Finding Grace by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-02-12T01:04:22+00:00

FORTY-FOUR

interstate 80–present

We’ve logged a hundred and fifty miles since we left the Gas ’n Go, and Grace seems pretty much okay. Her color is much better, and she’s livelier than before, even launching into commentary about things we pass on I-80. Maybe she really did have to take a shit. Personally, I get very cranky when I don’t have my morning constitutional. I smile to myself at the thought. That was my grandma’s phrase. Morning constitutional. I’ll make your breakfast as soon as I take my morning constitutional. When I was a kid, I had no idea what Grams was talking about, but I got the gist of it after a while.

Anyway, maybe that’s what was going on with Grace. Ten minutes in the bathroom did wonders for her. But I think I might be kidding myself. She did not look like a woman who needed to poop. She looked like a woman about to keel over.

Not to be insensitive, but the last thing I need on this trip is a dead mother.

“Oh, look at that, Lou,” she says.

She points at a passing SUV with a motorized wheelchair attached to the back. It looks pretty slick too, not that I know anything about wheelchairs. One of my customers at the bar and grill—Ollie McClintock—rides one, but his is a piece of crap. It’s always breaking down, and his wife ends up having to push him out of the place manually, and by then he’s good and drunk and more than a little cantankerous and hurls the most terrible insults at her.

“I think I’d like to get me one of those someday.”

I grin. “I can’t ever imagine you riding around on one of those, Grace.”

“Well, why not? A lot less effort than a bicycle, cheaper than a car ’cause you don’t have to buy gas. And you can mow down all those idiots waiting for samples at Costco.”

“That would be a plus,” I agree.

“I could have used one on the George Washington, that’s for sure.” I glance over at her. “I saw a couple of people riding them, and I’ll tell you, the cyclists and the pedestrians parted for them like they were Moses.”

“I’m guessing those people were handicapped, Grace. You’re not. You don’t need a wheelchair, motorized or not.”

She turns to me. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

“What?”

“That I’m not handicapped.”

I chuckle. “Being physically handicapped and mentally incompetent are two different things.”

“So, you’re saying I’m a nut but I’m in good shape.”

I shake my head but keep my eyes on the road. “I’m saying, you don’t need a motorized wheelchair.”

“I guess not,” she concedes. “Not yet, anyway.”

We settle into an amicable silence. I realize that Grace and I just had the longest conversation I can remember that wasn’t fraught with conflict, hostility, or derision—at least since I’ve been an adult. I don’t want to feel good about it—I don’t want to feel anything about it, but I do. I just had a nice and somewhat humorous conversation with my mother.

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