I must preface this chapter of my writing by saying that this is something my mother and I had talked about many times. We had some good laughs over these images and it was a way to release feelings without anyone truly getting hurt. I have been anxiously waiting to work this piece into my writing, and I truly hope I did it the justice that it deserves. Thanks Mom, for all the laughs.

 

“MOM, NO! STOP! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” The words were pouring from my mouth in a panicked screams.  I couldn’t even wrap my brain around the site that was unfolding before me. McCrabben was on the ground, constantly fighting her way back to a standing position and with every attempt she was met with the force of a bat to various parts of her body.  My mother’s eyes were wild with rage, something I hadn’t witnessed from the Dali Lama in quite some time. Probably since the last time I had been in the car when she and Dawn had  trapped a teenage girl in between their bread trucks maintaining a fabulous speed of 30, because she had cut them off and followed it with a toss of the finger.  Certainly well deserved Karma for that girl. But that was ages ago, long before her conversion to her new way of being. It was as if she wasn’t even part of her own body anymore, but a hallow shell of what once was, driven in force only through her pain and anger. As I watched in horror my mother deliver blows to the ribs, kneecaps and a few especially hard blows to the spine, a flash of bright yellow color caught my eye. What the hell? I had spent a good portion of my youth playing softball, and although there were always some new crazy decorative decals on the bats, they were never solid bright yellow in color. Either this was some kind of eccentric bat that had not yet passed through the sporting goods store or….. holy shit. It was a wiffle bat. My Mother in all her rage was beating the absolute shit out of McCrabben with a yellow plastic wiffle bat. The fear began to subside from my insides as I realized no matter how well deserved a beat down with an actual bat might be, there was no way in hell McCrabben was currently in any real danger. As I smiled to myself, I took a step back from the action. There was no need to intervene at this point. The wiffle bat was about bent completely in half and had rendered itself useless.  But that minor detail did not stop my mother. She continued hurling the blows with all her force and the bent half of the bat smacked from side to side, threatening to break. So while I am sure this was a well accomplished and therapeutic exercise to express emotion for my mom, all it really was in the moment was fucking hysterical. The humor of the situation caught up to me and I began to laugh out loud as I watched McCrabben block hits from every angle as the broken plastic came raging down on her. Was she really trying to play this up as painful? Or did she just think it wise to pretend, less she look like the complete ass who didn’t walk away from the beating of a lifetime with a damn wiffle bat. My laughter overcame me in the moment and I began to look around. I hadn’t actually taken account of the scenery around me. It was not a place I recognized, not even in a faint memory. So how the hell did I get here? How did we even track McCrabben down? And what would make my virtuous mother go against our plan and of all things, choose this comical option as her relief? All of my questions were suddenly answered with the faint ringing of my phone. My alarm. I opened my eyes and realized for the first time that it was all a dream. And I laughed again. Of all the dreams to be having, this one was just down right amazing. I soon traded my smile for a muffled groan and an urge to pull the covers over my head. My phone read 5:45 am. Time to head to the airport. Time to travel “home” to my husband, a man I barely knew. If the doomsday bells could chime on command, now would be the perfect setting.

I had packed the night before and so I had only to dress and freshen up my face. I had not a care in the world what I looked like for the trip home. With any luck Steve would find me so repulsive I would be able to ward off affection for a while. The thought of having to “act the part” of his wife made the ever so common bile rise in my throat once again. Maybe I should keep TUMS on hand for a while.

True to form, Mimi and Papa rose at the early morning hour to give multiple hugs and kisses. I lingered on Mimi for a while, taking in her scent for as long as I could. I wanted to take it with me. I can;t describe it, it just smelled of comfort, home and love. As we piled into the car with Papa for the short tip to the airport, we all watched as Mimi stood in the doorway, holding her robe closed to fight the cold air. We waved until we couldn’t see her anymore, and then we blew kisses into the air so they could fly right to her. It gets harder every time you leave home, but this time I was feeling especially upset.

Mom and I slept on our first flight. We connected in Baltimore and had a brief layober to grab some food. Once we had some sustenance in our bodies, we began reviewing the plan. I know that my Mom was scared. I know that she thought terrible things about Steve and felt awful about sending me back to “play house” while we played detectives. Her emotions were written all over her face and her eyes were dark with the circles that told me it had been days since her last restful sleep. I lightened the mood by telling her about my recent dream, and before long we were laughing so loud together that tears were falling from the corners of our eyes and a small audience had taken notice. I didn’t care. It had been a long time and we needed a good laugh.

The rest of our flight was uneventful, and we read our books and magazines and sometimes spoke about the family and the weather we were escaping from. My mother shared my deeply rooted hatred for the snow; more if possible. I wished we could have just kept flying onward, forgetting all of the painful memories we had left behind and the awful things that were sure to come. But my wishes were deemed just that as I heard the captain over the speaker on the plane announcing our final departure into San Antonio. I grabbed my Mom’s hand and squeezed tight. Not because I was afraid of flying or of landing, but because I had a fear of what, rather whom, was waiting for me at baggage claim. She returned my grip and smiled, “We got this Fib. Don’t worry.” It was surreal how my mother could say so little, yet calm the fears of the world. Maybe she was cut out for this Dalai Lama shit all along. I forced myself to slow my breathing and gain control over my body and my thoughts. We had a plan, I knew what to do. And if providing justice for my father meant having to suck up a well scripted scene or two to throw my murdering husband off our trail, well then I was up for the challenge. As I grabbed my bags from the overhead compartment and got in line for the exit, I found myself desperately wishing they sold wiffle bats in the airport gift shop.