My hand in hers

I left my heart on the page with this one. This one goes out to you Julie!

Love,

Child #4

I remember going to the store as a child. Upon rolling open the heavy door of our minivan once we arrived to our destination, my mother would be standing there, partially blocking the sun from my eyes. A smile on her face, she stood with her feet firmly on the ground. Her clothing was nothing fashion-forward. Typical of the mid-1990’s, she wore shorts which more resembled pants, and a shirt which more resembled a floral bed sheet. Adorning her waist was a slouchy, front-loaded, water-bottle holding fanny pack. I stood at about the height of her waist, and her fanny pack always seemed to fall to her right side. I learned to avoid walking on that side of her.
Mom always stood with her hand outstretched waiting for me to exit the car. Her hand was always cupped gently, just to the degree to hold my hand perfectly. She knew my little sausage fingers well, and I certainly was comfortable with her fingers. Hers did not resemble sausage links. Rather, long strips of lean bacon. She had a solid grip in parking lots. But I didn’t mind. With my hand in hers, life was good.
Upon entering the grocery store, my mom would let go of my hand to drive the shopping cart. We would eventually overflow it with fish sticks and Jello, and a cart with eight bags of frozen fish sticks inside gets really heavy. While she compared the price per ounce for brand name Cream of Wheat cereal to the knock off Malt-O-Meal cereal, I found myself slyly dashing to the makeup aisle. If she wasn’t holding my hand I was fully unleashed.
I was on the hunt for Root Beer chap stick, made by Lipsmackers. I knew it well because my sisters used it constantly. They were lucky and responsible enough, said my mother, to have their own chap stick with their initials on the bottom. Our family does not share chap stick. With the distinct smell of a crisp, ice-cold root beer, I knew it had to taste like root beer. My taste buds brought me to the makeup aisle of the grocery store.
The aisle shelves were four times as tall as me. I could not see anything but lipstick tubes when I stuck my nose in the air looked directly up. But I knew there was something just above and beyond those tubes. I always wondered, why are the stores so secret about what’s on those top shelves? What’s up there that little people like me can’t see? People were always talking about “adult movies” as a kid, so I figured this is where they kept the “adult makeup.”
At the store, not holding my mother’s hand, was really my only chance to try the Root Beer chap stick. One particular day, the aisles surrounding me were deserted. Just me. As quietly as I could, I ripped open the package of chap stick. I got a little stuck trying to tear away the protective seal holding the cap on. My mother’s elegant fingernails would have been great in that moment, but she was picking out cereal. As I put the tube up to my teeth to try to scrape away the seal, a big black boot and large set of jangling keys on the most hairy arm I have ever seen stopped me. A grumpy person, be it a man or woman I don’t know, asked me where my mother was. I said, “I’m not sure, but I need her” and the tears came. The person said, “Little girl, you need to come with me so we can find her. What you are doing is wrong.” I followed the person. I knew they worked at the store because they were wearing a name tag. I imagined myself in an over sized orange jumpsuit being served what resembled baby food through a door the size of a mail slot, and I listened to every word the authoritative person said.
Luckily as we moved closer to the food section of the store, we crossed paths with my mom. I darted to her. My head buried in her fanny pack, I sobbed as the person explained what they caught me doing. I remember shaking, sobbing and desperately trying to hold my mother’s hand again. She kneeled down so we were eye to eye. While I do not recall her words, I recall a patient, forgiving tone. Furrowed eyebrows expressed disappointment but not anger, and a firm grip on my hand made me feel safe, not threatened. I apologized to the store employee, and my mother and I proceeded to the nearest checkout stand, my hand in hers.
It was the following summer when I experienced another frightening moment.
My mother was speed walking next to me as I was ahead on my bicycle. It was the first adventure without training wheels outside of our cul-de-sac. We were making our way down the sidewalk following Quebec Street, a road we traveled often close to my house. I was hesitant to ride without one of my mom’s hands on mine helping me steer, the other hand supporting my back for good posture and balance. But no kid can resist their first taste of independence.
The concrete pathway was an expansive sea, leading my eyes to the horizon ahead, a place I wanted to pedal to with no help. I was leaps ahead of my mom on my bike, rhythmically pushing myself forward. I balanced beautifully to keep a straight course, and moved the wind about me, ignoring the cars on the street.
I turned my head to throw my voice in the direction of my mother. While I tried to yell something at her, I slowly veered towards the street, the direction I was looking. I hit it; that awful, uneven ledge in the sidewalk. My mom says I lost control and flew directly over the handle bars into traffic.
There I lay in the street.
Over my head bowed the hissing grill of a black Ford Explorer. The sticky tar glued my elbow and chin to the sweltering asphalt. My hip was continuously stinging, like the stun of a fire alarm on unexpecting ears.
A gentle breeze filled the void in my right hand where the handle bar had been. If only my hand had been in hers..
One, single car door slammed. It was accompanied by two pairs of syncopated, pounding feet swarming to me. I was moved out of the street by familiar hands and laid down in the shade of an aged Aspen tree.
Above me was my mom. Kneeling over me, her tears fell on my face and merged with the tears streaming from my eyes. Her head was blocking the sun, and her hand cupped gently around mine.