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¨It may be best to head to a motel if you see one and wait a bit.¨
¨A motel? No, I don’t want to go to a motel around here.¨
¨This isn’t a Hitchcock film, Nadia. There’s nothing wrong with a good ol’ Missouri motel. They’ll be cleaner than any California motel alongside the road.¨
¨Anywhere unfamiliar during a thunderstorm is scary, Nonna. I can make it to you.¨
¨Are there a lot of cars on the road right now?¨
My review mirror doesn’t reflect anything other than the straight road and whatever beautiful wet greenery I’ve already passed. As for what’s in front of me, I think I see one semi truck several hundred feet in front of me.
¨ It’s really quiet out here.¨ I hate to admit.
¨ That’s what I’m saying, Nadia. No one’s on the roads. Everyone’s told to stay indoors.¨
¨Okay, I probably will find something. I’m driving fairly slow, and that’s helpful, but if I feel like it’s getting dangerous, I’ll exit.¨
I hear her release a big sigh. I wish I could snap my fingers and be in her driveway already.
¨We were told there was rain today, but out of nowhere, I heard they are closing shops because we’re in a red zone with horrible weather. I think the first sign you come across, you go inside. Maybe a McDonald’s or even a Rest Stop?¨
¨I actually feel more comfortable doing that.¨
¨Familiarity, I tell you.¨ Grandma jokes.
¨Yup,¨ l laugh.
¨You have your seatbelt on?¨
¨Always.¨
¨ That’s my girl. I’m so looking forward to seeing you. Spending time with you.¨
¨And answering all the questions your crazy reporter granddaughter has for you?¨ I tease.
I feel like I can hear her smile on the other end. I can definitely imagine it.
¨Yes, and that. Therealreason why you’re visiting me.¨
¨Nonna!¨
“I’m teasing. I know. You remind me of me. You like to go after your goals, Ms. Big Time Reporter Writer, you, or…whatever you are.¨
¨All of the above.¨
¨Well, do me a favor. When you get to the location, call me.¨
¨Absolutely, love you. Bye.¨
I should’ve booked the flight for tomorrow evening. I remember thinking I didn’t have to come this early but wanted to take the scenic route during the day. I’m trying my best to savor what I can from this experience. My idea about writing my grandmother’s soon-to-be most anticipated memoir for next year requires me to engross myself in her world. And what better way to do that than coming to Evergreen and drinking the water she drank as a little girl and observing all the plentiful greens that Evergreen has to offer. But I’m not yet there, and by the lighting I see ahead, I hate to say it’s best to get off at the next exit.
I grip the steering wheel tighter and inch my body closer to it. This gives me a stronger sense of security that helps for the next couple of miles. Honestly, I prefer to get as close to Evergreen as possible. Sure, the wind is picking up, and I’m driving slower than I ever imagined I would be on an expressway, but at least the lack of vehicles reassures me I’m the only idiot on the road to look for. I bite my lip and continue to push through. The four o’clock hour grows gloomier as I spot darkening clouds ahead, but I am grateful I don’t see any tornado sightings. I’m not sure what I should look for when it comes to those, but I’ve felt the earth beneath me shake before. I probably should call Grandma to ask her what it looks like, but she’ll probably stay on the phone until I inch my way off the expressway.
I’m about fifteen miles from Evergreen, and I have a steady stream of classical music humming through my speakers, blanketing my nerves with a sense of earnest determination. Mind over matter, right? Too bad I can’t shield my nerves from the heckling sound of a thundercloud that feels like it’s in the backseat. I press the volume button on the steering wheel several times and decide to pair deep breathing with the music.
When I was in college, I took a meditation class online to help with my anxiety. One trick I’ve held onto is placing my intent outside my surroundings when I’m uncomfortable. I have to pull at each of my five senses to help mentally transform myself from my literal spot to my desired location.
As I inch down the expressway at a lousy thirty-five MPH speed limit, I focus on the smell of my grandmother’s cherry pie. She loves cherry pies and loves baking them. I then feel the weight of her dainty hand on my shoulder and the warmth of her home, snuggling my aura. Alongside this, I picture her opening her front door and leading me into her midwestern colonial-style home with the sounds of Sinatra in the backdrop. Her movie posters, framed in top-tier golden frames, line both sides of her narrow hallway. I get goosebumps as I imagine myself standing over her kitchen table. I pick up a silver fork, and with its side, I slice a piece of pie off a plate and slide it into my mouth. A tart sweetness gives me pleasure as I feel like I’ve finally made it. I have arrived at Nonna’s house.
