Off Her Rocker. Jennifer Archer
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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.
CHAPTER 7
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.
“It’s open,” Troy yells.
Turning the knob, I push in.
He sits on the bed playing a video game, a beer can propped on one thigh, his back to the door. A girl with henna-red hair sits on the bed, too, facing him, her legs crossed beneath her, an open magazine in her lap and a beer between her knees. She wears pajama pants and a T-shirt, no bra. The girl glances up and straight at me. Her eyes widen, but before she can say anything, Troy crushes his can and blurts, “What took you so long, dickhead? We’re out of brews.” He tosses the can onto the clothes-strewn floor and turns, his face falling when he sees me. “Mom…”
He and the girl both scramble to their feet as, behind me, a male voice calls, “Logan, you bastard, you owe me. I almost got caught sneaking these in here.”
I look over my shoulder as a skinny, freckle-faced young man bursts into the room pulling a twelve-pack of Old Milwaukee from beneath his coat. When he spots me, he stops short, moving the pack of beer behind his back.
I return my attention to Troy. “I thought you were sick. Too sick to study, isn’t that what you said?”
“I am…sort of. I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Obviously.” I look at the girl. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”
“She’s—”
“Kate,” the girl says. Standing, she wades her way toward me through a sea of discarded clothing, wadded-up napkins and notebook paper, magazines, shoes and crumpled cans.
I shake the hand she extends, then turn to the boy at the door.
“I’m Bennie,” he says. With a sheepish expression, he transfers the twelve-pack from his right hand to his left so he can shake with me, too.
“I’m Dana Logan. Troy’s mother.” I glance back around in time to see Kate exchange a wide-eyed glance with Troy that clearly says, Shit! What are you going to do?
Aloud, she says, “We should, um, let the two of you talk.” Kate starts around me. “Come on, Bennie.”
“I’ll