But it can’t do that, I know. Normal is not an option anymore, hasn’t been for many months, almost the entire school year. Maybe my entire life. Normal is something other people are, not me. I have no choice in what I’m about to do, not really. I’ve had no choice for a long time.
The drive to Harrisburg is a quietly excited one. They sit together in the back, Connor occasionally asking a question, Kylie looking out the window in between bouts of reading her latest big fantasy novel. I’ve made sure she has her asthma inhaler with her. I can see Connor in my rear view mirror; we make eye contact a few times. I smile, say friendly teacher things. Traffic is light and we make good time. Once Kylie asks that we stop because she has to go to the bathroom. We do. She comes out again while Connor is in the men’s room and she scampers quickly up to me, book in hand, tugs on my sleeve.
“Ms. Straw?”
“Yes, Kylie?”
“Do you think I shouldn’t read my book on the trip?”
“Well, I don’t know. I guess that’s up to you.”
“’Cuz my mom says I shouldn’t. She says it’s rude. But I was at a really good part.”
“I’m sure Connor would like it if you talked to him a little, Kylie, instead of reading. But whatever you’re comfortable with.”
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll stop.”
And she does, she becomes part of the conversation as we continue the drive on this ever-darkening Saturday morning. Looking in my mirror I notice at one point that they’re holding hands and looking away from each other, out their own car windows. Finally we’re there, only a little late. It’s a long day, but fun because they find it fun. In truth much of this conference is more like a carnival than anything really educational, but there are some presentations, some interactive workshops, a few short speeches. Kylie gets very excited at seeing the TV actor, who she recognizes. Maybe two hundred kids and grown-ups are there in the auditorium. Connor and Kylie become part of a small group of kids who paint a big rough mural on the theme of “community.” They brainstorm ideas on how to bring people from different backgrounds together. They listen to the state senator talk about the political process and why kids should learn about it now. They eat lots of pizza and drink lots of soda. This is all pretty much as it’s been in previous years.
Even now, I know, I could change my mind. When the festivities conclude I could simply hustle the kids into the car, remind them to put on their seat belts, and drive back home. Ms. Straw would get yet more points for being a wonderful, committed teacher, taking her entire Saturday to drive two kids to a youth leadership conference, to stay with them all day, to drive them back home in the evening, all for no extra pay. Mrs. McCloud would be delighted to see her daughter come home so happy, finally a chosen one, a special student who has received special attention. Mr. Blue wouldn’t care, of course, but maybe the day would at least calm things down between Connor and me, show him that I care about him whether or not we’re together. Really together.
But none of those things will happen because in my purse I have the handcuffs and the gun. I haven’t even completely articulated within my own mind exactly what I’m going to do with them. I only know that we’re not going home.
Finally the day ends with colored lights and music and cheers and Thanks for coming, we’ll see you next year and hundreds of kids and adults pouring out into the parking lot. Car doors slam, engines start. We don’t move at all for quite some time. My nerves start to jump again, the steering wheel grows moist with sweat. When we finally get to the exit I see the sign for the freeway south, which is the direction of home. I take the exit north.
“Are we lost?” Connor asks, a long time later, the sun dim and low in the steely sky.
“Just taking a different route,” I say confidently. “Such nice scenery, don’t you think?” And there is a great deal of greenery around us. I’m surprised at how well I remember the route to the cabin, considering that Bill always drove and I’ve not been there in years.
Darkness. Headlights on the narrow country road.
“We are definitely lost,” Connor says.
“Are we lost, Ms. Straw?” asks Kylie, her tone not unhappy.
“Only a little bit,” I say. “I know where we are. I just need to find the main road. We’ll be home in just a little while.”
It’s farther than I remembered. By now they both know that something is wrong—not with Ms. Straw, but with our location.
“Mona, do you have a map?” Connor asks. “I’ll try to figure out where we are. I’m pretty good with maps.” He turns to Kylie. “Why are you laughing?”
“You called Ms. Straw ‘Mona’!”
“Oh, yeah.” He smiles a little. “Sorry, Ms. Straw.”
“Maybe we should stop, kids,” I say as we near the cabin. “I’ll check to see if there’s a map in the trunk. Maybe we can find somebody to ask. I’m awfully sorry about this.”
They’re surprisingly calm about it. I realize that their faith in Ms. Straw’s ability to take care of things is absolute—even Connor’s faith. It strikes me that for him Ms. Straw and Mona must really be two essentially different people. The one he knows as Ms. Straw is smoothly professional and competent at all times, and thanks to Kylie’s presence it’s Ms. Straw he’s with now, or thinks that he is. The teacher, the authority figure, the one who runs things. For him Mona must seem far away.
At last we pull up to the cabin in the darkness. My headlights shine on it through the rain that’s begun to falclass="underline" the structure seems in decent repair, though it’s a bit dilapidated, the roof sagging in spots. I hope the locks haven’t rusted, that I can get in without difficulty.
“Where are we?” Connor asks.
“You know what?” I say brightly. “I realized a little ways back that I recognized this road. I actually know where we are. My husband and I own this cabin.”
Connor looks strangely at me. “Really?”
“Wow!” Kylie says. “That’s cool! You own a cabin in the woods!”
“Yeah,” I smile. “Want to take a look? Now that I’m sure where we are, getting home will be a cinch.” I pull the car under the canopy, the closest thing we have to a garage here, shut off the motor. “Still, Connor, I’m pretty sure I have a map in the trunk. We’ll look. Let’s make sure I don’t make any boo-boos on the way back.”
“Boo-boos!” Kylie giggles, looking at me with her head tilted back. “Ms. Straw, I have to go to the bathroom again.”
“Okay. Let’s go in.” We step out. The rain is falling hard now, making a racket on the canopy. I fumble with my bag, drop the keys on the ground, pick them up. It’s very dark. I unlock the trunk, pull it open. Jumper cables, old boxes, general detritus. “Connor, have a look around in the junk here, will you? For a map? I’ll turn on the light for you. Come on, Kylie.” I find the front door lock, insert the key, open the door. The cabin smells musty, of course. I switch on the porch light and a light in the living room.
“Neat,” Kylie says. “But I thought it would look more like a log cabin. Like Abe Lincoln’s house.”
I smile. “I know, this is really just a regular house, isn’t it? Only smaller.” My heartbeat is pounding behind my eyes. The rain falls, falls. “The bathroom’s in here, Kylie.” I lead her to it, open the door for her, turn on the light. “The lock doesn’t work,” I lie. “But I’ll stand here and make sure Connor doesn’t come in.”
“Thanks, Ms. Straw.”