TURNING POINT

She is driving with both hands clenched on the wheel. The cruise control is set five mph over the speed limit. The deep, baritone voice of Johnny Cash echoes through the speakers, I’ve been everywhere man, I’ve been everywhere, as we sing along making up our own lyrics.  On our way to the mountains of North Carolina from the flatland’s of Minnesota, it’s time for my daughter to move away and go to college. She’s packed clothes, soccer ball and cleats, a laptop, a backpack, a quilt made from her old school t-shirts, pictures of her friends and family, and a few of the deceased: The family dog, her cousins, a wedding picture of myself and her father. I’ve packed a four-month supply of ibuprofen, vitamins with iron, Rescue Remedy, enough maxi pads to absorb an elephant’s period, birth control pills (even though she’s still a virgin). She’s also a bit anemic and I’ve told her it will lighten her period.

     As we pass into Iowa, fields of soybean and corn blow in the wind, like a blurry sea of green, waving good bye. When she was little, she would giggle with excitement every time we crossed a state line. So many crazy car trips, I hope she remembers them too. There was the time I loaded her and her brothers in the car just to drive three hours to jump into Lake Superior, or the time her little brother threw his glasses out the minivan window and cried all the way to Texas, I can’t see, I can’t see.  Surely, she remembers the trip to South Dakota where I left the parking brake on and burned up the brakes driving through the Black Hills. There was also a time I broke down with all three kids in southwestern Minnesota. We crawled into an unlocked window of a church to a call a tow-truck and afterwards, when all three kids were whining and fighting, some sweet lady came by and said, “I noticed you’ve been here for hours,” and then handed me a grocery bag packed full of snacks, sandwiches and drinks.  “There’s good people in the world, Maddie- but be careful who you trust,” I say.  She laughs, says: “Only a thousand more miles to go.”   

     We have stopped somewhere in Illinois at a truck stop.  She is standing in the candy aisle when I see some man (old enough to be her father), looking her over, his eyes moving up and down her body with what I imagine to be a smirk. She is oblivious to his stare. I imagine it would be easy for him to abduct her, throw her into the back of a boxcar and turn her into lot lizard or whatever you call a truck stop prostitute.  I rush up to her, whisper, “Hurry up and get a snack, there’s creepy men in here.”  When we get back to the car, I pull out a canister of bear spray I keep in the side of the car door. I tell her, “Take this to school with you, and never go walking in the woods alone.”  She sighs, “You’re such a freak, mom.”                                                                                                                                                               

On the road again, I take over the wheel while she naps in the passenger’s seat curled up in a blanket like a small child. This child, who in the third grade made me go to the library with all of the other mothers to watch their child read their favorite story.  She read a poem of mine about dogs.  This child, who told me at eleven-years old, that even though she didn’t want her parents to get divorced, she wanted me to be happy. This child, in her love is love, gay pride T shirt who now embraces her other mom, has always been my number one supporter. This child, who I refuse to refer to as my friend, because I am  paranoid of codependency and toxic relationships. Which reminds me, I need to tell her when she wakes up, “not to change for anyone and not to be too much of a caretaker.” However, she does always help me find my keys, remembers where the car is parked, shuts the lights off behind me.     

     I slow down. Get in the right-hand line behind a trucker. Next come the tears. This is a grief I had not expected. This is a happy time, right?  I am thinking about how much I am going to truly miss her, but also— terrified of what the world might do to her. My eyes start to glaze over and I can barely see the road. I tell myself, get a grip, get a grip as I reach over and blow my nose in her blanket. It wakes her up: “Are you crying? Oh my God Mom. Gross.” She reaches into the glove compartment, hands me a tissue.    

     We haven’t been making good time, but we stop anyway. This time at a Dairy Queen somewhere in Kentucky where I overhear boys say fuck this, fuck that in southern accents. She just smiles, licks her vanilla ice cream.  I smell cigarette smoke.  All of a sudden, she bursts out laughing. “I don’t get it,” I say. And then she says, “Mom, read the sign.”  I look over at two teenage boys smoking in their Dairy Queen uniforms standing next to a “No Smoking” sign.    

     There is the buzz of highway noise. Cars and trucks whirl by at 70 mph. Across the street, is a white picket fence containing a half-dozen thoroughbreds. I watch their long slender necks stretch and reach for morsels of bluegrass. I notice a palomino mare with a white mane and star on her head, grazing away from the herd.     In the distance the gentle rise of the Appalachians. Stationary waves, unyielding, unmoving. Their curves and silhouettes interrupt the monotony of the fading lighted sky and beckon me to halt. To take in the scenery. To take notice of this moment so fleeting and unworldly. Over a billion years-old, their ancient permanence brings me some sort of comfort knowing they are calling my daughter home. My daughter’s blonde hair blows away from her shoulders. Her blue eyes are vibrant and clear.  Suddenly, the mare turns her head toward me, and then gallops west toward the setting sun. The sky shifts into a translucent blue and clouds unwrap into pink ribbons. And yet, the mountains still stand out, like an incomplete sketch, a line of ink— waiting to be filled with contrast. They are separate and vast— dark green shades mixed of hope, mixed of mystery.