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I waited for her to see me, considering the pros and cons of honking my horn, just a discreet beep. I’m sitting in my car, as instructed, eager to please as usual and hoping to get this visit off to a good start. My rental car is a red Mustang. I thought this would please her, something sporty. I thought a fun car might buoy my spirits, too. These visits are arduous. But I found the car ridiculously hard to drive, narrow back windows obstructing my rear view and an engine that seemed to climb to alarming speeds without any coaxing from me. Several times on the drive up, I had pulled over to let exasperated drivers pass me. I was a hurried person’s nightmare on these twisty two lane roads. I was too careful for a car like this. It was wasted on me. And it was one of the rental company’s "smoking" cars, nauseating me on the endless drive. She spotted me, giving the slightest nod. I barely waved, noting her glare. I know the drill. Be invisible. Don’t embarrass me. Try not to be who you are. I felt for her. I knew the effort it was costing her to get in the car with me and begin our time together. I recalled how I had steeled myself for rides with my mother when I was a teenager, her every mannerism an irritation. She opened the door. "It always rains when you come." My greeting. Was that an accusation? A causal link? "Sweetie, it’s so good to see you. It seems like forever." I live for these visits. I smiled, leaning over to stroke her hair. Golden, smooth. She worked so hard to straighten all the lovely curls out of it. "Mom, we just saw each other a month ago. Remember?" She turns her head away, looks out the window. A catch in my throat, but not unexpected. She will throw barbs at me. Transitions are hard for Anna. She has always been difficult, moody. Even at birth, the attending nurse scared the shit out of me by saying, "This one has a temper. You better watch out." Watch out for what? I was a new Mom. A baby with a temper? Surely not. The weeks and months that passed proved otherwise. Colic. An aversion to the stroller. Trouble sleeping. A difficult infant. But still, my baby, my love. Words came early. By a year she could walk and talk. So bright. So engaging. So loved. So consuming. She wanted all of my attention all of the time. I gave it to her. Feed on demand. Attend on demand. Those were the instructions of the day. I gave her free reign, encouraging creativity, planning stimulating activities. A devoted mother. She was the child I had been longing for my whole life. By two, she had a head full of curls so beautiful and a face so lovely—she literally drew people to her. And her mind, so quick. She was a marvel. My marvel. Now she was this sullen teenager, apparently with no shared memory of our happy times. Perhaps somewhere inside her she remembers and it makes a difference. I’m an old hand at these visits, so I try again, of course. "How was Hearing Committee?" This was her favorite school activity, I knew. "I don’t want to talk about it." Now this surprised me. "Anna, why not? It’s your favorite." Stone silence. Finally, "I didn’t get elected Mom, okay? I’m not on Hearing Committee or student council, so can we stop talking about it!" It wasn’t a question. My heart sank. I knew how much this meant to her. "Honey, I’m so sorry. I …" "Mom, I don’t want to talk about it." End of discussion. I want to say how sorry I am. I want to comfort her. I want to say, how could they not choose you? I want to rail at the rules. But I drop it. What else? "Do you like the car?" "It’s cool. But it smells. Like smoke." She sniffs and grimaces. I consider shocking her into showing some interest in my life by telling her I’ve taken up smoking. But I don’t think she’s in the mood for humor, so I say nothing. "Can I drive it?" She asks, inevitably. "When you are twenty-one. I’d love to have you drive." My husband is blind and I have to do all the driving. I love it when someone else can drive. This is not a power struggle on my end. I try to convey my enthusiasm for her future help. "Last time you said it was eighteen. You’re always changing the number. You do that every time. Next time you’ll say it is twenty-five." This is not true. "Anna, I think it’s a federal law or something. It’s always been twenty-one for rental cars. I’m sorry about that." "Nope. You said eighteen last time. Hey, you can let me drive it anyway. No one would know. Dad would let me." She knows the answer. I say it anyway. "No." Mom’s a drag. I glance over at her again. She has positioned her body as far away from me as possible. Still, just seeing her there, inexplicably, I feel joy. How is it that we have such different visceral reactions? I steer the car through the snarl of after school traffic. Anna huffs and sighs and points out a better way. At this point, her anger is still rolling off me; I’m as prepared as I can be for this visit. "You know Mom, I never realized how bad a driver you are until I learned to drive." I ignore that one, wisely, I think. I can hear my husband warning don’t let her treat you that way. I can hear