Chapter Twelve Rosalynn
Chapter Twelve
Rosalynn
Rosalynn hated crying uncle, but her body was done for the day.
As much as she wanted to make it to their hotel, or even to her mother’s house without stopping, the detours had put them behind schedule.
They were only a little past the halfway point—High Point, to be precise—and the sun was beginning to set.
Even with her mom driving now, Rosalynn just couldn’t tough it out any longer.
Maybe it was lack of sleep, or stress, or the combination of both, but she was more than simply depleted, with the neuropathy pain burning along her legs, firing nerves in a pins and needles sensation.
She knew from experience if she didn’t rest soon, the stinging would become excruciating.
Frustration fired just as hotly.
From the passenger seat, she studied Google Maps, searching for the best path forward when it felt like most of the journey had been detour upon detour, while trying to stick to major roads in case they had car trouble.
Had it not been for the evacuation traffic, they could have already made it to the hospice facility outside DC.
Rosalynn stifled a wince while sneaking a glance at her mother behind the wheel.
Lillian hummed along to tunes from her playlist of classics, currently rocking out to Paula Abdul’s “Straight Up.” She would have expected her mom to be more of a “Wind Beneath My Wings” sort based on all her song choices when she’d toted Rosalynn to so many appointments as a teen.
Could Lillian have selected inspirational tunes back then for Rosalynn’s sake?
Or had her mom needed that inspiration for herself during those difficult days?
Food for thought, and heaven knew there was plenty of thinking time today.
The weather had eased, if not the traffic.
Apparently, the other evacuees heading north had the same thoughts on skirting west rather than driving up the coastline.
Then others, like Seth, had gone in a whole different direction. He’d made it to Biloxi in record time, according to Elsie. She’d said he was already at the pool with a burger. Rosalynn suspected he might have meant at the pool table for a game. His betting wasn’t exclusive to cards or slots.
Was failing in marriage genetic? Or even learned behavior?
Her parents’ marriage had certainly been fiery.
She couldn’t recall many happy couple moments from them before her accident and certainly not in the year following all the way up to their divorce, although they had been more careful to keep their voices lowered.
What memories would Elsie have from growing up? Would she remember family trips to Congaree National Park? Or would all the good be eclipsed by a father who drained her college fund to feed his addiction?
Rosalynn flipped her sun visor down, using the mirror to see Elsie in the back. “How are you and Dusty doing?”
Elsie glanced up from her phone. “Better now that it’s stopped raining and I can crack the window.”
“Good to hear,” Rosalynn said, searching for a way to engage her daughter. “You should write one of your poems about our evacuation experience and set it to music.”
Lillian lifted a hand. “Maybe even a protest poem about our experience battling the traffic. Tell about the people having their manners peeled away by exhaustion and worry. Or obstacles others face, especially those with less money, who have fewer options to leave.”
Elsie slouched lower in her seat. “I’m not a poet. Or a bigwig legal advocate. I’ll leave that to you, Grammie.”
Sighing, Rosalynn pursed her lips in frustration. Leave it to her mom to steer the way Elsie should express herself rather than just letting her own voice shine through. She wanted to tell her kid that living with Lillian wouldn’t be the picnic full of freedom she seemed to expect.
Rosalynn tried again. “I’m not looking for perfection. Just you, speaking—or singing—about your experience.”
Silence stretched in the van, broken only by revving engines and the occasional honked horn.
“Oh well,” Lillian said. “Isn’t there already a song called ‘Hurricane’ by Bob Dylan? That fits better with the hurricane being a metaphor for injustice.”
And just like that, Rosalynn thought of how to lighten the mood, to create a memory, springboarding off one of her own.
Hopefully, it would also distract her from the increasing pain in her legs.
“Remember how Dad used to play that word game with song titles? Elsie, it went like this. Name a song, then find another tune with one word that’s the same. ”
Lillian smiled. “I’d forgotten about that. I’ll start by spinning off Bob Dylan’s ‘Hurricane’ by choosing ‘Rock You Like a Hurricane’ by the Scorpions.”
“Wow, Mom,” Rosalynn said, applauding. “That was a surprise. How about ‘We Will Rock You’ by Queen.”
Lillian added, “‘I Love Rock ’n Roll’ by Joan Jett.”
Already the mood lifted. Perhaps that had been her father’s goal during those tense times. Rosalynn chewed her bottom lip, then snapped her fingers. “‘I Will Always Love You’ by Dolly Parton or Whitney Houston, take your pick.”
Lillian’s smile dimmed for a moment. “‘Will You Love Me Tomorrow’ by the Shirelles.”
“Ohhh.” Rosalynn danced her hands through the air, singing the title. “‘The Power of Love’ by Huey Lewis and the News.”
Elsie groaned from the back. “Huey Lewis and the what? I’ve never even heard of half of these.”
Rosalynn clapped a hand to her chest in horror. “Clearly, we need to improve your music education. I should have done better as an arts director.”
Lillian nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll stick closer to your era . . . So, playing off the word ‘love’ from the last title, how about ‘Love Story’? Or better yet, ‘Lover’—those are songs by Taylor Swift, right? Did I ever tell you about the time—”
“Ewww.” Elsie gagged, flopping to the side but unable to hide her smile. “Stop. Please.”
Laughter swirled through the van, like a spring breeze. A welcome relief after so long dodging the land mines of Elsie’s moods since the divorce became final.
A Taylor Swift song drifted over the speakers, “Shake It Off,” and Lillian cranked the volume until all three of them were dancing in their seats.
Rosalynn welcomed the distraction from the pain, shaking away the stress of the day and whatever else weighed each of them down.
Three generations of women connected through the joy as one Taylor Swift song segued into another.
Rosalynn had missed moments like these with her daughter, and with her mother too, for that matter.
The lilt of the mood came as close to soaring across a stage as she’d felt since her accident.
Could times like this be enough to persuade Elsie to stay? To remind her that they were a family who loved each other even through the rough patches? Rosalynn wanted her daughter to see how hard she was trying during a painful transition. But it was just that. A transition to a new beginning.
The music swelled, and Dusty’s tail thumped a percussive beat. Lillian swayed as she inched the van forward in the bumper-to-bumper traffic. Then tapped the brakes. Accelerated. Stopped. Almost as if the rhythm of the traffic matched the song.
Advanced.
Then jolted.
Hard.
Rosalynn’s arms shot out and she bit her tongue. Bags and gear slid forward along the floorboards. The blast of horns echoed outside while Lillian gasped and Elsie squeaked in surprise behind her. The ballerina charm on the rearview mirror spun and the music played on as the realization settled.
Their van had been rear-ended.