The Trip Home

Leaving the beach house where my mother and I have been vacationing with my daughter Alison and her friends, I’m overcome with gratitude that Mom has found the energy to enjoy this visit to the Outer Banks. Alison and I walk arm in arm from the house to the car while the young men escort Mom. She leans heavily but happily on their arms as they help her down the drive-way. When we reach the car, we exchange farewell hugs, shed a few tears, wave, wave, wave and we’re on our way.

As I ease the car out of the drive-way, I begin to deal with the fact that we’re facing a 1000 mile return trip to Arkansas. The drive out was long but satisfying and although I feel certain we’ll enjoy a good trip back, the prospect is daunting. At eighty-nine, Mom suffers from the physical symptoms of congestive heart failure, bad knees and an erratic memory. Fortunately, her joie de vivre is alive and well

I sometimes have difficulty reconciling my mother as she is now with the woman who raised my brothers and me. Since inviting Mom to move in with me nearly three years ago, our mother/daughter relationship has shifted. Occasionally, as I’m tucking her in to bed, she’ll thank me for being “such a great Mom.” If I give her a moment to reconsider, she’ll correct herself. “Oh, you’re not my mother. You’re my daughter. And a good one!” But in many ways, I am the mother to my mother. I help her dress, I feed her, I try to find ways to keep her entertained. I remember my brother and his wife talking about the challenges of having her mother living with them after she’d had a debilitating stroke. As they listed the things they did for her, I commented, “Well, that sounds just like raising a kid!” Alison was in elementary school at the time. My brother gently reminded me that the rewards were very different. It’s taken me this long to understand fully what he meant.

The change in my mother, other than her memory lapses, is primarily physical—she is fragile, bent, unsteady on her feet. The memory that stays with me is of her in her early fifties—generously proportioned, comfortably padded—an enthusiastic first year music major at the University of Colorado. She played violin and viola in orchestras and quartets, relishing her relationships with other students and fellow musicians. She no longer has the strength to play her violin (she has a collection of twenty-five in various sizes) but the beauty of classical music can still move her to tears.

After three and a half years Mom dropped out of college to care for my dad, a double leg amputee who was in failing health. I too dropped out of college after three and a half years, but only because I’d lost interest and—as far as I can remember--no one tried to talk me out of it. Under different circumstances, this might have become an interesting topic of conversation during our drive, but I’m reluctant to bring up any issues that might tax Mom’s memory and my patience. So we stick to comments about the weather, the scenery, family comings and goings, and the fun of being together on this trip.

I choose an alternate route for this leg of our trip that looks as though it will meander along the coast. It doesn’t. The two lane road twists and turns through scenery similar to what we enjoyed on the drive out, but never gives us a glimpse of the shore and is devoid of towns, gas stations, and restaurants. As we drive into the early evening, Mom slips into familiar road-trip chatter. “Don’t you love all these trees?” I agree that they’re beautiful. “So much nicer to look at than billboards.”

We’ve been enjoying mile after mile of untarnished scenery. Oaks, maples, mimosas (“Those pretty pink blossoms. What are they? Don’t you just love them? So fluffy! I don’t believe I ever seen those before!”) She comments on them in much the same way every time we see them. I’m becoming used to and tolerant of the repetition. The connections that used to monitor Mom’s memory have gone slack. She remains connected to and interested in events taking place around her but acknowledges and is frustrated by her unreliable memory. The phrase, “I’ve probably already asked you a hundred times, but…“precedes many of her questions. I try to reassure her that I don’t mind, but I wonder if she sometimes hears a lack of conviction in my voice.

As the miles rolls past, our stomachs begin to growl and the gas tank creeps toward empty. I wonder briefly how we would manage if it became necessary to spend the night huddled together in the car on this lonely stretch of road. I don’t voice my concern to Mom, but I’m relieved when we round a corner and spot a two-pump station that’s getting ready to close. The attendant is friendly, jovial, and happy to offer directions to the only restaurant for miles around.

“You won’t find anything here, but if you go on the way you’re goin’
you’ll come across Mattern’s. Good place. Only thing between here and
where you’re headed. You’ll find it.” And we do. It appears to be the sort of place where regulars fill most of the tables and everyone orders “the usual.” Mom and I are watched closely as we make our way to a table.
“This one okay?” I ask.
“Sure. If it’s okay with you, it’s okay with me!”

I help her into the booth, stash her walker out of the aisle and retrieve a small pillow from the car. I grab a blanket too, just in case her legs get cold, which they always do. Mom’s circulation or lack thereof leaves her “freezing” regardless of the ambient temperature. Keeping her comfortable is a small price to pay for the pleasure of her company.

The waitress (“Hi! I’m Margie!”) is friendly and patient. After scanning the menu, Mom defers to me.
“What should I have?”
“Would you like a baked potato?”
“Sure! That sounds good!”
“Or would you prefer mashed this time?”
“Hmmm . . . mashed would be fine. Or baked. Whatever you think. What are you having?”

I order grilled fish for her, with a side of mashed potatoes “Do you think I could have gravy with that?” she asks. I indulge in a steak sandwich and some delicious little morsels called corn somethings which appear to be creamed corn that has been rolled in breading and dropped in hot fat. Southern cooking at its finest. Mom mentions how tasty the mashed potatoes are and sends her compliments to the chef, letting me know that they’re every bit as good as the ones I make (which, more often than not, come straight out of the Kroger deli).

An hour or so after leaving the restaurant, we’re ready to stop for the night but I realize that I haven’t seen any billboards promising $39 for a single! Free hi-speed internet! Continental Breakfast! One of our forays down yet another unmarked exit eventually results in the discovery of a semi-seedy motel. It’s too late and I’m too tired to be picky. Mom doesn’t notice the peeling paint, the dirty grout in the bathroom, the stains on the carpet. She’s delighted that we’ve found a place to sleep (“This is cute, isn’t it!”) After a lengthy visit to the bathroom and a few appreciative comments about the “art” on the walls, she’s ready for bed. Although I’ve been looking forward to a shower, I decide to skip it. The towels and my patience are worn tissue thin. I rinse off with a sorry excuse for a washcloth and sink gratefully into bed.

The next morning we’re both ready to hit the road early. I pick up snacks when we stop to fill the tank and we munch happily on some flaky pastries while we listen to an old tape of songs from “Your Hit Parade.” We try to sing along with songs from the fifties and laugh at some of the ridiculous lyrics. After a time I tune into a radio station that plays contemporary music and wait for mom’s reaction. As long as we stick with easy listening stations, she seems content to tap out the rhythm on her knee or “direct” the music with a gentle wave of her hand. When the news comes on, I turn off the radio and we travel in a comfortable silence, lost in our own thoughts.

We’re driving along a stretch of highway lined with blooming trees and hills covered in wildflowers when a spectacular vista opens up before us as we crest a hill. It’s late afternoon. Rays of sun are dispersed around and through a gathering of cumulous clouds, a phenomenon we’ve often referred to as “Miracle Light.”

“So beautiful, isn’t it?” she whispers. “It makes me want to sing.” And in her soft, quivering voice, she begins, “Oh, beautiful, for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain. . . “ She stops. My eyes have filled with tears. I reach for her hand. “I’m just a sentimental old fool,” she says. We smile at each other. “Me too, Mama,” I say. “Me, too.”