my friend say just keep your mouth shut and your pocket book open and everything will go smoothly. I’m looking for a middle path. If there is one, it’s obscured by all this precipitation. I concentrate on driving. Town isn’t far from school. I suggest her favorite restaurant. This seems okay. But first she needs to stop at her dad’s house. I have already decided I’m not going in. I’ve been through too many visits, going into that house, pretending interest, feigning no hurt. She wanted to finish high school here rather than move with me when I remarried. Couldn’t bear to leave her friends. Said she was afraid she would lose her dad to his new family. "I know I’ll never lose you, Mom," she said at the time. But I feel like I’ve lost her. And after the last year, when I had to help her fix up a room at the YWCA because her dad and stepmother said she wasn’t welcome to live there, I just can’t understand why she has now agreed to move back in. What does Anna see? Something that makes her stay. Some kind of reconciliation? I’m holding on hard to my grievance. From what I can piece together, Anna landed in the Y as punishment for snooping in her stepmother’s diary—this I can believe; Anna is intensely curious about this woman who has her father’s attention. Anna’s father read her diary, discovering Anna’s "crime." I see a household where no one is talking and everyone is snooping. Not where I want my daughter. Custody law says she’s old enough to choose. I know better. We pull up in front of her dad’s house. Anna hops out of the car. "Wait here." Guess I didn’t have to worry about being invited in. I wait. The long drive has exhausted me. I started in Alabama, drove to Atlanta, flew to Portland, and drove four hours in the pouring rain to Bar Harbor, Maine. All for this time with my daughter. The drive from Bangor to the island took twice as long as usual due to construction. Road crews stopped one lane for fifteen minutes. Then the other. Mud and ruts everywhere. The cold autumn rain fell relentlessly. Anna returns to the car. We drive to Geddy’s Pub, where I let her order anything she wants. And she does. In fact, for the entire week, she routinely orders the most expensive item on the menu. I watch to see if she has learned to say thanks yet. She has. "How’s your new room," I ask, with mixed motives. I want to know, but I also want to shine a light on the absurdity of the situation. "Fine." Good for her, I think. She’s got her boundaries firmly in place. I switch tactics to telling her of my first glimpse of Maine, a "fix it" man working on one of the two baggage claim areas at the Portland jetport, his pants hitched so low that we onlookers could see the entirety of his butt, save for an inch or so. He had a huge hind end, and seemed completely at ease with mooning all of us. People made comments like "welcome to Maine." Anna smiled slightly at this. Glancing around the restaurant, I am struck by how haggard folks look. Nothing like the throngs of beautiful people in the South. Is it the climate? Or are certain types drawn to live here? I make a few more attempts at conversation. Nothing takes. We eat our sandwiches in silence. Hers is lobster. She eats with gusto. I’m exhausted and not at all hungry. I sip a glass of wine, looking at this once familiar place with my once familiar daughter. I try to push back my sadness—or at least not to let her see it. When she finishes, she wants to check out the adjacent gift shop. I can feel my pocket book weighing on my shoulder. This is it. This is my invitation to make this visit pleasant. Or not. The price tag is clear. She fingers T-shirts, sweaters, animatedly points out jewelry and clever joke items. She is giving me my chance. How much do I want it? A good visit, I mean. How much do I want her, she means, and skims her hands over objects that yield proof of love in her child-woman eyes. There are no bargains here. This is how she measures love. I take out my credit card. "My treat," I say, smiling. The intangible gifts of love I offer drop to the shop floor with a dull thud. In this far from perfect arrangement, I purchase a few pleasant moments with this child of mine, and give her the evidence of love she craves. We chat as she shops. I can’t take my eyes off her. To see her happy for this bit of time soothes this ache I carry; a flimsy anesthetic, I know, I know. I drive her home, back to her father’s house. "Thanks Mom," she says, opening the car door. "See you tomorrow after school," I call as the door slams. She runs through the rain up the steps to her home, her loot tucked under one arm, turning briefly to wave. I watch her open the door and enter her separate, private world. I manage to drive a few blocks away, pulling over to the curb before I cry. A harsh rain pelts my windshield, a fitting companion for me this night. I cut the lights, shut off the ignition. Stilled, I listen a moment to the storm. My eyes seek the rearview window. Behind me, water obscures my view. I see only the indistinct glow of what must be a single streetlamp. |
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