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As I slowly back out of my parents' driveway (after ostentatiously making a show of double-checking seatbelts and adjusting mirrors because I know they're watching), I tell the girls to "Wave!" and we vigorously waggle our arms and blow big sloppy kisses as we head down their quiet street and turn towards the direction of the interstate. I pause right before we round the corner, staring into the rearview mirror at the two small white-haired figures standing next to each other, smiling and waving back at us. I will myself to remember this, to freeze this picture in my mind like a photograph that I'll download onto my laptop when I get home. Right before I look away, I watch them drop their arms to their sides and start walking, carefully holding each other's hand, back into their house.
I can't quite see Mom's face now, but I don't have to; I know the expression on it by heart and I can read it in the way her body kind of droops slightly before she squares her shoulders and follows Daddy back inside. I know how to read that familiar gesture, it speaks volumes to me. It's saying that goodbyes make her sad, that the house is going to be too quiet (well yeah, I bring two kids and three dogs into it when we visit), and that she isn't really going to totally relax until she gets a phone call from me 7 hours from now saying that we have arrived back home in Tennessee, safe and sound. There's a tinge of regret I think I can read there too, because it's in her nature to regret-- she'll be momentarily re-thinking things she may have said, and things she didn't. She'll be wondering whether or not we ate enough breakfast to hold us, and wishing she had poked a little more fresh fruit down Charlotte, who "needs it." She always gives me her standard goodbye which consists of taking my face into her two hands, peering intently into my eyes while warning me 'not to push myself too hard', and then whispering into my ear while kissing my cheek, "I love to see you come, but I hate to see you go!" Now she'll go back into the house, make one more sweep of the place looking under beds and in drawers to make sure we didn't leave anything (we always do) before she strips the beds and starts the laundry. That will keep her busy for a while. Mama stoically accepts that missing us is just part of the package, that it goes hand in hand with the pleasure of the visit. But it's the part she hates.
Daddy, as always, is less complicated but just as sincere. His smiling goodbye includes a hug and kiss while he claps me on the back and says, "Ok, baby girl." He's already visually inspected the car as I was loading it, noting the tire pressure, asking about the gas mileage and whether or not I had filled it up because if I hadn't, he knows the station that currently has the lowest prices. And then he gives me directions, though I already know where it is. He points out that I have a scratch near my front bumper, and says that they have these little bottles of paint at WalMart in the auto section that can touch that up, no problem. He picks up the dog beds that I have dropped on the driveway beside the car and holds them for me, waiting until I finish placing the suitcases in the trunk and work things around to make room for them. We both know that if he doesn't at least look like he's loading the car too, Mama will scold him-- "Don, help her!" The fact that he is 92 and has had two heart attacks does not in any way change the image in her mind of the right thing to do when their daughter is lugging something heavy-- hello, he's supposed to pick it up and carry it for me. Daddy and I exchange conspiratorial looks as he hands me the dog beds and then picks up something else to hold. We've got this down to a science.
I drive down the service road and merge into the busy noon traffic. It's a little drizzly, but the morning weather report said it won't really rain until evening, so we'll probably have an easy drive. I've got enough gas to get
