An August telephone call...

“No, lost,” I spat into my cell then wiped the phone on my jeans more out of habit than thought. Noticing the jeans were in dire need of a wash, they could’ve walked me if I needed them to. I smiled, picturing it. They might need to do just that, very
soon.

“Lost,” I reflected. “I’ve no idea what I’m doing anymore.” I’d said this only once out loud, and only to myself the week before. Saying it to my mother on the phone on a Tuesday morning at 9:00am walking to the subway for the first time it seemed like a shout in a foreign language.

“Oh, I see,” my mother said. “Well, why not go back to school? You’d be very good at something, ah, well, new.” Her reassurance fell out of the phone and landed harsh on my brain.
“What? And pay for it how?” I was yelling now. Turning in a circle, walking even faster to ensure no one was listening to my conversation. The chat that would be referred in the future as “the pre-break down” conversation. It’s important to place such occurrences in boxes, even stick labels on them in order to avoid the “after you have already gone through the first break down, decided to do something about it, but now questioning that you are doing the right thing” break down. A very popular break down for women living in New York City in their mid to late 30s who find themselves single, in a new career, contemplating all they have become.

“I’m sorry to yell, but I don’t think you understand. Going to school is not an option. I am feeling very unsure of myself and what I am doing.” By then I was standing at the subway entrance. The morning throng of Manhattan soldiers trudged by, creating a miniature breeze.

“Um,” my mother said. “Well, I think…I was thinking about you, about all of this lately,” my mom stammered. “And, well, ah, how about…” Yes, people do stammer, but she does not. My mother says what she means and says it directly, always.
I circled the subway entrance, dancing with it. “What’re you trying to say? Can I get a verb, a noun?”
“Ok, I think you should leave. It’s not good for you anymore.” Thump. That was the sound I heard. The sound her words made as they arrowed through the phone from Virginia to New York City. I heard it in my head, but it seemed to come from all around me. From the man standing across the street sipping his Grande Starbucks coffee. Echoing from the newspaper and candy stand positioned to the left of me. It was everywhere.

“And do what? Go where?” Yes, she was trying to help and I was not letting her. I was drowning, and hitting my rescuer in the face.

“Why not live here for a while? Work, take some time to figure out what you want to do.” I hate it when she is logical and when I am obviously not. It reminds me that she is my mother and does know shit.

“I have to go. Thanks, I’ll call you later.” I hit end and bolted down the stairs to the train platform, attempting to outrun the conversation, to leave it at the entrance for someone else to hear and deal with. The conversation and the suggestion that arose out of it did not leave. It stayed with me the entire ride to work. Nagging, settling in. It decided to live, and took up residence.

Once at work I called her back. No answer. I left a message. Now its afternoon and no return call back I’m starting to worry. I reviewed my message in my head over and over.
“Hi, Mom. Ok so I’ve been thinking about what you suggested and I’m thinking it’s a good idea. Since you offered, I’ll do it. I will come home. I just need a little help. I just can’t do this on my own right now. I feel so lost. [Crying now interrupting every few words]. The message that would be known as “the break-down conversation, ah, ramble.”

When I didn’t hear back from her after eight hours I’ve imagined what might have taken place in those hours on the Eastern Shore of Virginia, where my parents live. Because when one receives no information, one creates her own information. A mind, after all, is a terrible thing to use.

I headed out of work, walking through the after five city gaggle of people, running through my head the possible scenarios currently taking place, causing my mother to not call.
One: She told Pop. They’ve packed up, disconnected the telephone and left no forwarding address. All of which I estimate could take about eight hours. Give or take an hour, if the phone company put them on hold.

Two: number one, plus they rented the house out to a non-English speaking family of farm workers. Just to make sure these renters don’t divulge my parent’s new location, their whereabouts. I am not above torture I think. It seems popular right now.

Three: a band of pirates landed on their dock, took them hostage, ate all their food, consumed all their alcohol, slept in all their beds, and cut off their telephone privileges, just because they could.

I decided then to meet a friend downtown for a drink instead of trudging on auto pilot back to my apartment. A change of transport certianly gave my spirt a lift. As I sit on the cool and slightly smelly city bus taking me downtown, picturing the clothes the pirates were wearing, the strange facial hair they would possess, my cell rings. Mom had a busy day at work, she was out in the field all day and just now got my message. A warm and embracing smile seeps from my face, down my neck, over my shoulders, across my chest and is released out across the bus isle. It attempts to grab the large sweaty woman directly in front of me occupying one and a half seats. My smile now covering my entire off center face invites her to respond, begs her to do so. She does, two fold and then she looks out the window.

The message covers me softly, safely like having enough money. “Come home, baby girl. Pop is thrilled. Figure out what you need to do to get here, and let’s get it done” Her words are rescuing me. As she continues to talk about the portion of the house we’ll paint and spruce up when I get there, ideas rattling like machine gun ammo, I succumb to those words the way a drowning victim eventually gives into the life guard. Relaxing, keeping your head above water. The bus rambles down the busy, noisy street toward downtown. I close my eyes and let the words drag me to the shore.