Double Tap

Twenty minutes later my stomach is still churning. My hands are shakey and my face flushed. My mind races, always waiting for the second shoe to drop. I feel like I've been waiting for things to fall apart for a year and a half now.

My computer screen rushed through systems and sheets on its own while I waited. I checked my phone as I do when I can't do anything but wait. I tipped the thin, blue phone over to look it in the face and my stomach dropped: two missed calls from the doctor. Why on Earth would they call twice?! It must be something really bad. This is finally it.

I pressed the voicemail button and waited, holding my breath. "Hi, Erica, this is the MRI department. We found a pink water bottle that we think you may have left here last night. Give us a call!" beep. Okay, maybe it's alright. But I braced myself as I pushed play and the second message: "Hi, Erica. We got your labs back and your Lamictal level is right in the middle of the therapeutic zone." beep. I'm okay. I repeated it again, trying to force it to sink in. I'm okay this time.

Mississippi River Boulevard

Each morning I try to memorize the route we take to work, winding, following, twisting our way across the Mississippi. I watch for cars from the passenger seat and tell mom she can turn after this red car goes by. After thirty years of living in St. Paul and working in Minneapolis, she knows all of the back ways. I, on the other hand, started my job only three months ago. The only way I know is the straight shot highway, which clogs up every morning at 7:30 like clockwork, so if I leave the house later than 7:20, I'm S.O.L.

Most days I ride with mom, commenting as we walk to the garage that I like her suit, she responding that it's the same as mine. The air is no longer crisp and we leave our jackets in the hall closet. I carry a red nylon bag with my lunch and heels to switch into at my desk. She carries an old Jo Malone shopping bag that perfectly fits a Tupperware and half a toasted pita with hummus in a ziplock sandwich bag.

We talk or listen to MPR as we ride along the trees and big houses that line Mississippi River Boulevard. We've worked out the most effective verbiage to use when telling her if she can merge onto the highway for the last stretch of the trip. We have a nice routine and I'll be sad to lose it.

Thanks for letting me drive with you, mom.