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I decide to give them space to talk on their own, so I say goodbye to my dad and check in with the guard to leave them alone in the meeting room. Instead, I spend some quality time with the complementary water cups, near-empty cooler, and a poorly stocked vending machine. I insert my credit card and decide on corn nuts that get stuck and require a decent hip check to knock them into the tray. I hold them up as proof when the guard on duty eyes me.
“My nuts,” I say, amusing myself. He’s less inclined to find me entertaining, so I pace to the other side of the waiting room and eat my stale nuts one at a time.
My mom comes in to get me about twenty minutes later, and I sense that we should hold our conversation for the car. I toss my trash on our way out and do my best to stay in step with my mom on our way to the parking lot. By the time we reach her car, she’s visibly trembling. She finally gets inside and manages to close the door and toss her purse into the back seat, and she falls to pieces.
After a few seconds of heavy sobs into her steering wheel, my mom does the unthinkable, and I let her. She leans over the console and hugs me. It’s a bit messed up in that the dynamics are pretty reversed from the norm, the child comforting the parent. But still, it feels nice. In this heartbreaking moment, this connection feels more real than anything ever has with her.
* * *
The drive back to campus has a completely different feel. For the first time since I was a little kid, my body teams with hopeful energy. I truly believe my dad may get out, and it scares the shit out of me that I’ve fallen so far into the positive thinking. But this day, man. This day has been a miracle.
Even in the face—or should I sayfaces—staring at us as my mom pulls right up into the spot marked HEADMASTER in the Welles parking lot, something feels different.
“Gramps is gonna be pissed you took his spot,” I say.
“Good.” My mom shifts into park with the flick of her wrist as her eyes haze with her glare at the double doors flanked by Grandma Caroline and a few of the Welles board members.
I’m not sure whether I should get out of the car or stay here and help her stew. Part of me wants to stand behind her and slap her shoulders a few times like a hype man sending in his fighter. Something tells me she’s been practicing for this moment for a long time, though.
“Wanna see something utterly fantastic?” My mom’s eyes are locked straight ahead still, and I’m buzzing a little with the unpredictable energy drifting from her.
“Sure. I mean, who doesn’t like utterly fantastic things?” I laugh lightly, but she doesn’t. I pull my phone out to send a text to Brooklyn just as my mom presses the volume button built into her steering wheel. Within seconds, her car is literally throbbing with Joan Jett’s “Bad Reputation,” an iconic classic that in a million years I would never predict was on any playlist she owned.
ME:Do you hear that?
I’m guessing every person on the Welles campus hears us, but maybe I’m simply at the epicenter.
BROOKY:What do you mean?
ME:My mom is having a mid-life crisis ala Joan Jett in the school parking lot.
BROOKY:???
My laughter makes my head fall back on the head rest. I’m not sure what her question is for—the fact that this is fucking nuts or that she has no idea who Joan Jett is. Either way, she needs to see this.
ME:Just get a pass. You’ll hear it as soon as you leave the building.
The hard knock against my passenger window makes me jump. I’m startled to see my grandmother standing right outside my window, her teeth clenched so hard I half expect to see them crack. I’m not even sure if those are real or veneers.
“I think she wants you to roll down the window,” I say to my mom, doing my best to interpret the narrowed eyes and pointing gestures toward the locking mechanism.
“I’m sure she does.” My mom pushes the volume higher. My lip curls a little with pride.
I shrug through the window and point with my thumb at my mom, as if there’s nothing more I can do. Really, there isn’t. This is her battle to wage. But fuck if I’m not thrilled to be in the front row seat.
My grandmother marches back to the two men in suits and three women with long coats and leather gloves who look fairly horrified at what’s playing out in their school’s parking lot. I glance to the far right, where the iron gates wrap around the main welcome center. A small crowd has gathered. Theo is standing in the back and he lifts his phone so I check my texts.
THEO:Why is your mom rocking out to oldies?
I laugh out loud, and my mom isn’t even fazed. Her eyes are still straight ahead where my grandmother is now pacing while talking on her cell. The way her tongue is pushed between her molars and into her cheek reminds me of myself. She’s been so scripted, almost unemotional, for my entire life. I should probably be nervous at this massive emotional breakdown, but I seem to find myself wanting to root her on.
ME:There’s a lot I need to tell you, dude. Let’s just say my mom is finally showing up.
He sends back a thumbs up, and when I look back to find him in the crowd I see that Brooklyn is standing at his side, pushing up on his shoulder to get a better view. I’m about to send her another text when my mom abruptly kills the engine and cuts the music. If her car stereo were a record player, this is where the screeching scratch from the needle would happen.
Her eyes are hard on the rearview mirror, her mouth closed tight as her nostrils flare with her quickening breath. I sit up and look over my shoulder through the back window and see my grandfather’s Lincoln SUV parked directly behind her. He steps out, tossing his gloves into the seat before slamming the door and taking long deliberate strides toward my mom’s side of the car.
“Oh, shit.” I don’t have time to react any more than that before my mom flings her door open and steps out of her car.
