After a fragmented night of sleep interrupted by freaky nightmares about evil alien-like relatives, I manage to wake up in time to help Mom get ready for our big day. With the help of Mrs. Wimple, we get the bags loaded into the trunk of her car, but we can’t get my mom out of the apartment until after 10:20. By the time we’re on the road, it’s nearly a half hour later than what Mrs. Wimple originally planned.
“Will we make it?” I quietly ask Mrs. Wimple as she drives a little too fast through a yellow light.
“Unless we get stuck in downtown traffic,” she says with a concerned tone. “Pray that we don’t, Shannon.”
I nod as if I will do this, but the truth is, I don’t pray. In fact, I rarely pray about anything anymore. I used to pray a lot, and I know Merenda still does. But besides being out of the habit, I’m actually hoping that we’ll be too late to get on the bus. We’ll be forced to return home, and I will tell Mrs. Wimple bon voyage and insist on sticking around to pursue my three-point summer plan.
As it turns out, we reach the bus station right as the bus is getting ready to leave, but thanks to the bus station woman who recognizes Mrs. Wimple and rushes to our aid with a wheelchair, we are able to get my mom loaded onto the bus. Feeling conspicuous and uneasy as curious travelers stare at us, I try to act nonchalant as I help Mom get settled into the vacant seat in the very back. The driver announces our departure as I tuck pillows into the corner by the window and help Mom lean back into them.
Her hands are shaking and her eyes are filled with fear and anxiety as the bus slowly pulls out of the station. Speaking calmly to her, I lay the polar fleece throw over her legs and then hurry to extract a small white bundle from my shirt pocket. I remove a water bottle from the bag of “provisions” Mrs. Wimple gave to me this morning.
“What is that?” Mom’s eyes are fixed on my tissue bundle as I fumble to unwrap it, finally producing a diazepam pill. Her eyes flicker with relief as she eagerly reaches for her pill.
“Mrs. Wimple said you should have an extra dose for the trip,” I explain as I hand her the water bottle.
She eagerly pops the pill into her mouth, then swigs it down with water. “Thank you,” she murmurs.
“That should help you to relax and sleep.” I put the cap on the water bottle and slip it back into the bag.
“How long is the trip?” she asks as she leans back into the pillows again.
“Probably about six hours,” I remind her. She’s already heard this same answer several times this morning. “The trip would be more like five hours in a car, but every stop adds to the time.”
“Oh . . . yes . . . I remember now.” She takes in a deep breath and, letting out a weary sigh, closes her eyes.
“Just rest,” I say quietly. “Hopefully we’ll be there sooner than you expect.”
For the first few hours, Mom sleeps fairly soundly while I read a paperback. But when she wakes she seems dizzy and woozy and disoriented.
Worried that she might throw up, I grab one of the barf bags that the train station woman handed to me before we boarded the bus. I also reach for Mrs. Wimple’s provisions bag, extracting a pack of saltines along with a can of Sierra Mist. “Here, Mom.” I pop open the can, handing it to her. “Take some slow sips.”
“Where are we?” she asks with a fearful expression.
“On the bus,” I whisper as I hand her a saltine. “Eat this.”
“What bus?” Mom’s eyes dart nervously around. “Where are we?”
“We’re on the bus that’s taking us to Hochstetler,” I explain in a hushed tone. I try not to feel like a freak as some of the passengers crook their heads to curiously stare. Really, are we that interesting? Or are they simply that bored?
“Hochstetler?” Mom’s brow creases as she nibbles on a saltine.
“To visit your family,” I explain as I hand her a second saltine.
I notice an elderly woman watching us with what seems a sympathetic expression. I give her a stiff smile, then turn my attention back to Mom, encouraging her to have some more soda and crackers. “You’ll feel better if you do,” I urge. “You need to stay hydrated and keep something in your stomach. I’m hoping you can eat some yogurt.”
I pull out the small carton of yogurt and hold it out to her. “It will feel good on your stomach,” I say enticingly.
“Can I have another pill with it?” Her blue eyes grow hopeful.
Mrs. Wimple warned me to try to hold Mom off on another pill until after we arrive in Hochstetler. That way she’ll be coherent enough to meet her family. “Can you wait until we get there?” I ask.
“How long?”
I glance at my watch. “Two hours, maybe a little less.”
Mom’s lower lip slips out into a pouting expression as she stubbornly pushes the yogurt carton away from her.
