metal shopping cart. There are tall shelves and aisles like highways, one of those massive warehouse stores you have to be a member of to shop in.
But that could be just a memory. I was not quite four years old.
I wanted to get out of that cart in a bad way, kicking my legs, letting my feet fly up into my mother’s chest and stomach. Gripping the bar tightly until the top of my hands were red, then white. Screaming, probably saying something to the effect of
Let me out.
I want to get down.
Down.
I wanted to see something, something this moving shopping cart had passed by and hadn’t allowed me a good look at: a cartoon character on a cereal box, a colorful package of candy. I don’t remember anymore. What I do remember is the feeling of being wheeled away against my will, trapped and stuck. I started to lift my knees out of the cart anyway, with no sense of gravity or concept of height. I had no sense that I could get hurt.
Because you can’t get hurt when you are with your mother.
Stop, Natty.
Sit still, please.
Be good,
my mother would have said quietly. She never yelled.
I clearly remember the cold metal and the sense of frustration when I couldn’t get my legs out by myself. I needed to jiggle myself free, or make enough of a stink to be lifted out.
Finally my mother let me down, and as soon as she did, I darted off down the aisle back toward the object of my desire, the cereal box or the candy. I looked back once, to see if she was right behind me. I froze at the sight of my mother turning the corner and heading away from me.
And in an instant she was gone.
I was old enough to realize that it was more logical for me to continue forward and speed around the top of the next aisle to see her again. This I did, the black-and-white tiles under my feet like a monstrous checkerboard. I quickly turned the corner, around the cookie display, but she wasn’t there.
She wasn’t in this aisle. Or this one.
Not this one. Not this one. Not this one.
I was running as fast as I could. Fast. Running. The towers of boxes and colors blurring beside me. The checkout lines were miles long, crowded with strange faces and cart after cart after cart, all looking like ours.
I was crying by that time. Hysterical. So much snot was running down my face, I could taste it, mixed salty with my crying. I didn’t care. I was blinded with pooling, seeping, drowning tears and the fear, the enormous out-of-control realization that I was truly lost.
A woman who smelled like maple syrup picked me up, and the rest is a confusion of sights, people, an office, discussions, a loudspeaker. Someone gave me a drink of water. And then my mother was there.
Here you go, little girl. See, I told you there was nothing to worry about. Here’s your mommy.
My mother looked happy to see me but certainly calm.
I remember thinking,
She isn’t crying.
The inside of the Johnsons’ truck smells like gasoline and wood. Beside me, in the back, an old gray army blanket is draped across the seat. It itches me when I lean on it. The dashboard is covered with what
Similar Books
