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Harlow
“Every ending means a new beginning, Harlow.”
Those were the last words my mother said right before she fell asleep in the passenger’s seat. I wanted to tell her that, sometimes (and especially in our case), endings weren’t really a choice, so… a new beginning wasn’t anything to celebrate, let alone get excited about.
Mom stirs, groaning slightly, and within seconds, she’s snoring again. To say that my mom istiredwould be an understatement. Weeks of physical exhaustion have left her drained. Add that to the emotional turmoil she’s been drowning in for months, and she’s a barely functioning human, let alone a mother or wife.
I bite back a yawn as I glance up at the rearview mirror, making sure my dad and his brother, my uncle Roy, are still behind us. Not that they could’ve gone off track. It’s not as if we’ve been spoiled with choices for turn offs, especially since my dad’s in his eighteen-wheeler, a convenient vehicle to own for moving across the state of Texas.
I got stuck driving my mom’s Honda Civic since we had to sell my car to afford this little thing calledlife. I told Mom I could drive alone, but she wanted to be with me “just in case.” A lot of good that did. To be fair to her, the only other option would be to sit in Dad’s truck with him, but since they haven’t been into the whole “spending time together” thing for a while now, that wasn’t even a conversation.
My uncle’s following in his RV, and he’s here just for the night to help us move the larger furniture, and maybe also to make sure my parents don’t kill each other, especially while I’m around to witness it.
“Your honor,” I’d say, on the stand, and under oath.“I heard nothing. I saw nothing.”
Because Isaynothing.
With a heavy sigh, I check the time on the dash—it’s almost 3 p.m. We’ve been on the road for close to five hours now, and according to my phone’s GPS, we’re only ten minutes away from our “new beginning.”
Our new home.
Aka, my latest version of hell.
Rowville, Texas is approximately five hours west of Dallas (my previous version of hell) and about an hour east of Odessa. According to my mom, it’s so small in both size and population that the only way to get your mail is to go into the general store—which also doubles as the local drinking hole.
“Isn’t that cute, Harlow?” she’d said.
“So cute,” I’d agreed, because what was I supposed to say? ThatI can’t wait to collect the endless amount of medical bills that seem to keep coming our way while a bunch of toothless drunk old men stare at my ass?God, that would’ve sent her spiraling.
Had I been in the mental headspace to care about where I’d be spending my senior year of high school, then I probably would’ve done some research. As it stands, no matter where I am, I’d be at the bottom, surrounded by darkness, because while I fear my mom’s imminent fall from grace… I’ve already experienced mine.
The worst part?
I don’t have it in me to claw my way out.
I rub at my eyes, refusing to acknowledge the tears constantly present there, and glance over at my mother again, contemplating whether I should wake her. She had just enough time to change out of her scrubs before leaving this morning, and I’m sure what few hours she sleeps in the car is all she’ll allow herself for the rest of the day.
Last night, she worked her last twelve-hour shift as an ER nurse at the children’s hospital in Dallas, and tomorrow night, she starts her new job at Starlight Springs Hospital in Odessa. If you’d asked her a year ago how she felt about night shifts, she’d tell you she hated them. That most days, she questioned whether her love for the job was worth the toll it took on her mental health. Add working nights to the mix—the lack of sunlight and general mood-kill of being up all night and asleep all day, and yeah, there were times she’d swear to look for another job “just as soon as things settled down.”
Spoiler alert: things never settled down.
In fact, they just got worse.
The only difference is that now, she’ll tell you she’dratherwork the night shift. Personally, I think it’s because she prefers the company of darkness. Either that, or she can’t stand to be around me.
Maybe it’s both.
Her new job at Odessa came with a promotion and a raise, and that’s the reason for the move. Or, at least, that’s the reason my parents gave me. They came to me a few weeks ago, while I was in my room, on my bed, staring up at the ceiling (as seventeen-year-old girls mid-summer break do… not), and they told me the news. They stood in my doorway, almosttouching sides, trying to convey a united front.
I told them I’d start packing that night, which I did, but the entire time there was this familiar uneasiness that settled in the pit of my stomach and never really left. The best way to describe it is when you’re a kid and you question if Santa Claus is real. And it’ssohard to get to the conclusion that he’s not because that means that your parents have lied to you your entire life. And then it all clicks and it’s just… painfully awkward… because nowyouknow the truth.Your parentsknow the truth. Both you and your parents know each other knows the truth and yet… you circle around the topic until, eventually, it goes away.
That’s how this move feels.
It feels like betrayal and lies and secrets all hidden within a giant broom used to sweep everything under the rug.
With a quiet sigh, I reach across, settle my hand on Mom’s shoulder and shake gently.
She wakes up gasping, as if she was trapped in a nightmare. Ironic—because that’s exactly how I see this move, thisnew beginning.
