Robert Frost Was Right—Part Three

I drove the rest of the way to Houston. Crossing the New Mexico border into Texas, we saw a sign outside a small west Texas border town—Texico—that read “Welcome to the Lone Star State. Home to the 43rd President of the United States—George W. Bush.” I looked around the nondescript town, sprinkled with single-wide mobile homes and expansive cattle ranches and wondered why they couldn’t come up with something more legendary than birthplace to the worst president in modern-day history.

The drive through Texas was beautiful. I had forgotten how much I missed this part of the country. Southern hospitality. Biscuits and gravy. Men who took their hats off when they entered an establishment, and held doors for perfect strangers. Cattle country as far as the eye could see. Texas deserved to be proud of itself. Except for George.

I left my anger and disappointment somewhere around of Dalhart. Mom and I had a couple of really good conversations. We stuck to issues that were safe—parenting and the latest gossip about friends and family. My mother is a wonderful woman. The older I get, the more respect I have for the sacrifices she made as a divorced mother—when divorce was social suicide and sexual harassment was the price you paid for working outside the home. I’m convinced she’s a closet liberal. My money is on the fact that she married a man who is an ex-cop and is selfish in his views about the world—and she has had to adopt most of his truths to keep domestic peace. At least that’s what I tell myself.

The moment we entered the outer city limits of Houston, the unreserved quiet of the Texas prairie seemed like a dream. Like some extreme video game, cars, SUVs and pick-up trucks on steroids—lots of them—whizzed by at lighting speed, weaving in and out of traffic, in a balls-to-the-wall race to the finish. Urban guerillas steering 2,000 pounds of steel with cell phones in their ears and Big Gulps in their dashboard cup holders blew past me—oblivious to anyone outside their fabricated, leather-clad bubbles.

I suddenly remembered why I left this town. Living in Houston is like living in Chicago or L.A.—but with attitude. Bigger is better. And if you ain’t first—you’re last.

Mom and dad were white-knuckling it. Everything I had remembered about driving in a big city came back to me—but this time, I was a few years older and more afraid of dying. I kept it under 80 and reminded mom to breathe—and found my happy place, thinking about the pristine pine trees and slow pace of northern Minnesota.

The minute I saw her face—I wanted to scoop her up and take her home. She will never realize how beautiful she is—or how loved. I suppose none of us will. She is a long, tall glass of water with big, beautiful blue eyes—and now she is sporting a paunch. I have to stand on my tiptoes to hug her. And I squeezed her as hard as I could and fought back tears.

She filled me in on her morning sickness, her first visit to the doctor—and Bob. His name is Robert, but I call him Bob because I don’t like him. It’s my sinister way of reminding her that she can do better. He is nineteen and a colossal idiot. He drives his truck like he stole it and treats my daughter like she’s disposable.

Half-way to Texas, she called me in tears. He’d lost his temper again, broke all of her hangars, threw her clothes all over their room—and kicked her out of their apartment. This visit was killing me.

It wasn’t too long ago that I was in her shoes. Young, self-depricating and in love with a man who showered me with crazy, passionate, leave-me-and-I’ll-kill-you affection. And now karma has come back and bitten me in the ass.

So I took her shopping. And bought her the maternity clothes he had refused to provide her. And a comforter and sheets for the bed he’d promised to buy her, because her back was killing her sleeping on a cheap mattress on the floor.

I bit my tongue the entire afternoon, trying to be cool and listen and offer up “girlfriend” advice, instead of motherly. My stomach knotted up inside every time she told me about one of their fights. I sat on my hands while she told me about her failed attempt to apply for Medicare and WIC, because he was bored, and didn’t want to have to wait in the long lines.

I was meeting Bob for the first time that evening. We—Diana, Bob, my parents and I—were all going out to dinner. I had visions of launching myself across the table and wrapping my hands around his throat, while the restaurant staff tried in vain to pull me off of him. She said he was really nervous.

Bob had no idea.

To be continued.