“Mom, I think I’m going to hitchhike to see Angela.”

This announcement caused my mother to sit up from the couch where she had been laying down. Most afternoons, she would “nap,” after absorbing copious amounts of alcohol earlier in the day. 

She sighed, lifted her eyes upward, and said, “Don’t tell your dad.” After which, she lay back down and resumed her peaceful slumber. My mom’s drinking didn’t bother me so much. She usually just slurred her words and slept a lot. My dad was a different story. 

I was on summer break after my first year in college at Indiana University. I had met Angela on Spring Break in Daytona Beach, and after sharing a couple of sunrises, we had decided that we were in love. Even though she lived in Pawtucket, Rhode Island, and I returned home to Booneville, Indiana, we had pledged to keep the flame burning. This was long before there was internet and even cell phones. Our conflagration consisted of late-night phone calls and occasional letters. 

One Last Letter to My Amor

The 4th of July was just three weeks away, and I thought it noble to spend the 200th birthday of the country in one of the original colonies, and if Angela was there, all the better. 

I checked my bank account, which was secretly stashed in my sock drawer, and discovered that I had $79. I did some quick math in my head and discovered that I could easily get to my destination and still have money left over. I packed my suitcase, found my army coat, dropped one last letter to my amor in the mail, and set out. I hoped my mom would tell my dad because I certainly wasn’t going to.

As I was opening the sliding door, my mom roused again from her sleep. “Where you going, sweetheart?” she asked. 

“Heading out to the East Coast,” I said casually.

“Hitchhiking, son? Are you sure?”

“Yup, leaving now.”

“Let me give you a ride to the freeway.” 

I stood there for a moment and thought it through. She could save me from two hours of walking. She was probably sober enough to make the trip. 

“That would be great, ma,” I said. 

On the way to Highway 41, she was surprisingly engaged. We spoke of my sister, the bar my dad owned, and how college was treating me. When we arrived at my departure, she reached into her purse and pulled out two twenty dollar bills.

She handed them to me and said, “I love you son,” in a tone of voice that I understood that what she was really saying was, “I’ve messed up and I’m sorry. I wish I was a better mother.”

It was just a few years later that she took steps to deal not just with her drinking but with her life in general. But that’s a different story for another time…

“Love you too, mom,”

I said, reaching over and hugging her. “I’ll let you know when I get there.”

As the blue Ford station wagon pulled away, I was standing on the side of the road. I don’t think I was expecting much of anything except seeing Angela. 

Boy, was I wrong.