I wonder if the clock is working. It seems to me that each time I glance at it no time has passed and I’ve already studied everything I could possibly notice in this waiting area. Right now my eyes are glued to a thirty-something, tired-looking mother trying to regain control over two boys who are now crawling under the seats and disturbing passengers' feet as they maneuver through their tunnell. "You get over hear right now boys, I’m telling you., their mom finally says to the relief of the rest of us.

"Yah, they're going to listen to you, mom" I think, looking down at my feet. I'm sure this mom is aware that I’ve been watching her for almost 5 minutes and that I’m smiling. Maybe that’s why she gets up and offers the kids treats. At the word treats they fall in line right behind her like my dog Bandit used to do. I think how 'treat’ must be a cross-species word and watch them disappear around the corner.

I think about Bandit again and realize I can’t actually picture her face anymore. I can just conjure up an idea of her large, white, shaggy frame and how, if she stood sideways in a hallway she’d block it. I remember how I used to love looking into her eyes and thank her for watching out for us and how her busyh tail wagged in gratitude. I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately and wonder if she’s still alive.

I look at the clock and feel a thin line of electricity surge through my body. The clock is working, afterall and she'll be here in less than an hour! At the thought my eyes well up with tears again, like they've been doing since this meeting was arranged. I can hardly believe I'll be seeing her again but I can't have these tears. Not now. Quick blinking, circling my eyes and repeating the words ‘roast beef’ in my head a dozen times reduce the tears to a trickle and I'm relieved. There is a deluge waiting but I don’t want the dam to break yet. My daughter can see my tears after we meet but I don’t want anything to cloud my eyes before that moment when she walks through the door, and I can finally tell her I had made a terrible mistake in leaving.
Copyright © 2005 Pamela Hamilton

I was 39 when I thought about it for the first time. I couldn’t have seen it coming; it was a typical Tuesday morning in every way. I had driven my daughter to school on time after the usual rushing and rummaging for socks and toys for after school daycare. There were no major morning emergencies. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I had followed the usual routine after I left her at the school’s side entrance, the two of us gesticulating ‘I love you's’ with made-up sign language and then waving until I knew my car was out of sight. Even the drive along the side road toward the highway was uneventful. Like most mornings I drove a steady 60 mph most of the way and was relieved that there were no cops by Wabash St. when I let my speed soar to 75mph. I headed south on highway 63 like I did every morning and was just noticing that not one cloud appeared in the light blue sky when the idea struck me and I felt my heart leap.

"Just keep driving". The thought seemed like a voice. "Drive", it urged, "past the turnoff for your job…past the last exit you recognize…out of the state… to some other part of the country." I heard the message loud and clear: leave without telling anyone and never come back.

It was a crazy thought and I had to laugh out loud at the absurdity of it. I even shook my head wondering where that thought had come from. But I couldn’t get out of my mind the image of the open highway before me and the thought that if I left I could just start all over.

I remember spending the rest of that commute remembering all those long drives between MA and NJ during weekend escapes from College. Could it really have been 25 years since them when the long drive seemed the perfect escape - from late assignments and worries about home in one direction and my mother’s drunken stares in the other.

I exhaled relief as I relived the solace I felt then. Those drives were pure bliss. No conversation. No intrusions. No expectations. Except for occasional voices from the radio there was no sound. Even my father's shouting that was still haunting me when the drive started would finally disappear like the retreating staccato lines of the highway.

I remember how it was hot coffee reaching my sternum that brought me back from the revelry of the road and I cursed the coffee and my clumsiness, letting out an exasperated roar. I had a meeting at 10am that morning and spent most of it distracted by the large, brown stain in the middle of my white blouse.

I didn’t think about leaving for a long time after that.
Copyright © 2005 Pamela Hamilton