crossing alone

a diary of my mother's stubborn resistance to accept help

Photo by Holden Baxter on Unsplash

1 July 2025:

If you’ve been following The Right to Folly, a diary of my struggles to help my recalcitrant mother, you will know… it’s complicated. In addition to the pragmatic chores and financial difficulties, there’s been a tremendous upheaval of childhood memories. As more is required of me to keep my mother in a safe place, more stories rise up, and the whole thing gets even harder.

…

The cabin sat snug in a tiny redwood cove, directly off Highway 9 in Ben Lomond. You could barely glimpse it from the road, but once you stepped around the thick and shaggy tree trunks, there it was, with a Little House in the Big Woods vibe. I loved Laura from Little House. I’d taught myself to make rag rugs. For awhile I carried an onion in a dishtowel like she did because neither of us could afford a doll. The rooms were dark and damp, but the rent was cheap, the elementary school close by, so my mother and I unpacked our boxes, again.

There were no close by neighbors. I played on my own. Poking around the packed dirt backyard with a sharp stick I uncovered a coin collecting folio, nearly full of dull dimes. I don’t remember getting an allowance, so this was a windfall thrill. Someday the coins would be worth so much! I stored the folio in my dresser drawer, planning future purchases, a Barbie, a skateboard, until I caved to the temptations of Bit-0-Honey and gum, prodding the dimes out one by one.

Some afternoons I rode my Stingray bike in loops around the empty church parking lot, directly across from our driveway. Weaving in and out of the parking stripes, I lifted my chin to the wide sky, jet trails crisscrossed and faded. The swooping waltz of my bike gave me a funny feeling in my stomach, as if I’d filled a helium balloon inside my body. The balloon pushed at the back of my belly button, jammed the bottom of my throat, lifting me and making me feel a little sick. I was free and scared at the same time.

If you asked, I wouldn’t have called my childhood lonely.

On school mornings my head-of-household mother left early to get to her classroom down the mountain in Santa Cruz. My job was to finish my breakfast, pack my lunch and dash across the highway in time to get the school bus. “You’re nine! A big girl! You can cross alone,” she said.

Long shadows of the redwoods cut across the highway. I glanced down the southbound lane. Maybe I didn’t look both ways? Cars in the northbound lane careened around a blind curve on this stretch. I dashed. How this happened I cannot imagine, but I was hit on my elbow. I didn’t fall. I clutched my arm to my body like an onion in a dishtowel.

Brakes screeched. “Little girl? Are you okay?” a suited man yelled, jumping from his car.

Other than the dad on The Brady Bunch, men in suits were foreign to me. The men my mother brought home after last call I mostly heard—deep voices, boots dropping to the hard wood floor, peeing with the bathroom door slightly ajar.

On the gravel shoulder this dad/man and I faced each other. He asked again, raked his fingers through his hair, checked his wristwatch. “You’re sure?” I nodded and he drove away.

On the bus I had no friends to tell –I was hit by a car! And look, I’m okay!! We hadn’t lived in The Little House for long. San Lorenzo Elementary was the fourth school on my resume. My forehead pressed against the cool window glass, I did that game with my eyes, selecting something on the roadside and watching till it disappeared—a trash can, a dead raccoon—and then leapfrogging my eyes ahead to find the next thing to watch— a duck shaped mailbox, a tree stump carved into a bear. The highway curved past the swimming hole, down a hill, past the Town & Country Lounge, the bar my mother liked. Still I cradled my arm and then I noticed I’d lost my sack lunch.

My elbow throbbed, a ceaseless lub-dub. Mrs. Smith crouched beside me and gently touched my hot skin. “It’s so swollen.” She sent me to the nurse who had me bend and straighten. “How did this happen?” Here my memory goes fuzzy. “Did you fall? Did someone hurt you?” When finally I confessed she asked, “Why did you keep this a secret?”

There were things I almost knew about my life. I almost knew I shouldn’t be allowed to make top ramen with an egg and stay home alone on weekend nights, checking and rechecking the door and window locks. I almost knew I shouldn’t have to sleep on the couch so my mother could have privacy in the bedroom we shared the rest of the week. I almost knew I was too young to cross the highway alone. I did know I loved watching my mother get ready to go out. She’d stand naked in front of the good mirror, pinching her hips, tsking at her flesh, applying mascara, smoking a joint. She’d shimmy and smile, zipping her jeans. I did know I loved it when my mother stayed home. I loved when she read to me. I loved her.

Maybe I was quiet in the nurse’s office because it was better not to talk about our life. I didn’t know how to change anything, nor did I want anything to change. I think this was when I cried. I’d allowed myself to get hit and someone would be in trouble.

I rested in the nurse’s office all day, drawing, refreshing the ice on my elbow, reading Nancy Drew Mysteries. The nurse brought me a peanut butter sandwich and a carton of milk to replace my lunch. I had the helium balloon feeling in my stomach—lifting me up and scaring me—feeling a little bit sick with freedom from the burden of holding everything in.

I lose the story again when my mother arrived. I don’t remember a doctor. I don’t remember burritos and chocolate milkshakes for dinner, our treat meal. I don’t remember my mother asking why I’d told no one. I don’t remember being forbidden to cross the highway ever again. I don’t remember a sling fashioned from a colorful scarf. I do remember hearing her on the phone that night, telling a friend, being frightened and thankful, nearly crying, “We’re going to have to move again.”

Later, quiet together in front of the news, I said, “I’m sorry,” and my mother patted her lap for me to rest my head.

…

Even now—my mother living the end-of-life she designed—no plan, little savings, not even social security because she refused to work the final four quarters she needed to qualify for a monthly check, I still feel responsible. Every time I visit her in the room she barely likes, with the food she dislikes, doing crossword puzzles, reading, watching baseball, grumbling to herself, confused, even now I feel myself begin to say, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” But I choke it down. None of this is mine to carry.