Free Happily Ali After by Ali Wentworth Page A

And then he could drive up to Bangor?
    The news coverage grew more gruesome. I took a fistful of Tylenol and wrote, “Why don’t we get a babysitter to get her?” As soon as the network broke to a dependable health care commercial, I received his answer.
    “No, after all she’s been through it needs to be a parent.”
    This was one of those marital moments known as a power struggle. In most cases, my husband always trumps me. But on this particular occasion, I would say a winner was not so easily pronounced. Yes, he was anchoring pressing news, but I was deathly ill and literally physically incapable of the task at hand. He was the one who didn’t want anyone but a parent to pick her up. And we were the only parents. There are moments when sister-wives seem compelling.
    “Honey, I cannot operate a vehicle. I will drive off the side of the road. I can barely keep my eyes open e-mailing this now!” With that, I passed out.
    I opened my eyes minutes later to this: “Honey, I can’t leave work. What if you get your mom or someone to drive with you?” It was getting heated. Even though we both understood the other’s predicament, we were standing strong. Or in my case, lying down strong.
    I am always one to play the martyr card and even in my addled state recognized an opportunity to not only resent and bottle rage, but also emerge as the most magnanimous saint north of the Hudson. I would go in my soiled nightgown with a thermos of Theraflu and a box of Kleenex and save our child.
    “Fine (cough cough), I’ll go . . .” Slam phone down.
    It’s amazing how self-righteousness can spike adrenalinewhen driving long distances. I groaned out loud like a cow in labor. I cruised with the windows down, my chest feeling hollow, but enjoying the landscape of upstate Vermont and New Hampshire midsummer. It reminded me of my college days in vintage sundresses and bare feet skinny-dipping in lakes and eating tempeh wraps made by vegan hippies in Woodstock. And there I was, a grown woman (who would never let anyone see her naked) consuming beef jerky, driving up 95 north to deliver her daughter home. A daughter who was not jumping nude into sparkling lakes, but hiding under the infirmary cot with Brandy’s stolen cell phone.
    I felt old. And the pneumonia and difficulty breathing exacerbated that feeling. I reminisced about the long-haired guy with a lisp who used to recite his awful poetry to me while I wiped pumpkin butter off his beard. I wondered if he was married. And if he was married, whether it was to a man or a woman. And then I thought about all the ex-lovers and whimsical and fanciful summer days of my youth. And then I got angry with my husband again. How dare a man let his sickly wife trek to a far-off land? He must want me to die. And why do I have to do everything? I’m the only one who empties the dishwasher, throws out moldy cheese, and picks up underwear from the floor. If not for me, the show Hoarders would use our episode for sweeps.
    Righteous anger literally fueled me to drive aboveseventy miles an hour—a feverish pace inside and out. I finally reached the quaint and bucolic town in which my poor daughter was forced to drive bumper cars and chow down on homemade blueberry pancakes. And I won’t go on about the rolling hills and sparkling lake.
    Needless to say, when I walked into the dorm, my daughter was giggling and hugging other adorable girls in neon polo shirts. “Oh, hey, Mom!” Oh, hey, Mom? OH, HEY, MOM? After flirting with death to save her, all I’m met with is an “Oh, hey, Mom”?
    I must have looked deathly; I could feel my ratty hair matted to my clammy face. I hadn’t eaten in hours. All I wanted was the chicken noodle soup from Bernstein’s deli on Third Avenue. “Sweetie, is there a commissary or a vending machine?”
    She shook her head. “No. We had to throw out all the care packages because we had a maggot problem.”
    Ah, there was my cherry on top—a maggot problem. The