The Rest of Us Just Live Here
“I am feeling okay,” she says. “But I’m also stepping into the big time, son. This isn’t local government with all its little tyrants and petty feuds. This is national office.”
“Which has big tyrants and dangerous feuds.”
“Absolutely,” she sighs. “I thought it was all over with the Lieutenant Governor ’s race, that I’d be in local office forever. Maybe end up on a school board some day or a state commission for something or other. But all of a sudden, in the space of a few weeks, here it all is. The big show.”
“If you win.”
“I will.”
Yeah, she probably will.
“What do you do when your dreams are about to come true?” she asks. “No one ever tells you.
They tell you to chase them, but what happens when you actually catch one?”
“You enjoy it. Do your best, try not to be a dick.”
“Language.” But she’s not upset. “I really do this for you guys, though, whatever you may believe.
They’re my dreams, yes, but they’re dreams of a world I can make better for you.”
“Us specifically? Me and Mel and Meredith?”
“Your generation. I know you guys face some tough things.”
“Do you?”
“I want to help with that.”
“Do you?”
“Quit saying that. I was a teenager once, too. I know what goes on.”
“You do?” I risk.
She frowns at me. She looks in the rear-view mirror, checking out for Mel in the car behind us. “I saw stuff you wouldn’t believe,” she says, under her breath.
My ears prick. “What stuff?” I ask, carefully.
She just shakes her head. “The world isn’t safe, Mike. It just isn’t. I wish it was, but it’s not. I worry for you and Mel. I worry myself sick for Meredith, that the future’s going to have enough for her to be happy and protected.”
“You need to let her go to the Bolts of Fire concert.”
“I know. She deserves it. She’s going to miss you two so much.”
I leave that alone, because it doesn’t feel like it belongs to her. Trees pass us by in the night. I watch them, looking for strange blue lights, I guess, but not finding any.
“What stuff did you see?” I ask again. “When you were a teenager?”
“Nothing,” she says, too quickly. “Are you ready for your finals?”
“Yes. What do you mean, nothing?”
“Mike,” she says, warning. “The mistake of every young person is to think they’re the only ones who see darkness and hardship in the world.”
“That’s what the cop said,” I mumble.
“What cop?” she snaps.
“On TV,” I say, pleased at myself for thinking so fast. “The mistake of every adult, though, is to think darkness and hardship aren’t important to young people because we’ll grow out of it. Who cares if we will? Life is happening to us now, just like it’s happening to you.”
“What’s happening to you now?” she says, her voice changing, alert as a meerkat.
“Mom–”
“Tell me. Are you okay?”
“I didn’t mean–”
“I think you did mean,” she says. “Teens argue with their parents. That’s the law of nature. Doesn’t mean we stop caring about you. Doesn’t mean we stop being parents.”
“Dad stopped. A long time ago.”
There’s a really, really dangerous silence at this. I find that I don’t actually care.