When Joe left her for the last time,
on a sunny Saturday afternoon in July,
my mother threw herself in front
of his jacked-up Ford F-150 truck.
So he stopped, its monstrous engine
still running, got out and dragged
her back to the curb. Then he ran
around to the open door
and sped off. The neighbors
went back into their houses
as she sat in the street and wailed
like an inconsolable child.
The day you said you were going away,
I, not being one for high drama,
held the door open. You were a loser
anyway, a drunk. Everybody said
I was much better off. So why do I
remember it so clearly, that miserable
morning? You holding your jacket
over your head as you sprinted
through puddles, and the way the hard
rain seemed to erupt from tiny craters
on the ground, as if the whole goddamned
world had been turned upside down.
It’s not often that someone will ask why I never had children, or if I ever
wanted them. Mostly, I don’t have an answer. But sometimes I think of that
day we stopped to go to the beach one last time on the way back from Grandma’s
house before heading east into another yearlong stretch of desert. The late sun
shone dimly on the ocean. Donnie and I raced to the water, and Mom took pictures
of the two of us playing in the surf. In the one that would have been my favorite,
we’re wincing with pleasure as the first brisk wave crashed. I was seven,
my brother five. As the sun sank into the blue-gray water and Mom stood up, holding
our towels, we bargained for just a few more waves, and she granted them. But soon
it was really time to go. We had a long drive ahead. We walked down the darkening
lane, nearing our old, dented Monte Carlo. The passenger side door was ajar. Mom
rushed to the car to check for her wallet under the seat. It was gone. In the heavy
silence, I knew it was my fault. She turned to me, wild with anger. I ran back down
the narrow lane to the beach, kept running until I lost her. I stopped on the dark
beach, out of breath, sobbing. Where would I go if she got in the car with my brother
and left? Then my arm was jerked so hard I fell on my knees. I struggled to right
myself as she dragged me over the sand. Grandma had given her a hundred dollars,
a hundred dollars we needed. And I had not locked my door. She let go of my arm
and slapped me hard. I followed her back to the car, knowing her rage wouldn’t
let up anytime soon, knowing I deserved the yelling, the kicking and hitting that
I was in for as she drove too fast down the freeway, the suicide threats and the
long, high-pitched screams that came from that dark place she never showed anyone
but us.
The trip was a secret from his Nazarene parents,
so we kept the photos hidden. In this one,
Robbie, my first real boyfriend
and I lean into each other at the end
of an ocean walkway. The night before
in our hotel room, we talked about the children
we’d have after college. I’m wearing my favorite
orange sweatshirt, the one I’ve held onto
all this time. I’m squinting into some luminous
future while Robbie looks through the lens at me
from a distance of twenty-two years,
still puzzled.
I want to step into this photograph
of that foolish eighteen-year-old girl
and the college boy who loves her.
I want to brush by her, while he exchanges
cameras with the tourists who’d taken
the picture, and whisper: I’ve seen
the future and it doesn’t get any better.
Perhaps she’ll stare at me, glimpse
her own fate in my eyes, maybe
even notice the old sweatshirt. Stay
with him, I’ll say, just before
vanishing, and she’ll turn to watch
as he snaps the picture of the older couple,
arms wrapped around each other, smiling.