Date: 2005-01-06
Miles today: 0.0

My mother has told me more than a few times that I am categorically forbidden to write any sort of memoir until she has been dead at least a year. She may regard this entry, therefore, as grounds for disownment. Consequently, I am banking on two factors to save me: 1. Most of the rest of this journal will not be about her; thus, she may be able to overlook the minor indignity of one or two prep entries.2. I am hoping to be safely out of state by the time she reads it.I bring home my new pack tonight. I show it to my parents. My father looks at me a long moment. ¢I guess you¢re really going to do this thing, huh?¢ he says.I grin. ¢Did you think I wasn¢t?¢He thinks for a moment. ¢No,¢ he says. ¢I thought you would.¢¢You¢ve had ample warning this time,¢ I say. ¢No bombshell. No doctor¢s office.¢ I am referring to my extremely-late-in-the-semester decision two years earlier to study abroad. I made up my mind to go only two weeks before the application deadline, and was so busy running around filling out forms and writing essays that I decided I would tell my parents and field their reactions only after I¢d finished all the paperwork. I didn¢t even know whether I¢d be accepted to the program, and I didn¢t want to jump through the hoops of reassuring them unless and until necessary. Which would have worked out fine had the doctor¢s office not called them the day before I¢d been planning to break the news, to verify my appointment for vaccinations against typhoid, dengue, and yellow fever. Oops. I came back from the gym to find a message waiting for me on the answering machine: ¢This is your father¢¦.The doctor¢s office just called¢¦about your¢¦travel vaccinations¢¦for when you go to Africa¢¦.Please call home AS SOON AS you get this message¢¦.¢¢Actually, it wasn¢t even all that shocking. By that point,¢ he says, like one who has been beaten down but remains philosophical, ¢very little you did could surprise me anymore.¢ ¢Dad,¢ I say, touched. ¢I¢ve broken you in.¢ He smiles wanly.¢You were pretty good when I went to Africa,¢ I concede. ¢I was afraid you¢d freak out. Well, mostly I was afraid Mom would freak out. But you were pretty good.¢¢I didn¢t freak out,¢ my mother objects.¢No,¢ I say, ¢you mostly didn¢t. Except for two weeks before I left when you said, Jessica, I have only one question: do you have a death wish.¢¢I don¢t think I said that,¢ she says.¢Ohhhh no,¢ I say, ¢you MOST DEFINITELY said that. Trust me. One does not forget one¢s mother asking one if one has a death wish.¢¢I remember that,¢ my father volunteers.¢Rick, you stay out of it,¢ says my mother. He laughs.¢Besides,¢ I say. ¢It¢s in my journal. I wrote it down. I have proof.¢¢Pfft,¢ she says, ¢your JOURNAL. I want to see that journal. You make up half the stuff you put in it.¢¢Not true,¢ I say. ¢And you¢ve never read it anyway.¢¢That didn¢t qualify as freaking out?¢ asks my father, who, as usual, is about five sentences back in the conversation.Sam pops his head out of the kitchen doorway, waving a frozen burrito. ¢Hi, Sis,¢ he says to the burrito.¢That¢s a BURRITO, not an ENCHILADA,¢ I say witheringly. ¢It¢s still prettier than you,¢ he says. ¢Listen,¢ I start. My mother cuts me off.¢Sam,¢ she says. ¢Did you find that missing Spanish worksheet yet?¢There is a pause. Sam¢s eyes flicker back and forth between me and my mother. I am Fight. She is Flight. You can see the longing and the fear battling in his eyes. Fear wins. He mutters something unintelligible and disappears into the kitchen.¢You need to find that worksheet!¢ she calls after him. ¢I mean it!¢ There is silence, and the clatter of a colander in the kitchen sink. When in doubt, make spaghetti, is Sam¢s M.O. ¢I want you to take a GPS,¢ my mother says, turning to me. ¢I want to trace you while you¢re gone.¢¢I¢ll be keeping an online journal,¢ I say. ¢You can follow along.