Fourteen
“Then…” I shove my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. “I guess I’d better hit the road.”
Alarm flashes in Molly’s eyes. It’s finally real to her. I’m leaving, and she’ll soon be all by herself. But she visibly conquers her fear, squelching panic with steely resolve, evident in her posture and the set of her jaw. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll walk you downstairs.”
I turn to conduct one last survey of the place that will be her home for the next year. The room isn’t ready. The furniture arrangement isn’t ideal. The bookcase is too close to the radiator, and there aren’t enough outlets. With every fiber of my being, I want to stay here and fix things, make adjustments, improvements. I force myself to turn away.
The hallway smells of bleach and fresh paint. Someone is mopping up a spill on the floor. Other parents and kids are moving in, some in weighty silence, others with caffeinated chattiness, a few engaged in low-voiced arguments.
“You’re not going to lose it, are you, Mom?” Molly asks.
“Yes,” I say. “I might.”
Molly looks startled. She’s used to being protected, shielded, having troubles glossed over and smoothed out so they don’t snag on her. But as she pointed out to me earlier, she is a young adult now, old enough to know her mother is not infallible. She swore she didn’t need me running interference for her at every turn.
“Check it out,” she says, bracing her hands on the windowsill. A cluster of students has gathered in the old yard below. “I think that’s the meeting point for the orientation groups. It’s geeky, but I kind of want to go.”
We step out into the sunny afternoon. I feel a piercing sweetness deep in my heart. A barely dammed river of tears pushes against my chest.
“If you cry,” Molly warns, “I’ll cry, too.”
“Then we’ll both cry.” And we do, but somehow we manage to stop, regaining control by focusing on the long line of departing cars.
“I’ve got that orientation meeting,” she says, pressing her sleeve across her eyes.
“And I need to get going, too. Maybe miss the traffic heading out of the city.”
“That information packet lists some local places to stay,” Molly points out. “I mean, if you don’t feel like a big drive today…”
“I’m kind of eager to head back to your dad and Hoover,” I tell her. What I don’t tell her is that I can’t face a night at the Colonial Inn with its stupid plaster lamplighters in three-corner hats, knowing Molly is only a short walk away. The temptation to go check on her would be too great and prolong the pain of separation. I plan to drive a couple hundred miles, take a long soak in the hotel hot tub, then phone Molly from a safe distance.
The breeze that sweeps through the quadrangle smells of autumn. A few yellow leaves flutter down with lazy grace. Students and statues populate the ancient, broad lawns laid out centuries before by idealists who embraced order and harmony.
The grassy yard is crisscrossed by walkways littered with new-fallen leaves. Long-bodied boys lie with their heads cushioned on overstuffed backpacks, their noses poked into dog-eared novels. Girls with sweaters draped over their shoulders sit cross-legged in small groups, engaged in earnest debate.
All up and down the street, there is the sound of car doors slamming shut, farewells being called out.
Molly and I walk to the SUV, which is now as empty as an abandoned campsite. My lone suitcase lies in the back alongside the parcel filled with my new clothes. I place the quilt back in its bag and set it down next to the glossy sack from the department store. The thing is coming home with me after all, it seems. Maybe I’ll finish it this fall.
“So, okay,” Molly says uncertainly. Her eyes dart here and there; she does not look at me. “Thanks for driving with me, Mom. Thanks for everything.”
“Sure, honey. Promise you’ll call if you need anything, anything at all. I’ll have my cell phone on, 24/7.” I touch her arm, feeling its shape beneath my fingers. Then I give up pretending to be casual. No point trying to minimize the moment. “Oh, baby. I’m going to miss you so much.”
“Me, too, Mom.”
Everything I need to say crowds into my throat—eighteen years of advice, guidance, warning, teaching. And it overwhelms me. It is too much…and not enough. Have I forgotten something important? Have I taught her to do laundry and balance her checkbook? To write thank-you notes by hand? Turn off the coffee maker when it’s done? To fend off a horny guy and to contest an unfair grade? To look in the mirror and like what she sees?
There is so much to say. And so I say nothing. There was a time when eighteen years felt like forever, or at least more than enough time to cover every possible topic, but I was wrong about that. I can only hope Dan and I equipped her to make the right choices.
I am amazed to feel something new. I don’t want to spout out any more advice or commentary. I want life to happen for Molly in all its pain and joy and richness, revealing itself moment by moment, unfiltered by a mother’s intervention. An unexpected, settled feeling creeps in. There are things she knows that will hold and keep her, whether or not I am there. Finally, I’m starting to trust that.
I want her to be on her own. This is what she is supposed to do. It’s the natural progression of things. Dan and I have given her everything we have. Now it is time for her to fly, seek new mentors, find her place in the world. I think about all the things that will happen to Molly. Things that will bring her joy and break her heart, make her laugh, cry, rage, exult. I wish I could protect her from the rough parts, but I know I can’t. And really, I shouldn’t.
The essence of life is the journey, unblunted by an overprotective parent. There is a richness Molly will find even in the deepest sadness. She has a beautiful future ahead of her. Sticking around, interfering and shielding her will rob her of something she needs to figure out on her own. I don’t want to stand in the way. Life as it unfolds is just too incredible.
