The speed limit

I am driving home. Back to Athens. I just got onto 316; I need to concentrate and focus on what I am doing, they're doing all kinds of construction here and the speed limit keeps changing. I don't want to be caught in a speed trap or be pulled over for going too fast in a construction zone. I'm driving on an expired license. Expired by a week now and not even a real license. Just a probationary work permit. Heck, even if it wasn't expired I would still be in hot water. Make sure you pay attention and don't go to fast; you don't want to be pulled over and go to jail for speeding. Normally, after all that I would just gun it and run 85, drive fast and try to outrun everything. But with the DUI and the expired permit, I can't afford to do that. Gotta just focus on the driving and put that cruise control on a cool 65. Can't bother thinking about anything else but the road and the traffic in front of me.
- That was pretty tough, wasn't it?
- Yeah, not my idea of a fun Saturday evening.
I put an opera in the CD player to help me take my mind off things, to help me concentrate on driving.
I drove by her house 4 times before I parked the truck and made it to the front door. I shouldn't be nervous; I'm here for her, nothing I've done or haven't done matters, and yet I feel my stomach tie up in a knot of clichés. Someone famous once said that courage is fear that holds out just a little bit longer. Some president or general. Maybe Washington or Eisenhower, I don't remember. I hover anxiously in the driver's seat before my courage wins out.
The doorbell doesn't work, and I awkwardly stand there a moment before knocking and then letting myself in. Everyone is sitting around the dining room table looking at me, wondering who is this? I see her and make my way forward, a cautious greeting laced with encouragement preceding me into the room. Our eyes lock, mine hyperactive and hers bleary, and for a terrible instant I know that she has forgotten me. After all it has been a few years, I've probably gained the weight that she has lost, and I'm not the only kid she's had in 20+ years. But after a breathless, desperate moment she exhales the sound, "Timmie."
I hug her, scared to death that I will break this fragile thing before me. But Death is reserving that task for himself. I hate myself for making her get up; I can tell it is hard for her, her eyelids give her away. She is sicker and more exhausted than I thought she would be; I prepared myself mentally for this, but not for this. Her every word and movement is slow and methodical, as if to waste precious energy is to waste seconds. I lie and tell her that I am great, and that everything has been going well. Why burden her with sob stories? Anyway, would she even care? She's dealing with something more pressing than my pedestrian problems. Time to switch gears; she may have been a willing ear in the past, but you don't bother terminally ill cancer sufferers with your problems. They have a more immediate agenda.
Our conversation is short and mundane; no talk of death or regrets or apologies. She wants to go back to teaching next year.
"We expect to lose her after June 1st," says dutiful daughter Liz. So much for the teaching. But I can tell by just looking at her. She may have dyed her hair red to help take off the edge, to make her look healthier than she is, but it still looks like it would break and come out with a tug. She's too emaciated to ignore. And she is so tired, so damn tired. I wish I could look at her and see my old biology teacher, the woman who believed in me and loved me. But I see the face of Death and a small woman too stubborn to admit defeat, to admit the beginning of her end. Liz tells me how it spread from her gall-bladder and how the doctors thought they got it all. How it came back and how the very same doctors pronounced the two month sentence. She'll do hard time for a few weeks and then be free and clear. I pray the pain isn't bad. Liz's teeth are stained black from the red wine she's drinking; it bothers me like it always does when people drink wine, and it bothers me that it bothers me when there are other things to worry about. Liz and I hug and I promise to come back for a longer and better visit. But in Ms. Miller's case, the better times have fled the scene.
I think about Aunt Do and that small miracle that happened long ago. Maybe the same will happen here. Before I went over my mom told me that miracles happen.
- You know better than that. You saw how she looked, she ain't getting better. It's her time, just accept it.
- Yeah, I know, but you still gotta hold out hope. If not anything else, I hope it's as painless as possible.
I think about how I've failed her, how I have accomplished nothing worth talking about in the years since we last spoke. I hate myself for letting her down. I hate that I have to call Lauren and Kirsten, Dustin and Ike, but Liz asked me to. They should be here, being with her at this time. They have done things that she can be proud of, things she feels good about as she passes on. Me, I'm just a dumb kid who drinks too much and wants to be a writer and can't seem to finish school in an orderly manner. I'm nothing to be proud of, nothing to bother with. I feel so guilty I wanna scream. I wanted to apologize for letting her down and not accomplishing anything with my life. But all I could muster was, "Yeah, I'm doing great." I feel guilty for just now getting around to see her, I should have kept in touch, I should have not shut her out.
The CD player beeps and my opera ends. I think about turning on the radio, but I decide to sit in silence. I stop at the gas station to fill up before I finish the trip. I shouldn't be doing it, but I end up buying a bottle of A&W and some junk food. I'm supposed to be watching what I eat. It's supposed to be no pop and no sweets. I'll crack down tomorrow, I say to myself. Besides I've got more important things to worry about. I should be watching the road, my speed. I don't want to be pulled over and go to jail. Focus on what you're doing and just go the speed limit.