A Curve in the Road
Julianne MacLean
CHAPTER ONE
Intuition is a funny thing. Sometimes it’s a gut feeling, and you look around and just know something bad is about to happen. Other times, it’s elusive, and later you find yourself looking back on certain events and wondering how in the world you missed all the signals.
Tonight, I’m on my way home after Sunday dinner with my mother. It’s a one-hour drive on a dark two-lane highway.
As I turn the key in the ignition and shift into reverse, my mother comes running out her front door, waving her hands. “Wait! Abbie! Wait!”
I see a look of panic in her eyes and wish she wouldn’t rush down the concrete steps as if the house were up in flames behind her.
Careful, Mom . . .
I shift into park and lower the car window.
My golden retriever, Winston, rises in the back seat and wags his tail. Mom reaches toward us and passes an enormous Tupperware container through the open window. It’s full of chicken leftovers from the dinner she just cooked for me.
“You forgot this,” she says, out of breath.
I take it from her and set it on the passenger seat beside me. Winston sniffs and paws at my shoulder, wanting to know what’s under the blue plastic lid. I give him a pat on his big, silky head.
“Settle down, mister. This isn’t for you.” Then I turn to smile at my mom, who is shivering in the late-November chill.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say. “The guys would never forgive me if I came back empty-handed.”
By guys, I am referring to my husband, Alan, a cardiologist I’ve been married to for twenty years, and my seventeen-year-old son, Zack, who didn’t come with me today because he had a hockey game this evening.
“Are you sure you don’t want to take some of that pie with you?” Mom asks, speaking to me through the open window as she wraps her sweater around herself to keep warm.
I know it’s not a conscious thing, but it’s obvious that she wants me to stay a little longer. She’s never enjoyed being home alone in that big, empty house—especially on cold, dark nights like this. You would think that after more than twenty years of widowhood, she’d be ready to downsize, but I can’t fault her for anything. I love her too much. It’s why I drive over an hour from the city every Sunday afternoon to spend time with her in the house I grew up in.
“No, thanks,” I reply. “Alan’s trying to cut calories again.”
Truthfully, he isn’t, but I don’t have time to wait because I’m hoping to make it back to the city in time for Zack’s game. Then I have an early-morning case in the OR—a gallbladder surgery scheduled for seven o’clock.
Mom gives my hand a squeeze. “Okay, dear. Wish our boy luck on the ice tonight, and say hi to Alan for me. Tell them I missed them today. And please drive safely.”
“I will. Now get back inside, Mom. It’s freezing out here.”
She nods and hurries back up the stairs, while I feel a familiar twinge of guilt over leaving her alone. I can’t help it. I always feel like I should do more for her or call her more often than I do. But I tell myself not to worry. She’s independent, and I know she’ll be fine as soon as she turns on the TV.
Winston turns in circles on the back seat, then finally settles down to sleep for the next hour. I shift into reverse and back out of the driveway.
Despite the heavy fog, the roads are dry as I make my way out of my beloved hometown. Lunenburg is a picturesque fishing and shipbuilding community and a burgeoning center for the arts, and the Old Town area is designated as a UNESCO World Heritage site to preserve its historic architecture. As might be expected, it has a robust tourism trade in the summer.
As I pass by the brightly lit restaurants along the waterfront, I can’t help but glance wistfully at the sparkling reflection of the moon on the harbor and the undulating shadows cast from a tall ship’s masts over the dockyard. The image is beautiful and serene, yet I feel a pang of sadness, and I’m not sure why. Something just feels off today. Maybe it’s because Mom has seemed so much older these past few months. She never used to refer to herself as a senior citizen, not even when she turned sixty-five, but lately she’s been making jokes about it, saying things like “Old age ain’t for sissies!” and “If only I could remember what it is I’m forgetting to remember!”
Today, when she couldn’t figure out how to get the messages off her phone, she said, “Look out, nursing home. Here I come.”
While I love that she has a sense of humor about growing old, it reminds me that she won’t be around forever and eventually our Sunday dinners will be a thing of the past.
I find it rather unsettling how time has been flying by so quickly lately. What is it about growing older that makes the clock hands start to spin like a whirligig? I suppose it doesn’t matter, as long as I’m happy with my life.
Am I happy?
Surprisingly, I have to think about that for a few seconds.
Then I wonder . . . am I nuts? Of course I’m happy. Why wouldn’t I be? My life is perfect. I have a job that I love, a beautiful home, a brilliant husband, and a son I’m incredibly proud of. In his final year of high school, Zack is captain of the hockey team and president of the student council, and his grades are top-notch. Most importantly, he’s a decent human being—sensible and kindhearted.