HAIL MARY IN THE CAR PARK
When I enter a car and my mom sits in the driver’s seat, I can already pray my first Pater Noster. Being together in this tight space feels like going inside a confessional. Instead of folding hands, we strap on our seatbelts. We talk about college or family members, and if we have no one’s business to discuss, we stay silent. The radio is always off because it distracts her from the road. The silence is real—an all-consuming and uncomfortable silence. Wanting to escape that awkwardness, I pull my knees up to my chest, creating an even smaller space in this goddamned vehicle. She asks me to remove my shoes before I dirty the car cushions and now, I have my guard up. When there is one person on this earth and on this freeway who knows how to lure me out of my vow of silence, it is my own mother. And then she goes for it. Asking the first question, leaving me no choice but to answer. And it’s harmless. It always is. She’s not manipulating me or forcing me to say things I don’t want to reveal to her. But she is aware of my weaknesses. There is no inner restraint in my body, or at least not enough of it. No force will be able to stop me from spilling my soul out.
The conversation changes topics quickly. We talk about my studies, her birthday, where my cousin spends his vacation. About the things my friends do when they are drunk, the way some of it really hurts me. About the date my sister went on, comparing notes on whether he is good for her or not. Both of us sweating under our judge wigs. We speak of my grandma’s sickness, the way her face slowly turns yellow. I try to explain why there is this great numbness. There is no understanding in her words but also no harm. We talk about pregnancy and if she ever regretted having kids, or at least some of them. If she regrets having me. I confess that I’m scared of never finding love, loving, having to share intimacy. I remember her explaining to me how babies are made in this car when I was in third grade. But she never explained if I should be scared. Of any of it.
She recites something from a recently read book. It made her think of me. I take offense in that. I take offense that she is right. I take offense that she doesn’t also think about herself. There are two scared women in this car. But one of us is the bravest person I will ever know. The other one is too anxious to tell her that I hate living alone. I’m the happy one; she’s the realistic one. The people’s anger is an easier topic, at least so I thought. I try to articulate how it is also her anger. How I don’t want to pick a side. There is no need to choose between anyone, she tells me. We both know I would always pick her. We graze different problems of mine; some of them I can escape. Today I won’t have to ask her if she would love me more if I was skinnier, looked more like her. Or less. I don’t have to admit that I don’t like my body, and I will never know if it is because of her. Today, there is no need for me to change the subject when she asks how I havebeen handling the stress. She hasn’t caught me in a weak moment. I don’t tell her how my period remains yet to come back. How my dreams are haunted by myself from yesterday. How my friends keep asking for ways to help me, but I don’t even know what could possibly help. Because we don’t ask for help. The easiest form of self-flagellation.
My mother always takes on the role of the priest for me. But when I ask her about her childhood, how stern my grandfather has been, about her old love letters I found in a random drawer while searching for scissors, trying to find out if she has had any more headaches, a plague we share, I know the seats can be switched. Even without having a driver’s license myself. So, in the end, when the car comes to a halt, we both slam the doors shut and leave God in the backseat.
M. Singer, 20, Leipzig - Germany ✯
“M. is currently trying her best to fill all the voids with studies of art history and cultural sciences, expressing herself in various ways and using an excessive amount of red hair dye.”