The Long Drive to Bring Grandma Home

What Diane had said

His voice was rough, like he hadn’t slept at all. I learned later that he hadn’t. He sat at our kitchen table until two in the morning with the baby book open in front of him.

“I found your note,” he said. “And I called my mother last night. I was mad, Jess. I’ll be honest. I called her mad.”

“Okay.”

“And then this morning, about five, she called me back.” He stopped. I heard him swallow. “Jess, I need to tell you what she said to me before Hazel was born.”

I sat down on the edge of the van floor, beside the car seat. My mother set the floral bag down on the gravel and stood very still.

“Back in January,” Travis said, “Mom told me that once your mother came, she would take over. That she’d move right in and do everything, and you’d let her because she’s your mom. And I’d be the guy who goes to work and comes home to a house that’s not his.”

“Travis.”

“She said that’s what happened to her. When I was born. Her mother-in-law came for a month and Mom said she never got to hold me unless Grandma said so. She said Dad just went to work and let it happen.” He let out a long breath. “She told me if I didn’t want that, I’d better hold the line early.”

I closed my eyes. I thought of Diane at the hospital, holding Hazel and smiling so hard. I thought of the four visits in two weeks.

“So you canceled the ticket.”

“I panicked,” he said. “I don’t know what I’m doing with her, Jess. Every time she cries I think I broke something. Your mom raised you. She’d know everything, and I’d know nothing, and I figured you two would just close ranks.”

“And the shotgun?”

He was quiet for a second. “The shotgun was me being stupid. I bought it the same day Mom said all that. I think I just wanted one thing that was mine and that I knew how to do.”

I did not say anything. My mother had turned away a little, toward the porch, to give me the privacy of the driveway.

“She called me at five this morning,” Travis went on, “and she was crying. Mom doesn’t cry. She said, ‘I told you that out of my own fear, and it wasn’t fair to you or to Jessica or to her mother.’ She said she’d been carrying that month with Grandma for thirty-six years and she put it on me without thinking.”

Halfway

“Where are you right now?” he asked.

“In Mom’s driveway. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”

“Don’t stop in Des Moines tonight,” he said. “I’m going to meet you. Halfway. There’s a truck stop off thirty-five, north of Des Moines, the big one by the Ames exit. I took the day. I already called my supervisor.”

“Travis, you don’t have to…”

“Yes, I do,” he said. “I’m going to drive your mom the rest of the way. You’ve been driving for two days. Let me do one thing right.”

I looked over at my mother. She hadn’t heard most of it, but she’d heard enough. She picked the bag back up off the gravel.

“Tell him yes,” she said.

“Mom says yes,” I told him.

“Tell her I’m sorry,” Travis said. “No. Don’t. I’ll tell her myself.”