I have a sister who is eight years older than myself. She was graced with a private school education, while I was not. Apparently my parents didn’t think it worked out so hot for her so, I was placed in public school. She wore a cool uniform with pleated skirts, jackets with emblems on the pockets and wore saddle shoes. I, on the other hand, looked like an orphan in dresses that seemed to need ironing and hair that went every which way. She had her own bedroom with a HUGE full-length mirror, a stereo and posters of Elvis. She would sit in front of that mirror for what seemed like hours and tease her hair until it stood up on end and then style it into a beehive. I was in awe. I had to share my bedroom with my two younger sisters. My sister walked a few blocks from home to catch the bus to her school. When it rained, my mother would get in her car, drive downtown and collect her. She did this faithfully. I took notice.
One particular day I remember staring out of the windows of my classroom watching it become more and more dark outside. By the time the bell rang for school to let out wind, rain, thunder, and even lightening filled my world! For whatever reason, I remember distinctly standing in the lobby of the school watching as other children’s mothers pulled up onto the playground then, their sons or daughters would make a made dash for the safety of their cars. My rescue never came.
Teachers walked by, “Lois? Why aren’t you going home?”
“My mom is coming to get me,” I assured them.
I heard snickers and talking behind my back, “She thinks her mother should come pick her up.” Giggle! Giggle!
I was not happy. I stood there until one of the teachers told me I absolutely had to go home. My reality was that my mother was not coming to pick me up and I was sent out into the storm alone. I ran. I ran like the wind as fast as I could. I was hurt. I was embarrassed. I remember crashing through the front door and into the living room. By this time, I was mad, so mad! My mother was sitting on the floor holding my youngest sister. I began yelling at her.
“Why didn’t you come get me! Can’t you see it’s raining! You always pick up Sandy! Everyone else’s mom’s came to get them, but you left me standing there!” Tears were pouring down my cheeks while I blurted the words out at her in a rage. The look on her face was one of shock.
“But, Lois,” she said, “you only live across the street.”
This was true. I only lived one house away from the school. Why I thought I should have been picked up is beyond me, but I remember the entire incident as if it were yesterday. Why? Did I think she loved Sandy more than me? Did I want to be like the other kids whose parents cared enough to drive up to the school to get them? Was I that spoiled or was being the child in the middle making me crazy?
I’m not sure what the answer is, but lately I feel I am back in that same position again. I need help getting across the street. I haven’t posted for awhile. I’m busy taking care of my father whose mind is slowly leaving him. He talks to his brother Dale, who has been dead for fifteen years. He doesn’t remember taking his morning pills that I stood there and spoon-fed him. He doesn’t want to eat. My older sister is housebound now, unable to drive anywhere. I check on her, too.
My ex-husband recently remarried, something I didn’t think would ever happen. He’s 67 and his new wife is 42 and waiting for her visa from China. He didn’t have the nerve to tell me, even though I saw him face to face just a week after his nuptials. He’d come home to settle his mother’s estate. The gutless SOB left it up to my son to give me this news. While he was in town he had a doctor appointment to see if he could get his vasectomy reversed. He can’t. I’m thrilled.
I went back to work for the first time in years. I’m tutoring at the school across the street from my father’s home where he lives alone now since my mother’s death two years ago. The same school where I stood fifty years ago, waiting for her to come pick me up in the rain. I visit my father every day for lunch and after school. Some days I still have trouble crossing the street.
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