I know this is all backward and bizarre. It’s like I’m the mom and she’s my child—and I’m sure it appears totally weird to onlookers. But that’s the way life is right now, and I have to accept it. I love my mom more than anyone on this planet. Even though helping her is awkward and inconvenient and sometimes, like yesterday, I just want to be selfish, I am determined to stick by her. I want to get her through this illness. I think I would do almost anything to help Mom get back to her old self.
“I’ll make a deal with you,” I tell her. “If you eat the yogurt and some crackers and drink the soda as well as some juice, I’ll let you have another pill.”
She brightens a little, reaching for another cracker.
I feel slightly like a traitor as I watch her struggling to eat and drink. I honestly don’t expect her to put away the short list of things I’ve given her, but after a few minutes, she’s polished it all off and is holding out her hand for another pill.
I feel torn now. Is it crazy or irresponsible of me to have made that agreement with my mom? “Are you sure?” I ask with uncertainty.
“Yes, Shannon.” Mom keeps her hand out. “The other pill has worn off completely. I’m sure it’s because of the stress. I need another pill.”
I nod, thinking that makes sense. Also, I remind myself, Mom is the adult here. These really are her pills. Who am I to play the drug police? So I dig through my purse, unzip the pocket where I’ve tucked her prescription bottle, remove a pill, then re-cap the bottle and carefully zip it back into the pocket. Mom washes down the pill with the last of her water and is soon peacefully sleeping again.
It’s only an hour later when I hear the bus driver announce that we’re arriving in Hochstetler. “Really?” I say to no one in particular since Mom’s still soundly sleeping. “We’re already there?”
“That’s right,” the elderly woman up ahead tells me. “This is Hochstetler. Are you getting off here?”
“Yes!” I say urgently, scrambling to gather up our stuff. I peel off the blanket, trying to wake my mom.
“All out for Hochstetler,” the bus driver calls out after the bus stops moving.
“Come on, Mom.” I tug on her arm, removing the pillows from behind her and shoving them into the bag I brought to carry them in. “We gotta go, Mom.”
“You need a hand back there?” the driver asks as he comes down the aisle.
“Yes, please,” I tell him. “My mom is really sick, and she’s on medication. I’m not sure she can even walk.”
He nods with a kind expression. “You go on out. Take your things. I’ll help her get out.”
I thank him, then hurry on ahead, eager to get out of the bus. The sun is still high in the sky as I stand on the sidewalk next to a restaurant, waiting. Glancing around, I wonder if my mom’s family is somewhere nearby. Will they come to our aid?
“Here you go,” the bus driver says as he and another man help maneuver my mom down the steps. Her eyes are open now, but she looks totally spacey and out of it. “Let’s get her onto that bench there,” the driver says.
I follow them over to a cement bench, watching helplessly as they set her down like a limp rag doll. I hurry over to sit next to her, holding on to her shoulders so she doesn’t slide off and crumple onto the ground.
“Which are your bags?” the driver asks me.
I quickly describe our luggage, and before long he’s plunked them down next to the bench. “You gonna be okay?” he asks me with a concerned frown.
“Yes, thank you,” I assure him. “We have family meeting us here.”
He tips his hat. “I hope your mom gets better soon.”
I nod. “So do I.”
He and the other man climb back into the bus, the door closes, I hear the hiss of the brakes, and just like that, the bus pulls out, leaving us behind. Suddenly I miss it and wish we were still on it. I glance up and down the street, looking for someone—anyone—who could be here to help us. But no one even makes eye contact.
I’ve never felt so alone, and I’m starting to freak. What if none of Mom’s family shows up? Mrs. Wimple gave me my grandparents’ phone number along with a twenty-dollar bill, but she seemed convinced I wouldn’t need either of them. Now I’m not so sure. But to get into my purse might mean spilling Mom onto the ground, so I simply squint into the bright sunshine and look around, hoping to spy someone who is looking for a pair of weary travelers.
“Mom?” I say quietly. “Can you wake up? Please?”
She moans softly, her head wobbling back and forth like one of those bobblehead dolls in slow motion. Although I refused to pray earlier today, back when Mrs. Wimple asked me to pray to get through traffic, I decide it’s time. I’m usually the first one to admit that I don’t take my faith as seriously as some people—like Merenda or Mrs. Wimple or even my mom—but put me in a helpless situation or back me into a dark corner, and I will most definitely call out to God for assistance.
As I’m praying, with my eyes wide open, I notice something’s different in this town. I feel like I’ve gone back in time or I’m watching a historical movie being filmed here, because every so often, I see a horse-drawn carriage going down the street. I also observe some people dressed in old-fashioned clothes moving about this town. Finally, when a couple of young women in long dresses and crisp white bonnets walk past me, I get it. They are Amish. I know this from having watched a couple of reality shows about Amish teenagers, although I’ve never actually seen a real Amish person before.