¢¢No,¢ she says. ¢I want to watch you be a moving dot on a map.¢¢Good luck,¢ I say.¢So you don¢t want the GPS for her,¢ my father offers. ¢You want it for you.¢¢That¢s right,¢ she says positively. She pokes my bicep. ¢I want to implant a chip in your arm.¢ ¢Good luck,¢ I say again. ¢You didn¢t act like this when I went to a third world country. I¢m not even leaving the country this time, and you¢re flipping out on me?¢¢I think people were nicer over there,¢ she says.¢Nicer than what?¢ I say.¢Nicer than the people who will attack you.¢ ¢What people?¢ ¢The people. I read about them.¢¢You read about them?¢¢Shut up. Yes. In California. They mugged all those hikers. Single women.¢¢I¢m not going to be in California. In fact, I¢m going to be about as far from California as it is possible to get and still be in this country. Anyway, you can¢t generalize based on a single incident.¢¢I don¢t care. There¢s crazy people everywhere.¢¢I know,¢ I say. ¢That¢s my point.¢My father is watching with a glint of extreme amusement in his eye.¢It¢s dangerous out there!¢ she says. ¢You¢re going to get attacked!¢¢Actually,¢ I say, ¢the crime rate on the trail is much lower than the crime rate in any major U.S. city.¢¢I think she¢s probably right,¢ says my father.¢You be quiet,¢ says my mother, waving a hand. ¢Maybe in a city alone at night. But not during the daytime.¢¢Even in the daytime,¢ I say, ¢the crime rate is still lower than in any major U.S. city.¢¢I think she¢s probably right,¢ says my father again.¢I told you to be quiet,¢ she says, pointing a finger this time. ¢You have no idea. Every single person I tell what you¢re doing, they say, Oh my god, she¢s going ALONE?¢¢They don¢t know anything about the trail either,¢ I say. ¢They have a vague concept of someone going into the middle of nowhere, completely cut off from all human contact, for a million years. They have no idea what the realities of the trail subculture and community are, or how social a trail it is.¢ ¢I don¢t care about all your facts!¢ she says, throwing her shoulders back with the passionate zeal of a fascist, or a member of Heaven¢s Gate. ¢I don¢t care about the truth! It won¢t change my opinion!¢ ¢Well,¢ I say. ¢As long as we¢ve got that clear.¢ My father guffaws. My mother starts laughing, too, though she makes a valiant effort to plaster a frown onto her laughter. It is a largely unsuccessful effort.¢I am GOING to worry,¢ she says, glaring, then snorting. ¢Got it?¢¢Got it,¢ I say. ¢I bought a new headlamp today, too. Wanna see it?¢¢Yes,¢ she says. ¢I want to see all new camping gear.¢ I pull out the headlamp and put it on. It¢s a Petzl Zipka Plus, with a retractable cord instead of a strap. I bought it to replace my old, huge, battery-guzzling, incandescent lamp. ¢Ooh,¢ my mother says, ¢you look like a person from that movie.¢¢That¢s not very much to go on,¢ I say.¢What¢s the movie where they walk through a fence or something to another planet?¢ she asks.¢Stargate?¢ I say, incredulous.¢Yes!¢ she says, gesturing. ¢You look like one of the aliens. With a jewel on your forehead, or a, or a -¢¢Growth?¢¢Yeah,¢ she says, ¢a growth.¢¢You¢ve seen headlamps before,¢ I say. ¢This one¢s different,¢ she says. ¢Without the strap. And with your hair all down and flat like that. Definitely an alien.¢¢Thanks,¢ I say.¢You¢re feisty tonight,¢ she says. ¢All full of factoids. All argue argue argue.¢¢I come from ornery stock,¢ I say. ¢Present company withstanding.¢ Which is, in fact, both evidently and historically true. One of my mother¢s ancestors was kicked out of Plymouth for being unpuritanical, somewhat cantankerous, and a bit of a lush. (He moved to Cape Cod, and continued to drink in uninterrupted bliss.) One of my father¢s ancestors was put in the stocks down in Jamestown for disturbing the peace.¢That you do, my girl,¢ she says, clapping me on the shoulder the way baseball players congratulate each other after a game. ¢That you do.¢