Jennifer Archer - Off Her Rocker

Twenty minutes later, Mother returns to the bedroom alone.

“Where’s Polly?”

“She had an appointment.” Mother sits at the edge of my bed. “So…what did he say?”

I open my closet door. “Troy’s right—the man’s a butt-hole.”

“Rules are rules. Troy needs to learn that.”

“Sometimes rules need to be changed. And people have to stand up and speak out against injustice to make that happen.”

“So, let Troy be the one to stand up.”

I pull out my suitcase and put it on the bed beside her.

“He is the one who should buck the system, not you, darling. What are you doing with that suitcase?”

“Packing. If he needs me, I’m there.”

“You’re flying to Colorado?”

“Driving. I just got off the phone with the airline. The next flight out is late tonight, and I’d have to go standby. I don’t want to risk it.”

I unzip the suitcase, open it.

Mother reaches over and closes it again. “You’re being ridiculous. What on earth do you think you can do for him?”

“I’ll talk to his teacher in person. He’ll see I’m serious about this if I meet him face-to-face. I’ll go to Troy’s other classes tomorrow and take notes for him, and I’ll nurse him through his flu. He can stay with me at the hotel until he feels better. I’ll feed him chicken-noodle soup.”

“He has a cold, for God’s sake. He didn’t even sound all that congested. You’re just looking for an excuse to go see him.”

I return to the closet and start pulling out clothes.

“Does Troy know you’re coming?”

“I want to surprise him.”

Her laugh is sharp. “Oh, he’ll be surprised all right. Get ready for a fight.”

“He’ll be relieved.”

“What about the dinner party for Carl’s new account?”

Why, oh why, did I tell my mother about that? “What about it? It’s a week from Friday.”

“He needs you here while he’s preparing that presentation, Dana. Carl shouldn’t have to worry about whether or not you’ll have everything ready for the dinner party. He needs your moral support.”

“What do you want me to do? Pull out some pom-poms and do a cheer every night?” Not that Carl wouldn’t like that, but it’s not happening.

“Cook him well-balanced meals. Give him back rubs. It’s a very big deal for him, you know that. For you, too. It’s your financial future we’re talking about.”

“Carl will be so busy he won’t even miss me, I promise you. And I’ll be home in plenty of time.”

Mother watches me pack. When I finish, I close the suitcase and dial Carl’s number.

“Troy will balk if you just show up,” he says.

“He’ll be happy.”

“I was an eighteen-year-old boy once. I know what I’m talking about, Dana. Trust me—he won’t be happy.”

“I know our son. We have a closer relationship than you had with your mother. He actually likes me.”

Carl sighs. “That’s a long drive alone. Can’t you wait and fly out in the morning?”

“I don’t want to wait. Besides, the ticket costs a fortune last minute.”

Giving up, Carl tells me to be careful. Mother mumbles something, but I don’t hear what she says.

Outside the window, the baby squirrel runs up the tree trunk, followed by Tizzy. They pause on a bough and she holds out her tiny paws to offer him something. I smile. It’s probably an acorn for his growling stomach.

The sun has gone down by the time I pull into the visitor’s parking lot a block away from Troy’s dorm. I’m road-weary, but too excited to care. It’s been seven and a half weeks since I last saw my son. I can’t wait to see his face when he opens the door and finds me outside of it.

As soon as I know how he’s doing, I’ll call around and find a hotel suite with two bedrooms and a kitchenette. Considering how lousy Troy feels, I’m sure he’ll jump at the chance to get away from his roommate for a while, out of that cramped dorm room with those tiny matching twin beds. Once he has settled in at the hotel, I’ll run to the store and buy a few groceries. Seven-Up, hot tea, chicken-noodle soup. A little tender-loving care from his mother and Troy will feel better in no time.

Tomorrow, while he sleeps in, I’ll attend his classes and take notes, then schedule a meeting with his economics teacher. If anyone can set things straight with the man, I can. This isn’t the first time I have had to confront a teacher on behalf of one of my kids.

I park the Lexus, grab my purse and jacket, and climb out, pausing to stretch my aching back. As I start down the sidewalk, I slip the jacket on. The temperature has dropped since I last stopped for gasoline and to throw away trash from a fast-food lunch on the go. Dense clouds hang low in an inky-black sky. On the radio earlier, an area weatherman said to expect snowfall tonight in most parts of the state. I shiver and hasten my pace, wishing I had brought a heavier coat.

It’s a quiet Wednesday evening. Students stroll across campus, alone or in small groups. Others are on bicycles, a few on Rollerblades. I take deep breaths of brisk air and try to recall what it felt like to be young and away at school. Polly’s questions about my dreams before I married and became a mother drift through my mind.

What did I want?

To meet someone and fall in love. To have children. But what else? What possessed me to study philosophy, of all things? Pressure to declare a major at the end of my sophomore year? All the courses I had taken up to that point transferred, so I didn’t lose any hours by becoming a philosophy major. Was that the appeal?

Memories of my own uncertainty filter back to me. I felt overwhelmed, adrift and desperate. Desperate to make a choice. Afraid I would make the wrong one and end up stuck in a career I hated for the rest of my life.

Funny how I’ve come full circle; I feel the same now. Uncertain. Overwhelmed and adrift. Desperate and afraid. But I don’t want to think about all those feelings at the moment. They aren’t important as I open the door to Troy’s dorm. Carl and I must have walked this route more than a dozen times while helping Troy move in, carting box after box up to his room.

When I reach the wall of elevators, I push the up button and wait. Soon, a ding sounds and the doors slide apart. Three laughing guys reeking of cigarette smoke step off, and I step on, followed by a boy and a girl who can’t keep their hands off each other. I push Three.

“Five, please,” the young man says, and I push that number, too. “Thanks,” he mutters, then I’m forgotten. The doors close, trapping me with the musty, leftover scents of a multitude of students who have stood here before. Smoke and spilled drinks. Sweat and unwashed clothing. Pepperoni and popcorn and who knows what else. They’re all there. Signs of young life on the run.

To avoid the giggling couple in the corner, I fix my gaze on the numbers above the doors. None too soon, the doors part onto the third floor, and I’m off and walking the narrow stretch of hallway that leads to Troy’s room, my heartbeat keeping time with my step. Young men and women cut glances my way as we pass one another. Some mumble greetings, but no one looks me in the eye.

The boom and screech of rock and roll hits me long before I reach Troy’s door. I assure myself the music isn’t coming from his room. Troy is sick. His roommate wouldn’t be so inconsiderate. But after a few more steps, I realize the music is from Troy’s room. Voices and laughter, too. In his effort to make new friends, is my son reluctant to stand up for himself? Am I going to have to play the bad guy for the sake of his health? If so, I’m willing.

At his door, I make a fist and pound three times.