Free One More Stop by Lois Walden Page B

feels?’
    ‘No. It’s a long story.’ Stay under that radar of hers.
    ‘That’s terrible. Maybe you should speak to him while you still can.’
    ‘Maybe.’
    ‘I speak to my dad, even if I do hate him.’
    ‘That’s a good idea.’ Isn’t it about time that I forgave the old man?
    ‘That’s a good girl.’
    ‘Even if you hate someone, it’s a good idea to talk it out. That’s what my mom says.’
    ‘I agree totally.’
    ‘Me too.’
    ‘You’re very smart, Molly Malone.’
    ‘You think so?’ She lights up from ear to ear.
    ‘I do.’
    ‘Did you ever want to be somebody else?’ she asks.
    I wonder who she wants to be. ‘Yes.’
    ‘Who did you want to be?’
    ‘Mrs Crouse, third grade, she was the best teacher I ever had. I worshipped her.’ More moist dreams about her … Always been horny. ‘How ’bout you?’
    ‘I dunno. You’re pretty different, maybe you.’
    ‘Thank you.’ I am touched.
    We say goodbye and return to our respective school rooms; I to a rowdy history class; she to a quiet study hall. I am enriched from our walk. I hope that she is enlivened from it.
    Before history class, I remember once I had asked my mother, in a childhood conversation, if there was anyone in the world she could be, who would it be?
    ‘You, honey. You.’ She wanted to be me.
     
    I teach the next two classes with a certain unfamiliar ease. Willwrite’s class has paved the way for newly improved extemporaneous teaching methods. While the students are talking (on paper) to their ancestors, I cannot stop thinking about my father. At present I can hardly remember why I hate the old goat. I just know that it has become another all-consuming habit; much like my subscription to Vanity Fair . It comes in the mail once a month. I read it, and it stimulates all that I hate about myself and the world. So isn’t it time to cancel the subscription? Where do I begin? Call Mary Michelin. Maybe she can help me with the evolutionary exorcism of life’s nasty problem?
    After school I return to my Holiday Inn home away from home. I dial Mary Michelin’s number.
    ‘Hello. This is the voice of Mary Michelin. I am on holiday until April 15th. I will be calling in for my messages. Please leave your name and number. I will get back to you as soon as possible. If it’s an emergency, you may call my colleague Dr Dot at 212 …’
    ‘Here we go round the mulberry bush,
    The mulberry bush, the mulberry bush.’
    Past tense meets present tense with me in the middle. There can only be one Dr Dot in the world; that Dot I knew so well. How did he end up on Mary Michelin’s referral phone list? He’s subbing in April?! He must be a dreadful doctor. I had my doubts about him twenty years ago.
    What about her? Is she the shrink for me? After numerous psychological adventures and misadventures, my theory is why not take one more acid trip into the quagmire called memory.
    The very sound of Dr Dot’s name has me hankering for a neon trip to Wal-Mart: I want edibles: not egg whites and sugar. Haven’t I come a long way, Dr Dot? I need sustenance. You see, I got a date tonight with Maggie Malone. How I love the sound of her name. Mommy … I have a date tonight. Please don’t ruin it.

U Turn
    ’84
    Dina’s last night in Los Angeles is almost as eventful as the Lindt chocolate caper evening. Sis retrieves a stack of letters from the bottom of her steamer trunk. They are vintage, ripped, torn, tattered letters. Some are stuffed in yellow stained envelopes. Most are barely legible. ‘Read these.’ She hands off the stack of relics to me. I follow her instructions. After all, I am the younger sister.
    ‘Please come to get me. I hate everything. I hate everyone. I want to go for a ride. Could we do that soon? I promise I won’t cry. Promise. I’ll be good if you take me back home with you.’ As I decipher the scribbles on each ancient page, I am reminded of a time from my past without road signage or map quest.
    Dina hands me