It was hot outside. August. I don’t know why I couldn’t stay home, but that option was never given.
Lilith, Jason, and I climbed into the yellow 1981 Datsun and headed to the tiny little strip mall in town. I never liked that car, with the burlap-y seats, and the stale cigarette smell, air conditioning was a luxury back then, so none of that. It had those little metal ashtrays that made the grinding, squeaking sound like nails on a chalkboard. It was a two-door, giving you the feeling of being trapped when sitting in the back seat. Looking at the memories now, that’s exactly what I was. Trapped.
We were parked by the pharmacy, and Lilith went inside for what seemed like forever. We had to keep the windows rolled up so we wouldn’t be kidnapped, which surprises me now because it seems like a perfect escape for her. She was probably afraid of losing Jason, though.
It was sweltering in that car, but we sat quietly as we were told. A man approached the passenger window and tried to get me to roll the window down, but that wasn’t allowed. Eventually, he gave up and walked away, but I now think of him as a good Samaritan who was trying to help the kids in the hot car.
Finally, Lilith emerged from the pharmacy and walked to the car to put her bags in the hatch. The August air felt amazing when the hatch lifted, and we were treated to some fresh air. Lilith was going to the grocery store across the parking lot, and I said something I would regret, which has stayed with me since that day. “Mom, it’s hot. Can’t we go in with you?”
Thinking about that six-year-old girl and her innocent request hurts my heart. It hurts more to recall that the answer wasn’t spoken, rather it was acted out. Jason got to go into the store. Maybe he pushed the cart for her, maybe he just wandered around the air conditioning. Not me. The rule was that if you want to cry, she’ll give you something to cry about. Lilith turned on the ignition and the heat, and I was left in the car to think about what happens when I speak out of turn.
**As helpful as therapy has been, and as good as it is to get the nitty-gritty out into the open, this has been hard to write. I feel physically ill. Headache, nausea, dizziness, and my hands shaking. That’s a normal physical response to emotional trauma, and believe it or not, it’s a small price to pay for getting these stories out of my head. Regardless, I’ll be taking a short break from writing it and will end up making it a series.