Everything starts to feel entirely surreal as I sit here on the bench in this strange little town. The hot sun beats down on my head as I try to support my mom and keep her from sliding off the bench. I look down at her, realizing that she probably looks like a drunk. Besides being strung out on diazepam, her hair is messy and her clothes are rumpled and dirty looking—and I notice she’s missing a shoe! Fortunately, it was only a worn ballet flat, and I packed a couple other pairs in her bag. I glance down at the mishmash of bags and suitcases surrounding us, knowing that we must look both desperate and pathetic.
I look up and down the street again, hoping beyond hope that a nice air-conditioned car will pull up and take us home where our family will take care of us. Perhaps my grandparents have a swimming pool, although I’d happily settle for a nice long shower. As I study the cars and passersby, I notice that Hochstetler is rather busy for a small town, and it definitely has a slightly touristy feel to it. In fact, it actually seems like a clean and attractive community.
Of course, that just seems to spotlight how Mom and I do not belong here. We’re like a messy little blotch on an otherwise pretty picture. I suspect this is not what Mom’s family expects to find when they come to pick us up. That is, if they are coming to pick us up.
Is it possible that the mysterious relatives have already passed by and, spotting our embarrassing spectacle, decided to simply continue on their way, pretending they didn’t know us? I think of the cars that have driven slowly past, looking at us like we’re sideshow freaks. Maybe Mom’s family checked us out from a safe distance and then went on their merry way.
I’m about to lay Mom out on the bench like a dead body in order to dig out my phone and call the number that Mrs. Wimple gave me this morning when one of those horse-drawn carriages stops right in front of the bench.
“Anna Hershberger?” a man wearing a straw hat calls out to me.
I shake my head. “No, I’m not Anna Hersh—” I stop myself, staring up at him and wondering if that’s the name Mrs. Wimple wrote down with the phone number. “My mom’s name is Anna,” I quickly say, before he can drive away. “Anna McNamara. She’s come to—”
“Anna!” he exclaims as he hops down from the front of the boxlike carriage, hurrying to Mom’s side. “It is Anna. What is wrong with her?” he asks me.
“She had some medicine,” I explain. “It made her go to sleep.”
He frowns at me. “Sleeping out here? On the street?”
I simply hold out my hands. What can I say?
“You must come with me,” he says with authority. “We will go now.”
“Who are you?” I demand. I suddenly feel wary about taking my drugged-up mom anywhere with a perfect stranger. Even if this dude does look relatively harmless with his concerned blue eyes and goofy beard.
“I am Benjamin Hershberger,” he solemnly tells me. “I have come here to pick up my sister Anna and her daughter Shannon.” He peers curiously at me. “That must be you. Shannon?”
“Yes!” I nod eagerly. No way could he know both our names if he wasn’t a relative.
He kneels down by the bench, peering curiously at my mom. “Anna?” he says with concern. “Come now, Anna, it’s time to go home.”
“She can’t hear you,” I say. “Her meds have knocked her out. I wouldn’t have given them to her, but I didn’t realize we’d get here—”
“I will help her.” He scoops up my mom, cradling her like a child in his arms as he climbs into the back of the strange little carriage. “Come,” he calls to me. “Help me with her now.”
Grabbing the bag with the pillows, I hurry to climb into the boxy carriage, quickly shoving the pillows onto the firm bench as I try to help Mom recline somewhat comfortably without falling off. Meanwhile he gathers up our other bags and sets them inside too. Then, without saying a word, he climbs into the seat in front, and just like that, we start moving down the street.
As I sit next to Mom, holding on to her to keep her from sliding off the bench seat, everything begins to feel very surreal again. The sound of the horse’s hooves clip-clopping on the pavement, the bumpy swaying of the carriage as it rumbles along—it’s so unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before that for a moment I honestly think I’m hallucinating. Or perhaps I’m still asleep in my bed, having another strange dream.
I watch in wonder as we slowly move through the town, then take a turn that leads us down what eventually turns into a country road with small farms spotted here and there along the way. I begin to accept that this is not my imagination. It is for real. I peer up at the strange man driving the horse. It seemed like he was really my mom’s brother, which would make him my uncle. But studying him as he drives the horse, with his old-fashioned looking black jacket, his yellow straw hat, and his black leather boots, he seems like someone from another world, maybe even another planet. I begin to wonder—where on earth is he taking us?