I’m stalking Mrs. Arnold Mikloshevsky—as if she doesn’t have enough problems. I’m sitting outside their house in Mom’s purple convertible. I don’t know what I’m hoping to see.
Then I see her. She’s walking a dog—the yellow Lab I saw last time—and even though I don’t know what I was expecting, she’s not what I expected, not a frail society-lady or fat or harsh or ugly. Just a middle-aged woman. A mom—anyone’s mom but mine. I wonder if she knows her husband doesn’t love her anymore.
That’s when I start to cry. Sitting there in Mom’s stupid, shiny convertible, I cry because my stupid, shiny mother is ruining this woman’s life.
I hear a tap on the window. “Are you all right?”
It’s the woman. Arnold’s … Mrs. Arnold. I roll down the window. “I’m fine.” I breathe hard through my nose, so I won’t sob. “I’m just … lost.” Which is true, sort of.
“It is confusing here. Where are you headed?”
I give her an address—Dad’s address, actually, and she starts telling me the directions. The dog stands on its hind legs, putting its front paws on Mom’s car’s nice, purple finish. Good. “Down, Ginger,” she says. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I always wanted a Lab.”
She peers at me. “Do your parents know where you are? I always worried about my girls when they went out at night. Actually, I still worry. You want to call your mother? You can use my phone if you don’t have a cell.”
I want to say yes. Call my mother. Save yourself. But I don’t. It won’t matter anyhow. If Arnold’s made up his mind, his wife knowing a few weeks earlier won’t matter. So I say, “Yes. I mean, I’m okay.” I feel a chill and hug myself with both arms. “I’m running an errand for my mom.” I tell her the address again, and she gives me the full directions. She even offers to get a sheet of paper to write them down, but I tell her that’s not necessary.
I cry the whole way home.