She knows we will always be here for her. Our lives are forever entwined. And yes, she’s going to suffer a broken heart and face disappointment and make bad decisions and do all those other things we humans do, but she’ll survive them. She’s smart and big-hearted and deeply resourceful, probably more than I know, though on this trip I’ve seen glimpses.
“You’re going to be incredible,” I finally say. “I’m so happy for you.” I am, but I had no idea happiness could hurt so much.
This is it. This is really it. This is goodbye. Suddenly I don’t care that there are people all over the place, people who are going to be Molly’s friends and neighbors for the next four years. I take my daughter’s face between my hands and stare into the eyes I know so well, into a soul that is as bright and clear as the September sky.
She’s going to soar, I’m certain of it. Higher than she or I can ever imagine. “Goodbye, Molly,” I say. “Goodbye, my precious girl.”
Smiling mouth. Trembling chin. “’Bye, Mom.”
I kiss her soft cheek, and we embrace, a long strong hug, filled with the wistful scent of autumn and of herbal shampoo. “You are golden,” I whisper to my daughter, quoting one of our favorite songs. “You are sunshine.” We pull back, smiling, eyes shining.
“I’ll call you tonight, okay?” I tell her.
“That’d be great, Mom.”
One more kiss. A squeeze of the hands. With slow deliberation, I climb into the truck, roll down the window. We hold hands again while I start the engine. Then I put the car in Drive and let go. Our fingers cling for a heartbeat, then slide apart.
In the rearview mirror I can see Molly standing on the sidewalk, as slender and graceful as the turning trees of the old college yard. Golden leaves fly upward on a gust of wind, swirling around her lone form. My daughter stands very still, and just as the truck turns the corner onto the busy avenue, she raises one hand, waving goodbye.
Tapping the horn to acknowledge the wave, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
I set the iPod to a mix of quiet songs. The first one is a classic, from my dating days with Dan. As the music plays, I head for the interstate, tears still escaping to soak into the neckline of my sweatshirt. I flex my hands on the steering wheel, set my jaw. So what if I’m crying. I’m the mother. I get to cry if I want to.
The traffic flows like a viscous liquid, undemanding, carrying me swiftly away from the city, the car a fallen leaf in a rushing stream.
As the city fades away behind me, I picture Molly in her freshly painted dorm room, unpacking her belongings, putting her new sheets on the narrow iron-frame bed, propping up snapshots of her friends and family, her dog and Travis, shelving books and supplies, plugging in the computer, organizing her things. Eventually she will come across the covered plastic box I filled with her favorite snacks—microwave popcorn, granola bars, Life-savers, pecan sandies, canned juices, cinnamon-flavored gum. Inside she will find a familiar note scribbled on a paper napkin: a little smiling cartoon mommy, with squiggles to represent the hair, and a message that will remind her of all the homemade lunches of her childhood: “I ♥ U. Love, Mommy.”
I think about giving Dan a call and I will, but not just yet. This moment is too raw, but it’s mine to feel—the bittersweet triumph, the sadness, the hope. On this leg of the journey, there will be no detour or scenic route as I make my way home.
Home, to Dan, who said he can’t wait to see me. Home, to a life that is open like the pages of an unread book. Yes.
I’m ready to live my life. Okay, maybe I’m a little scared, but in a good way. I want to discover who I am on my own, what I love beyond the obvious, and what I really want for the rest of my life.
At the west end of the city, I pass a suburban strip mall I remember from the day before, with the Crowning Glory Salon, the delicious-smelling Sweet Dreams bakery and the charity called New Beginnings. The charity is closed for the day but there’s a big metal donation box in the front. Under the web address for the charity is its slogan: “Comforting women and children in need.”
On impulse, I turn into the parking lot, go around to the back of the Suburban and open the gate. Molly’s observation drifts back to me: This is about your life, Mom.
I stand there for a minute, thinking about the woman I’ve been for the past eighteen years and wondering who I’ll be for the next eighteen. It’s a bit scary to contemplate, but exciting, too.
When I grab the parcel, my resolve wavers. Then I think, go for it. The true meaning of charity is to give freely, no strings attached. I have to let go, only trusting that my gift will be out there in the world somewhere, doing whatever it’s bound to do.
And then I push the bag into the drop box, having to shove its soft bulk inch by inch through the narrow slot. At first I worry that it won’t go down the chute, and I have to push hard. Then the last bit slips through easily and disappears.
Stenciled under the chute are the words, “Thank you for your donation.”
I return to the still-running car. Something stirs inside me, a sensation as empty and light as the curling, cup-shaped leaves lifted by the autumn wind.
Stopping at the last red light before the on-ramp to the interstate, I catch the blinding beam of the late-afternoon sun in my eye. The days of summer have grown shorter. The year is getting old already.
I flip down the sun visor, and a stray slip of paper drifts into my lap. Picking it up, I unfold it and see a little smiling cartoon face, corkscrew squiggles for hair, and a note that says, “I ♥ U. Love, Molly.”