Shards

My mother was driving my sister and me out to her parents house. My grandparents lived 7 and a half miles from our house, but in another city. I would learn to time this drive because it would be a consistent part of my life, like periods would become and losing baby teeth, or bi-weekly pay checks. 

As we went over the Highway 84 bridge the sign showed the population of our city. It was 110,000. Today forty-five years later or so, it is 138,000. We would drive under the 1-35 corridor bridge and twaddle toward my grandparents house at 25 miles per hour.

One day momma stopped at the "filling station" to get gas at the half way point. I told her that I had to go to the bathroom. She said I could and my sister went with me. We were maybe about 6 and 7 years old. My sister is the youngest. I don't know why my brothers were not with us (they were 8 and 10). It was most often all four children with momma everywhere and all the time.

We enter this blue metal door on the side of the building that said "restroom" and it closes behind us. I use the restroom. My sister then takes her turn. We wash our hands and turn to exit this open space. I attempt to turn the handle of the door into the daylight, but the door would not open. I fiddle with the handle a bit to no avail. I turn to tell my sister that the door won't open. In her panicky way, she begins to get upset. The room was all painted teal blue cinder block. We weren't knocking through those walls.

My sister was a fretting sort. "But, Jenny!!!" "Oh no, Jenny!!" "What are we going to do, Jenny!" She will argue that she isn't, but I was there. I was "In the Rooms where IT happened." I tell her we will just bang on the door and someone will hear us and open the door. So, we commence to bang and kick the big metal blue door. Perhaps five minutes went by and still not rescue. (My sister will tell you I was panicky too-- but that was just with insects, and she did not rescue me. She would just stare oddly as I freaked out hysterically).

Surely, my mother would be looking for us by now, we thought. But what we would come to realize over time was that my mother was an entertainer, and nothing was going to tear her away from being the show if there was a stage for her show available. That means any human being in ear shoot was going to be trapped for a minute as she tells jokes and spins yarns and say how great she is.

So we resign to sit on the sticky bathroom cement floor;- you know the ones where the painted concrete is starting to peel away. We put our heads in the palm of our hands and our elbows on our knees and began to sulk. We kinda knew it would be a while, but it was a long while in a child's mind. So, we bang again and again. We yell, "Maaaaammmaaaaaaaa!!!" We yell to the top of our voices and still nothing.

My sister by this time is getting more upset. I look around the bathroom and notice a small window to the right of the sink. I figured if I could get it open, our yells and screams might be heard, and my sister would calm down. I shimmy up to the window. I must of had to stand on the sink to get to it. The window had no latch to open it. I tell my sister that it won't open. Her face twisted in panic. I hated to see her panic. She always unnerved me when she would get stunned by some out of the blue crisis. Her voice would pitch higher, she would start hyperventilating, her eyes would squint and start to tear. Jeezzzz.

I was more laid back in situations like these. I mean for me, I figured someone would have to eventually need to pee. Momma would eventually have to leave the "filling station" cashier alone so he could work. At some point something would have to give. But my sister would become so overcome with grief that I was oft times than not compelled to rescue this damsel in distress. 

So what do I do? I stand up. I mount the sink. I give in to her need to be immediately freed and use the palm of my hand to smash through this 4 inch by 4 inch window. I begin to yell for my mother over and over again. Finally she heard our cries. Finally she lifted us to freedom from the stall. I told momma something was wrong with the door. I told momma it locked on us and we couldn't get it open from the inside. I told momma somebody needs to tell someone to fix that door on the inside. Momma told me to get in the car as if being trapped in the bathroom was an act of competition for attention. She drove on to her parents.

Momma didn't like for anything or anyone to draw attention to her but herself and on her terms. So, I knew she was miffed by our entrapment and the attention it stirred. I sat in the back seat holding my left hand. I had just noticed that it was riddled with shards of glass. I attempted to keep this to myself, but I looked over to my sister and noticed that she was locked in on my hand.

Once at Papal's and Mamal's I figured I'd go to their bathroom and run my hand under the water and start my strategic removal of the tiny shards of glass I received from breaking the tiny window. The shards stung, but didn't cause that much pain. Looking down privately I knew I could work these shards out. 

Low and behold I hear this little voice peep up, "Momma, Jenny got glass in her hand." If I were 30 or 40 years old at the time I would have told her to mind her own business about my hand. But being only 8, I just swelled up with anger about her drawing attention to my condition. The last thing I wanted was a lecture from an irresponsible adult-child parent, to be outed by a whining panicky over-reactive child, or to be berated by an overbearing and bossy grandmother.  But that was just what I got.