The other day I was walking out of Target when I noticed across the parking lot a gold Buick Le Sabre just like the one I used to own in high school. My first car. It's been so long ago now, more than ten years, I'd forgotten how well I remember it. But with just one glimpse, it all came back. The feel of the door handle. The smell of the seats. The air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror, shaped like a yellow smiley face and smelling like Banana Boat, our sunscreen of choice those endless summer afternoons at the neighborhood pool.
My dad bought the car for $2,000 from our next-door neighbor. We named her "Bessie" because if ever a car was a cow, she was. I think she averaged 0 to 60 in about 30 seconds. But she was mine. I was sixteen and had just passed my driver's test (though I don't know how; midway through I started to drift onto the rumble strip and the woman had to remind me to stay on the road). It was the summer of '99.
I remember the freedom of my first drive all by myself. I remember the heat and the humidity and wishing for an air conditioner but not complaining because I was just happy to have a car of my own. Oh the novelty of hooking my portable CD player to the stereo with my fancy new cassette adapter and cruising the Nashville neighborhoods with my windows down, music blaring, head bobbing to the latest Carolyn Arends album, This Much I Understand. (It's still good; I recommend it.)
Racing to school down Myatt Drive because my sister Emily had made us late yet again, then somehow making the drive in only 7 minutes and feeling frustrated because that meant we would leave even later the next day. Giving our friend Stacey a ride home after school, though it was just down the street, so the three of us could sit and talk in her driveway for hours on end. I remember the daffodils on the hill beside her house and how it was absolutely covered every spring, more daffodils all at once than I'd ever seen. I loved the way they lit up the ground.
~
Last night I woke up afraid. It was after 2 a.m. Not a noise in my room but the gentle drone of the sound machine under my bed. No cause for panic. But the world seemed ominous, and I couldn't fall back asleep. Something in my memory took me to another time when I woke up afraid, years ago.
It was the week after my high school graduation. My dad, sister, and I were at the Nashville house, getting ready to move to Maryland. We'd stayed up most the night packing because my dad wanted to leave that day to make a trip up to Maryland with a truckload. It was late Sunday afternoon. I was too exhausted to keep working, so my dad said I should lay down on the couch and rest for awhile. We would leave whenever we were ready, and it would be okay.
Next thing I knew my sister was standing beside the couch, calling my name, trying to wake me up. It took me awhile to hear her and understand what she was saying. Something about Dad. He'd fallen asleep in the back of the U-Haul and was making a weird noise. She couldn't see him very well, he was up behind some of the boxes, and she was worried he might fall. Still groggy from sleeping, I didn't understand what the big deal was. Emily was insistent. I didn't know what we should do. Mom was in Maryland already, and there was no one else at home. We decided to call our family friend Lorie. She said she'd come right over.
The next thing I remember is the look on Lorie's face when she climbed into the truck and saw my dad and told me to call 911. Then sirens. The ambulance. The hospital.
It still shakes me up when I really think about that day. Not so much the death part, anymore. I've come to terms with that. I've grieved. I've moved forward. But that day... When it's the middle of the night and I'm stuck going through the motions of that day in my mind, I can't shake the feeling of waking up to that uncontrollable moment. It leaves me helpless, and I can't fall back asleep, overwhelmed with the fear of what new nightmare I might wake up to.
~
And then, the fear is gone. I'm not frightened anymore. Somehow I get distracted by a thought, or I forget to remember, and just like that, I'm off somewhere else.
~
This will be my last week working at Union College.
You know, it was never my plan to work at Union. It just kind of happened. I didn't have a job. I loved Union. There was a job opening. Now here it is six years later and it's hard to imagine doing anything else.
A few nights ago at dinner at the Barber's we were talking about life after college. What it was like to transition. How much has changed over the years. Kylie, who just graduated, asked those gathered around the table, "When will it feel real?"
"August," everyone agreed. "When everyone else is going back to school, but you're not."
In that moment it hit me that I haven't had an August yet where I haven't been at Union. And with that realization came a panic.
All wrapped up in my head, of course, too fresh and real to share yet. Out loud I said, "I remember the Friday before graduation is when it started to sink in for me. I got really nostalgic."
"I remember you being depressed," said Ashley.
"Depressed?"
"You were definitely sad."
"Sad. Sure. I agree I was sad."
I wasn't ready to let go. In many ways, I'm still not.
But it's time.
~
A few weeks ago John was visiting Lincoln as part of his cross-country trek. We were driving in my car, probably on our way back from doing something involving food, and I don't remember what exactly we were talking about, but somehow the course of the conversation led me to turn to him and ask, "Is this maturity? Or am I just jaded?"
"You're jaded," said John. He thought another second. "Yes, that's actually a really good word for you."
I just now looked it up. Jaded means "tired, bored, or lacking enthusiasm, typically after having had too much of something."
And that's me, spot on. Dangit.
