Treat

I don't remember how old I was, just that I was small.  It was just me and mom-dad was gone for the summer. It was hot and mom had been drinking. I don't remember what kind of glass she used, like I can with my first boss--he used a coffee cup for his wine. But I can tell you how it smelled. How her words slurred when she drank it. She either got sleepy or giggly. I don't think she knew I knew and it would be hard to tell if you didn't. But I knew.  Burgundy wine in a jug by Carlo Rossi-- hidden under the bed, next to the couch, on the window sill behind the fridge.

I liked getting treats so when she asked me if I wanted to go get one, I leapt at the chance. We got into her giant '76 Catalina and headed to the local Dairy Queen. It's funny, what you remember. The smell of the restaurant-fries and something sweet-sticky floors and crowded booths. Hot summer night. No, evening-there was still light in the sky. A feeling of excitement-almost as though we breaking the rules a little bit and I suppose we were.

She paid for our ice cream and we headed back out the car. I remember my flip flops on the sidewalk-a cheap pair with an uncomfortable plastic piece between my toes. They were wearing thin and I could feel the tiny pebbles in the gravel of the parking lot. Balancing my ice cream carefully, I pulled open the car door and slid into the front seat. The window was down and as we headed back to the house, the wind carried my hair outside and into the summer air.  I held my plastic red spoon with the little swirled cone on the end, waiting patiently to get back home so I could eat my treat.

I wasn't really paying attention but it seemed like all of a sudden the cars on the side of the road were very close to me. And soon, they were closer still. We hit the parked car, crunching the passenger side fender to the wheel. Mom quickly corrected our car and then pulled into a nearby parking lot so she could find the owner. Before I could process what happened, she was ordering me out of the car. She made me leave my ice cream on the dash.

Holding her hand, I went with her into the store the car was parked in front of and watched adults talk. I wasn't hurt at all. I was bored and I wanted my treat.

After the adults were done, we went back to the car. I was excited to get home, to eat my ice cream. I climbed into the car and noticed right away it was gone. Someone had stolen my treat. They'd reached in the open windows and taken it from the dashboard.

That's when I cried. Not because of the accident, or because I was hurt. Because my ice cream was gone.

It wasn't until years later that it even clicked with me that mom had been drinking when she hit the car. I was so young that I barely remembered it being wrecked. It seemed like one day there was a big hole in the car, the next day it was fine.

Time doesn't mean the same when you're a child.

I enjoy treats now quickly. as much as I can--it's part of why I'm not a thin person. I don't know if this particular circumstance made me such a fan of instant gratification but the other day I told this story and knew I needed to write about it. I started writing it two days ago and couldn't figure out how I wanted to end it. I just skimmed it--didn't even edit so there are probably some bumps to the flow of my words but I'm done writing about that summer night.

I don't need the treat.