How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [3]
When the windshield begins to fog, I switch on the defroster.
“Are you going to just sit here paralyzed forever?”
Oh no, now I’m talking to myself.
I reply, “Well, no.”
“Then get moving, miss.” I make my voice firm, without any hint of compassion.
“Now?” The sky still looks dark.
“Now or never.”
These conversations between my reluctant-fearful self and my trying-to-motivate self have become more and more common since the accident. I’m not sure which self I like—or loathe. Often it depends on the weather.
As my hands clutch the steering wheel, I consider calling Sally on my cell phone. I’ve flipped open the phone and my index finger is poised to jab at the first number. Instead, I toss the phone across the seat and say, “Think of something pleasant.”
So I think of a stream with rocks and clear, cool water. Daisies, petals touched by dew, bobbing in the gentle wind. Peach pie with a mound of vanilla-bean ice cream. Rich velvet cake with buttercream icing that melts on your tongue. An autumn morning walk with Dad across the harvested fields, pointing out geese that soar overhead, picture-perfect against a blue sky, and later, just before breakfast, going to the barn to feed the plump piglets that were born in late spring.
Soon, I’m driving again, visions of piglets prompting a tiny smile. But when the rain gushes over the Jeep like a waterfall, I feel panic set in once more. Cars pass me; some even have the nerve to honk. As their tires spray water against the sides of my vehicle, I mutter, “I’m going thirty miles per hour.” Which, despite the 55 MPH speed limit signs, seems to be the only safe speed for this soggy day.
Through the torrents of rain, I spot a lopsided billboard with the words Good Eatin’ on it. I am more than ready to stop. I drive another slow mile and then see a small burgundy diner on the right. A few of the letters are burned out in the neon sign that flickers, so it reads God in.
A place where God is present—what more could anyone ask for?
————
Inside the fluorescently-bright restaurant, I’m greeted by the smell of bacon, hamburgers, and something strong, like bleach. A waitress in a rust smock and matching lipstick seats me at a sticky table in the back. She hands me a menu stained with grease spots. I try to smile as she comments, “Looks like a day for ducks and my petunias.”
As I study the menu, I wipe my neck, which is moist from my wet hair. Since I couldn’t remember which box I’d packed my umbrella in, I just ran from the parking lot into the restaurant. The rain felt clean and strangely comforting, as though its pellets were trying to bathe away my worries. I even considered standing in the rain for several minutes and getting completely drenched, just to see if nature’s bath could rid me of all my discomfort.
The waitress waves toward a car parked outside. “Ah, look at that, would you? Someone forgot to roll up the windows. Well, he’ll be in for a surprise.” She clucks her tongue and then chuckles as she walks toward the front of the restaurant.
I take a few gulps of air, shiver. I know I rolled up my windows. That’s not something I have to worry about. My right arm jerks, and I massage it with my left hand. A nurse gave me a massage in the hospital; I wish she could come over every day and repeat that wonderful, soothing act. If I ever win the lottery, I’ll hire a personal masseur. And a chauffeur, so that I won’t ever have to get behind a steering wheel again.
When the waitress comes by with a white memo pad and number two yellow pencil, I order sweet tea and French fries. Large for both. I haven’t eaten anything all day, even though Yolanda fried eggs and tomatoes for me this morning. “You eat for to be strong,” she encouraged me. When she was looking for a pair of clean socks for her son, I opened her garbage can and let the eggs and bits of tomato run into the black Hefty bag right next to last night’s potato peelings.
From my purse I dig