Wednesday, October 27, 2010
4 PM, 4:20, 4:45... The little ones are fed and the track star should be home anytime.
5 PM I call her phone. It's off. I hit redial again, and again. Same result. 5:03 I txt: Where r u?
Worried, it's late... 5:15 I call. It's off. 5:15: 30 call again, twice. Same result.
I never used to be this way. When I was her age, I didn't worry, I didn't want kids. Didn't plan on childbirth, maybe adoption, but never childbirth. For a longtime, I was going to be an unencumbered scientist forever. But now, I'm mad. I can't reach her. The time I promised to walk on water, to come to her rescue, flashes through my mind. That moment always flashes in my mind, when I am worried. I'm worse than that mother bear; worse. It's not pretty.
5:30 PM I can't sit or stand, so I lie down on my bed. My husband asks. "What's wrong?" I never lie down.
"I'm worried. She's not home."
"Did she have something going on?"
I think. It's been a long day. Nothing comes to mind. I can't just lie there. He suggests I call around to her friends. I can't sit, and decide to drive to the school.
"And what are you going to do there?" he asks.
"Look for her car."
"And if it's there?"
"And if it's not?"
"Call the police." Well maybe that's a little extreme, at first. I would call home to see if she were there, then call the police.
5:35 PM It's dark. As I drive I slow to peer at each and every car that passes. Not her, not her, not her. I hit redial again. Her phone is still off. I fear the worse. Where is she?
At the school, the 1000 car parking holds ten cars, max. One of them is her's, but where is she? I park next to it. Hoping if she sees my car, she'll know I'm there and call me. Ask me, "Mom, what are you doing here?" Will I be able to explain, I was worried? Will she understand?
I walk to the athletic complex, hoping if she is somewhere inside that she will opt to take the same route and our paths will cross. I pass other students, not her. In the Wellness Center I ask the trainer about girls cross country. Another mom pipes in, "They are almost back?"
"They had a meet."
And then I remember. It's Tuesday -- they had a meet. Their last weekday meet before the string of Saturday State's meets. The schedule is tacked up on the wall by the calendar. I remembered the meet yesterday when I emailed about SAT tutoring, "Sorry, she can't make Tuesday. She has a meet." I feel stupid. Silly mommy.
6:08 PM I walk outside, a bus is unloading. I see her. She sees me, leaves her friends and joins me on the walk back to our cars. "Mom, what are you doing here?"
"I forgot about your meet. I was worried."
She give me an understanding smile, "It's okay."