Car Talk
Car Talk
The only time my mom stops being a mystery is in the car.
We pass trees on the highway that have succumbed to the frostbit air, crystals suspended from limbs like felted stars and moons above a crib. I assume my mom had once bought a similar contraption to soothe my infant curiosities, but I don’t remember. My mom doesn’t remember either. Or, if she does, she’s hesitant to talk about it. A baby toy is not just a baby toy. It’s a notch in the key to Pandora’s box. A snake that attacks if not contained.
A relic from another life.
I glance at my mother. Crisp January sunlight illuminates her face, highlighting the natural rosiness of her cheeks (she is self conscious about this, especially after a glass of wine). Freckles dot the bridge of her nose, the oldest fading into her skin while the fresher ones peek through. High school health class tells me these are early signs of skin cancer. Epidermal damage. Irreversible.
A bunch of bullshit, obviously. A kiss is a kiss, no matter how long it burns.
I glance down at the clock and see we’ve been driving for only a couple minutes. I take a breath and familiarize myself with the itinerary of these car rides.
5-10 minutes
talk about pointless things:
grades, the weather, a customer who may or may not have been undressing you with his eyes, the gas station on 72nd closing, the news, feelings, a bruise on your arm that you lie about, appointments to schedule—
“are you sure I’m not adopted?”
*nervous laughter*
the weather again
*silence*
10 minutes
glance out the window and note how dead everything is but avoid the irony or theatricality of it
5 minutes
attempt a conversation about men but realize this is a sacred space
20 minutes
Find the nearest McDonald’s and proceed to dip French fries into your Oreo Mcflurry. Remember how He calls this an ‘abomination.’ Be a spiteful bitch and commit the sin anyway. Have mom recount her first job at McDonald’s. Don’t tell her you’ve heard the story before. Remind yourself that the woman beside you and the picture hidden under your pillow of a teenage girl jumping on a waterbed with black curls in her face are the same person. Struggle to believe it. Laugh when she makes a joke about dragging herself into bed and still smelling grease in her pores. Shut up when she glosses over the day she met Him. Forget that she had a baby at twenty while you still can’t make a doctor’s appointment without having a panic attack. Dissociate. Wonder how many lives the stranger beside you has lived. Wonder when yours will begin. Don’t say any of this out loud—
it will scare the child.
Remainder of Trip (TBD)
Proceed with caution.
Days like these are few and far between.
We stop at a Casey’s to dispose of our feast. The sun has made a full appearance and breathes warmth on the frigid air that creeps down our coat collars. My mom, who usually keeps her curls in a tight updo, has let them cascade down her shoulders. A breeze moves them slightly as she pushes McDonalds bags into the overfilled trash can. We lean against the Honda Civic and take in wafts of gasoline and cigarette smoke. She recalls her time in the army and tells me about a drill sergeant who always called her ‘princess’ during daily roll calls. A dig like that, she says, renews your sense of purpose. To run faster, to train harder, to prove every male in your life wrong. To travel to San Antonio, Albuquerque, Munich, Paris, Tokyo. Leave rural wastelands and their lifeless trees behind.
But then you get pregnant during a visit back home. You panic and agree to marriage. You cosplay as Goldilocks while they shove the Bible down your throat like hot porridge. The mysteries of the rosary are sprinkled in for spice: Joyful, Sorrowful, Luminous, Glorious. Mystery? You think. What is Jesus so insecure about that he needs to hide?
You hide the baby bump on your wedding day from your in-laws and God himself. God laughs at you. You spend the next five years of your life trying to be the perfect housewife. You fail. You believe this because He tells you this, and imprints the truth into your sun-kissed skin. You wear long sleeves at work so people don’t see the blue and purple splotches on your arms. The sun is setting and you can feel it. The month before you leave, Wednesday study group does a series on the Glorious mysteries. *** Spoiler: They kill off the main character. He rises only to succumb to the frostbit air of human neglect. Orbs of crystal dangling from dead limbs.*** You pack you and your children’s things while He’s at the bars. Sneak out while He’s at work to a rundown apartment complex on the other side of town. You file for divorce. Change your number. Get excommunicated. Kiss your boss in the smoking lounge at work. Ignore the snide comments of your coworkers when he gives you a promotion. Get married again. Ignore your new husband’s comments on your weight. Your taste in music. Your friends. That red lipstick that makes you look like a whore. Your daughters, who will grow up to be whores just like you. Beautiful whores. Intelligent whores. Whores with sun-kissed skin. Whores who will screw up their lives in new, beautiful ways.
Whores who will fill the cavity in your heart on days like today.
Glorious (adj.): a. possessing or deserving*glory // b. marked by great beauty or splendor**
*man has yet to adequately evolve so that the difference between these two words is clear
**a kiss may burn slowly, quietly. The ‘splendor’ lies within the heat, not the scar
80’s music trickles out of the stereo, Stevie Nicks’ vocal fry surrendering to the crackle every thirty seconds or so. My feet are propped on the dash but she doesn’t scold me like she usually does. She taps her fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of “Leather and Lace.” I close my eyes even though I’m not tired. Laying back, I slow my breathing so she’ll forget I’m there. I listen as the tapping morphs into a hum, then into a low, raspy croon. It sounds spiritual, a hymn of a church we have yet to build.
I need you to love me
I need you today;
Give to me your leather
Take from me my lace
Her soul is resurrected in this moment and I smile at its brightness. The stone has been rolled away from the tomb. What was once crucified has now risen.
My mother, her own Glorious Mystery.