Dearest Rachel –
It’s a well-known trope, experienced by parents from generations past; that of staying up, waiting for their children to come home, worrying about what may have happened to them while they were out. It’s not one that you and I experienced very often, as Daniel was – and still is – orders of magnitude less social than even myself, which meant that he was rarely out at all, let alone late at night, where we might wonder where he was, and what he might be dealing with.
Indeed, at this point in his life, it might be expected that such concerns shouldn’t be necessary. He’s a big boy, after all – despite the fact that he presents himself as (and can almost pass for, if you ignore that spot on the top of his head, which I suppose is one more reason he wears a hoodie, even in midsummer) a seventeen-year-old, he’s past thirty. By this time in our lives, we were living on our own together, and were past the point where our parents needed to concern themselves without our whereabouts and safety – or if they did, it was a pointless effort, as we weren’t likely to check in with them with any regularity. If we answered to anybody, it was to each other, which we were more than happy to do.
But he lives under the same roof as I do (because trying to get one’s own place is prohibitively expensive, and really, rather unnecessary, under the circumstances. Our house has more room than I should have to need; indeed, we can take on at least one boarder, after all), and while I try to give him a reasonable amount of space, I know what’s in and out of character for him. And last night was a moment of ‘out-of-characterness’ that had me briefly imagining all manner of worst-case scenarios, like that stereotypical worried parent.
As things began to break up last night (especially with the damper put on the fireworks by the neighbor), Daniel tapped me on the shoulder to let me know that he was on his way out and home; he’d gotten to the party while I was still working at church, so he’d more than ‘put in his time,’ so to speak. I told him I would follow him home shortly, and wished him luck and safety in his drive there. I wonder if I wasn’t sufficiently emphatic about that wish.
I didn’t stay all that much longer – maybe ten or fifteen minutes, including the amount of time to offer thanks to our hosts on both of our behalfs, and to inform them that Daniel had slipped out (but it seemed as if Jeff was asking about a different guest by that name, who had made himself particularly scarce at about the time that the neighbor complained) – but long enough, theoretically, to make it most of the way home. Indeed, I’m pretty sure that it took me no more than twenty minutes to make my way home, although I did consider stopping at the corner gas station to fill up my tire again when the ‘low pressure’ light went on halfway home (it would have been a good idea, too, considering that this morning was absolutely pouring rain – having to fill it on my way to church was not the most pleasant of experiences).
Upon arriving home, I was surprised to find only Logan’s car in the driveway. Yes, Daniel has an issue with finding his way, but it seemed odd that it would take this long for him to make it home. Still, I didn’t worry overmuch about it at the time; the subdivision Jeff and Julie call home is a little bit winding at times, so it would be understandable if Daniel found himself heading north rather than south for a brief period. I assumed he would eventually right himself once he got to one main arterial street or another at some point. But I decided to not prepare myself for bed yet; best to wait until he got home, greet him, and say goodnight at that point.
But five minutes passed, and then ten, and twenty. This shouldn’t be happening. How lost can he be?
And you know me, honey. The longer I sat there waiting, the more I tried to figure out why he hadn’t arrived home. What could have happened to him to cause him to take this long? And don’t laugh too hard at the fact that my mind was conjuring up worst-case scenarios – between just you and Kevin, I’ve been confronted with a few of them in recent enough memory to consider them as distinct possibilities. Besides, for all that I’ve come to terms with the fact that my car is getting old enough that parts are hard to come by, remember that your car is five years older than mine. It’s not in the best condition (although there’s no question that’s it’s still plenty serviceable), and something might have gone wrong with it.
Of course, if it had, it wasn’t as if I was getting any call from him to that effect. And you can guess what conclusions my mind was coming to as I tried to answer that question. Once twenty minutes had passed (which was added to the fifteen minute head start I’d already given him, plus the amount of time it had taken me to get home – at this point, his time on the road was closing in on three times the length of my own trip), my heart was in my throat, I was so worried as to what might be going on.
And yet, all these fears were for nothing. It was probably about thirty minutes or so after I’d gotten home when I heard the front door from the bedroom (where I’d made myself as comfortable as I could be under the circumstances), and he walked in, apologizing first to Logan (who came down the stairs from his room to welcome him) and then to me as I emerged from the bedroom. Sure enough, he’d gotten lost, and had a particularly challenging time making his way back to Palatine Road (especially since the easiest way to get back required him to turn left onto that split-line thoroughfare), but otherwise, it had been an uneventful trip. Just a lot of twists and turns, dead ends and wrong ways, all in the darkness of night, before he made it back to familiar territory. So all’s well that ends well, and I wasted yet another good worry.
But if you would be so kind as to keep an eye on him, honey, I’d appreciate it going forward. Oh, and wish him luck; he’s going to need it, just like me.
Letters to Rachel 