our acquaintance I began to understand where Jack got his penchant for driving at breakneck speeds down narrow, tourist-filled streets. I clutched at the door handle with my left hand and braced my right on the headrest of the driver’s seat in front of me.
Nola kept her gaze focused outside her window, apparently oblivious to everything except her own thoughts. My mother didn’t seem to notice as she and Amelia chatted away as if driving like a Formula 1 driver through the streets of Charleston were an everyday occurrence. The radio was set at a very low volume to an oldies station. I thought I recognized the song they were playing but couldn’t hear it clearly enough to know for sure. Hoping that music might distract me from the knowledge that I was most likely hurtling toward certain death in a car driven by a woman I’d never have thought had homicidal tendencies, I tapped my mother on the shoulder.
“Can you turn up the radio, please?”
Without pausing in her conversation, she reached over to the volume control and turned it up. I relaxed somewhat against the cream leather upholstery as I recognized the familiar strains of ABBA’s “The Winner Takes It All.” Closing my eyes, I began to sing quietly to myself about a heartbroken lover who’s desperate enough to ask her ex if his new lover kisses like she did. My eyes jerked open as I realized what I was singing aloud, and found Nola staring closely at me with Jack’s blue eyes.
“Do you know who sings that song?” she asked.
Smugly, I said, “Of course. ABBA.”
“Great. Let’s keep it that way.” She sat back in her seat and pretended to stick her finger down her throat. “As if listening to ABBA wasn’t nauseating enough to begin with.” She leaned forward and tapped her grandmother on the shoulder. “Can you change the station, please? I think I’m getting carsick.”
Without a pause in the conversation, Amelia switched the channel to an alternative rock station where they were playing the recent hit of a new and up-and-coming star, Jimmy Gordon. He had more of a bluesy sound than a rock sound, but his voice dripped honey, and he wasn’t too hard on the eyes, either. The song “I’m Just Getting Started” was haunting and melodic, with just enough of a beat to give it airtime on more mainstream stations.
I turned to Nola to ask her what she thought of the song, but stopped in midsentence. Her skin was even paler than usual, her fingers like claws digging into the tops of her thighs through the striped tights.
“Are you all right?” I asked, wondering whether she’d been serious about being carsick.
“Change the station,” she said with a strangled voice, but loud enough for both women in the front seat to hear. My mother turned her head to ask why, but when she caught sight of Nola’s expression, she reached over and pushed a button. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Nola sat back, her face cold and immobile. “I hate that song. And I hate Jimmy Gordon.”
“I don’t think he’s that bad. I actually like him—” I began.
Nola cut me off. “I’ve met him. And I don’t like him.”
The icy tone of Nola’s voice must have captured Amelia’s attention. “Who’s Jimmy Gordon?” she asked, looking at us in the rearview mirror.
Nola stared out her window, her shoulders curved into a perfect letter “C” as if to shut out even the light, effectively letting us know that the conversation was over.
“Apparently not one of Nola’s favorite recording stars,” I said. “Why don’t you turn the radio off? We’re almost there anyway.”
With a frown in my direction, my mother shut off the radio without question. I wondered if she’d have been so understanding with me at that age, or if all the absent years and the separation of a generation was all that was needed to bridge the mother-daughter abyss. If I ever had children—which was highly doubtful, seeing as how I was thirty-nine and perpetually single—I
Nola kept her gaze focused outside her window, apparently oblivious to everything except her own thoughts. My mother didn’t seem to notice as she and Amelia chatted away as if driving like a Formula 1 driver through the streets of Charleston were an everyday occurrence. The radio was set at a very low volume to an oldies station. I thought I recognized the song they were playing but couldn’t hear it clearly enough to know for sure. Hoping that music might distract me from the knowledge that I was most likely hurtling toward certain death in a car driven by a woman I’d never have thought had homicidal tendencies, I tapped my mother on the shoulder.
“Can you turn up the radio, please?”
Without pausing in her conversation, she reached over to the volume control and turned it up. I relaxed somewhat against the cream leather upholstery as I recognized the familiar strains of ABBA’s “The Winner Takes It All.” Closing my eyes, I began to sing quietly to myself about a heartbroken lover who’s desperate enough to ask her ex if his new lover kisses like she did. My eyes jerked open as I realized what I was singing aloud, and found Nola staring closely at me with Jack’s blue eyes.
“Do you know who sings that song?” she asked.
Smugly, I said, “Of course. ABBA.”
“Great. Let’s keep it that way.” She sat back in her seat and pretended to stick her finger down her throat. “As if listening to ABBA wasn’t nauseating enough to begin with.” She leaned forward and tapped her grandmother on the shoulder. “Can you change the station, please? I think I’m getting carsick.”
Without a pause in the conversation, Amelia switched the channel to an alternative rock station where they were playing the recent hit of a new and up-and-coming star, Jimmy Gordon. He had more of a bluesy sound than a rock sound, but his voice dripped honey, and he wasn’t too hard on the eyes, either. The song “I’m Just Getting Started” was haunting and melodic, with just enough of a beat to give it airtime on more mainstream stations.
I turned to Nola to ask her what she thought of the song, but stopped in midsentence. Her skin was even paler than usual, her fingers like claws digging into the tops of her thighs through the striped tights.
“Are you all right?” I asked, wondering whether she’d been serious about being carsick.
“Change the station,” she said with a strangled voice, but loud enough for both women in the front seat to hear. My mother turned her head to ask why, but when she caught sight of Nola’s expression, she reached over and pushed a button. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Nola sat back, her face cold and immobile. “I hate that song. And I hate Jimmy Gordon.”
“I don’t think he’s that bad. I actually like him—” I began.
Nola cut me off. “I’ve met him. And I don’t like him.”
The icy tone of Nola’s voice must have captured Amelia’s attention. “Who’s Jimmy Gordon?” she asked, looking at us in the rearview mirror.
Nola stared out her window, her shoulders curved into a perfect letter “C” as if to shut out even the light, effectively letting us know that the conversation was over.
“Apparently not one of Nola’s favorite recording stars,” I said. “Why don’t you turn the radio off? We’re almost there anyway.”
With a frown in my direction, my mother shut off the radio without question. I wondered if she’d have been so understanding with me at that age, or if all the absent years and the separation of a generation was all that was needed to bridge the mother-daughter abyss. If I ever had children—which was highly doubtful, seeing as how I was thirty-nine and perpetually single—I
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