Free Around the Bend by Shirley Jump

I knew what my father had become. Had seen the hole he’d fallen into and never climbed out of.
    “Maybe if your father had talked to me,” my mother said softly, “everything would have been different. But we’ll never know, will we?”
    I bit my lip. “No, Ma, we won’t.”
    She nodded, quiet and severe, tucking her emotions away. I don’t know where she kept them, somewhere knotted in her colon, I supposed, because barely a flicker showed on her face. And yet, I knew, with the connection of DNA, of being a woman, too, that losing a child, whether it had been three years or thirty years ago, still hurt her.
    A rectangular blue sign announced food at the next exit. Saved by the bell, a welcome interruption to a topic too heavy for either of us to handle. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to push it, to know more, or to just leave it alone. After all, this had happened more than three decades in the past. How much could it possibly matter now?
    And yet, I knew it did.
    I wanted to call Nick and tell him, see, this is why I don’t want to journey down these roads. I don’t want to feel this way in a year or two years or five. Why set myself up when I’ve already seen the end of the movie?
    Maybe there was a way to find a happy medium with Nick. To maintain the relationship we had and not take it to the next level. Or maybe it had come time to cut Nick loose, as much as that would hurt, because I was so clearly not the kind of woman who should get married.
    We passed the sign, and I glanced back at it, not wanting to let that oasis go. “I think it’s time for coffee, don’t you?”
    My mother gave me a smile. “Yeah, Hilary. That sounds good. Really good.”
    A few minutes later, we got out of the car, stretched our legs, ordered twin brews, then headed back to the Mustang, all without ever bringing up the topic of confusing relationships, lost babies and need-to-know subjects.
    Again, she moved slow, deliberate, not like the Rosemary Delaney I remembered. Worry pushed at me, telling me there were more things my mother had edited out of her conversations. “Ma, you are not okay.”
    “It’s that car. Seats are too low.” Her hand gripped the doorframe, and she eyed the leather bucket with obvious trepidation.
    “If I’d known, I would have rented a bus or something. An RV. You should have said—” I cut myself off. My mother was no spring chicken. Not to mention, I was thirty-six. Old enough to have more than two brain cells and at least some common sense. I should have thought about her age, the impracticality of the car before I brought the Mustang. Damn. How selfish could I be? Guilt ran through me like bad seafood. “No. I should have thought about you first. I’m sorry, Ma.”
    “That’s okay.” She laid a hand on my shoulder, instant absolution in that touch. “We’ll stop a lot. I’ll be fine.”
    As much as the thought drove me crazy, because that meant extending the trip, and already it seemed like it was taking an eternity, I didn’t see another option. I’d brought this on myself by insisting on driving the Mustang instead of having a little foresight and renting something practical. For once, couldn’t I have taken my mother’s advice instead of being so stubborn?
    I laid my hand atop of hers, the guilt not entirely gone, wishing I could rewind and undo this particular mistake. “We’ll stop as often as you want.”
    I held the door and helped her down to the seat, ignoring her as she tried to brush off my arm, my help. Reginald watched us, his buttocks flush against my backseat, content and happy to be laying on his Reginald-emblazoned fleece blanket.
    My father sat beside him, perpetually happy, not cramped at all. Some people didn’t mind the car one bit.
    As I came around to my side, I paused before getting in and leaned against the door. I’d meant what I’d said to my mother on the road. I was the family screw-up, and this incident with the car had proved that in