not tell a soul why you got me this car,” I warned him. I was still passing for late forties at the time and had nointention of being classified as a senior citizen. It was fine for Gavin, since he was in his midseventies by then and didn’t care who knew.
As I follow Michael onto the freeway, I remember how proud Gavin looked when he pulled the gorgeous Jag into our circular driveway. I remember how he smiled when he saw me sliding into the brand-new car, running my hand over the buttery smooth leather upholstery, lovingly stroking the steering wheel…and I remember the sex we had that night to celebrate.
Despite my blues about getting older, it had been a fairly good day, as I recall. But it all seems so long ago now. Like someone else’s life, or perhaps just a scene from a movie Gavin directed. And I could laugh, or perhaps I should cry, when I think of how I lamented over turning sixty. Compared to now, that was a walk in the park.
I am amazed at how well my car has held up. I’ve put less than thirty thousand miles on it, and it’s always been stored in a garage. If I do say so myself, it still looks quite spectacular—almost as good as new. And I’m sure if it were to continue receiving the care and attention I’ve given it, it would remain ageless and lovely forever.
Truly, it’s a pity that people weren’t designed to last so well.
I t’s fortunate for everyone else on the road that I am not the driver today. I do not remember when I’ve been so utterly exhausted, so completely spent and worn out and discouraged. If I thought I felt elderly yesterday, I feel absolutely ancient now.
Overly anxious about today’s journey, I’m sure I slept about three hours total last night. I tossed and turned and imagined the worst. Then, when I finally did manage to slumber, I was tormented by horrible dreams, only to be rudely awakened by the jangling of the telephone. To say that my five thirty wake-up call was excruciating is an understatement. Perhaps Michael is right. Perhaps this trip
will
kill me.
Michael’s goal was to “be on the road by six o’clock sharp to avoid commuter traffic,” and somehow we made it out of the hotel at that ungodly hour. We’ve been driving for nearly two hours, and I am still a bundle of raw nerves. I’m certain to have a complete breakdown before this day ends.
I peer hopelessly out the window, gazing blankly at the bleak landscape that surrounds us like a dusty brown carpet badly in need of cleaning. This does not help lift my spirits. Thescenery northbound from Los Angeles on I-5 must be among the ugliest in the world.
Michael’s plan is to drive straight up the freeway, stopping somewhere near San Jose, where we’ll have a late breakfast. I lean my seat back and attempt to sleep, but it feels as if someone has hot-wired my brain—and now there is no controlling it. Most of my thoughts revolve around my hometown, replaying memories I’d thought I left behind when I left that lackluster little town back in 1942. I swore to everyone that I’d never go back. And for the most part, I’ve kept that promise. It’s unbelievable that I’m actually going there now.
Oh, there’s the possibility that I will die first…not a bad prospect, really.
I didn’t return to Silverton until 1981, nearly forty years after my exodus. And I only went back because I was pressured into it by my sister. It was my mother’s seventy-fifth birthday, and Violet had planned a “big” party, insisting that, as mother’s only other child, I must attend.
“You know Mom never had a fancy wedding,” Violet reminded me, “and Dad didn’t live long enough for any special anniversaries. This is our big chance to show our mother that she’s special, that we love her. And if you don’t come, it’ll break her heart.”
Naturally, it was difficult to argue with this, so Gavin and I both made the trip, arriving in style and bearing beautiful gifts. Also, we footed the bill for this
As I follow Michael onto the freeway, I remember how proud Gavin looked when he pulled the gorgeous Jag into our circular driveway. I remember how he smiled when he saw me sliding into the brand-new car, running my hand over the buttery smooth leather upholstery, lovingly stroking the steering wheel…and I remember the sex we had that night to celebrate.
Despite my blues about getting older, it had been a fairly good day, as I recall. But it all seems so long ago now. Like someone else’s life, or perhaps just a scene from a movie Gavin directed. And I could laugh, or perhaps I should cry, when I think of how I lamented over turning sixty. Compared to now, that was a walk in the park.
I am amazed at how well my car has held up. I’ve put less than thirty thousand miles on it, and it’s always been stored in a garage. If I do say so myself, it still looks quite spectacular—almost as good as new. And I’m sure if it were to continue receiving the care and attention I’ve given it, it would remain ageless and lovely forever.
Truly, it’s a pity that people weren’t designed to last so well.
I t’s fortunate for everyone else on the road that I am not the driver today. I do not remember when I’ve been so utterly exhausted, so completely spent and worn out and discouraged. If I thought I felt elderly yesterday, I feel absolutely ancient now.
Overly anxious about today’s journey, I’m sure I slept about three hours total last night. I tossed and turned and imagined the worst. Then, when I finally did manage to slumber, I was tormented by horrible dreams, only to be rudely awakened by the jangling of the telephone. To say that my five thirty wake-up call was excruciating is an understatement. Perhaps Michael is right. Perhaps this trip
will
kill me.
Michael’s goal was to “be on the road by six o’clock sharp to avoid commuter traffic,” and somehow we made it out of the hotel at that ungodly hour. We’ve been driving for nearly two hours, and I am still a bundle of raw nerves. I’m certain to have a complete breakdown before this day ends.
I peer hopelessly out the window, gazing blankly at the bleak landscape that surrounds us like a dusty brown carpet badly in need of cleaning. This does not help lift my spirits. Thescenery northbound from Los Angeles on I-5 must be among the ugliest in the world.
Michael’s plan is to drive straight up the freeway, stopping somewhere near San Jose, where we’ll have a late breakfast. I lean my seat back and attempt to sleep, but it feels as if someone has hot-wired my brain—and now there is no controlling it. Most of my thoughts revolve around my hometown, replaying memories I’d thought I left behind when I left that lackluster little town back in 1942. I swore to everyone that I’d never go back. And for the most part, I’ve kept that promise. It’s unbelievable that I’m actually going there now.
Oh, there’s the possibility that I will die first…not a bad prospect, really.
I didn’t return to Silverton until 1981, nearly forty years after my exodus. And I only went back because I was pressured into it by my sister. It was my mother’s seventy-fifth birthday, and Violet had planned a “big” party, insisting that, as mother’s only other child, I must attend.
“You know Mom never had a fancy wedding,” Violet reminded me, “and Dad didn’t live long enough for any special anniversaries. This is our big chance to show our mother that she’s special, that we love her. And if you don’t come, it’ll break her heart.”
Naturally, it was difficult to argue with this, so Gavin and I both made the trip, arriving in style and bearing beautiful gifts. Also, we footed the bill for this
Similar Books
