Meanwhile in the back, the click click click of Mum trying to fasten her own belt is met – once Dad is safely secured – with sly comments from him because he certainly didn’t take that long, and never would. ‘Hang on, Todd, wait for Mum!’
With all our attention now focused on Mum, her stress levels rise and the challenge becomes insurmountable.
‘You got it yet, Nina?’ He teases her further by using her mother’s name. It is a truth universally acknowledged that an ageing woman in possession of a good ego must not be in wont of comparisons to her mother.
‘Oh shut up, darl! You took longer than me.’
‘Eh?’
‘YOU TOOK LONGER THAN ME!’ Mum screams, though not because she’s angry.
‘Bulls!’
‘You did, darl!’
‘Did I? Did I, darl?’
‘If you two keep going,’ I say, cutting their argument short, ‘there’ll be no road trip for either of you! It’ll be straight to Twilight Waters if you aren’t careful!’
For years, I’ve been threatening to pack my parents up and house them in an aged care facility. In our family, we call it Twilight Waters, an imaginary home. I don’t think I could ever follow through on my threat but I’ve also been known to insist that Mum get a one-way ticket to live with my brother Glen and his husband, James, in Canada. Dad, on the other hand, will move into the granny flat behind the Central Coast holiday home of my eldest brother Grant and his wife, Bec. Oh yes, I have it all very carefully planned out.
Like many of us, I don’t recall the exact moment I stopped being my parents’ child and began the role of parent to my more vulnerable mum and dad. I suppose it’s been a gradual role reversal, not some ‘wake up one morning in different bodies’ Hollywood switch movie. I’m the youngest of their three sons so I always assumed my brothers would step forward and take on parental management. But then, I hadn’t factored in Grant’s expertly feigned ‘bankrupt emotional intelligence’ or Glen chasing true love and running off to Canada. It’s as though he got out his ruler and measured the furthest point on the map from where Mum and Dad call home.
‘Toronto!’ I imagine him proclaiming triumphantly. ‘That ought to do it!’ Just in case, he then chose to live two hours north of the city in some rural backwater that, in winter, can only be accessed by treacherous, icy roads.
* * *
Who would have thought that it’d be the seatbelt challenge that would push me over the edge? The event reaches fever pitch when it appears that, today, Mum will remain entirely incapable of strapping herself in.
Despite my best efforts to remain calm at all times, I snap. ‘Oh, for goodness sake, how hard is it to plug in a seatbelt? Haven’t you had about fifty years of practice?’ I say, channelling an impatient primary school teacher.
‘Toddy, the buckle’s missing . . .’ Mum sheepishly pipes up.
I open my door, blood boiling, and stamp around to Mum’s side of the car, but then I suddenly realise I’ve accidentally left the buckle tucked under the seat when I laid it down to transport the latest goat from an animal shelter to our farm.
‘Why didn’t you tell me that twenty-three minutes ago?’ I mutter a few indecipherables under my breath. But let’s face it people, the scores are on the board and it’s Mum 1, Todd 0.
Five minutes later, I’ve made both Jeff and Mum exit the vehicle, lowered the back seat, retrieved the clasp from deep inside the crevice and got Mum set up properly. It would probably be easier if they invented seniors’ safety seats and made it my responsibility to buckle them in nice and tight.
Taking deep breaths, I walk back to the driver’s seat and gracefully lower myself in.
Bodies contorted into car seats? Check.
Seat belts miraculously fastened? Check.
Could we actually be ready to go? My fingers are wrapped around the key, breathtakingly close to ignition (and air-conditioning!).
‘Wait! My water!’ Dad cries from the passenger seat. ‘Did you remember my water, darl?’ he asks Mum.
‘No, I didn’t, darl!’ Mum says incredulously, as though he’s just asked if she’s ever flown a jumbo jet.
Dad’s face crinkles. ‘I’ll be back in a sec,’ he says.
I wish, I almost say aloud. My fingers drum on the steering wheel involuntarily.
When your kids are young, they come attached to a whole plethora of add-ons like toys, a change of clothes, safety blankies, teddy bears and carefully prepared snacks for any drive longer than twenty minutes.
As my parents have aged, I’ve noticed there’s a similar vibe. Their anxiety levels rise if they forget anything deemed essential for travel.
No matter how brief the drive, Dad will not leave home without his bottle of water. For as far back as anyone in the family can recall, ancient plastic bottles have been used, topped up again and again. The original product stickers are long lost, but the label residue remains. Should you ever reach for a bottle of water from their fridge, your hand will be glued to it just like magic. As well as the obligatory bottle of water, Dad must also take a snack as if he’s expecting the drive to induce hunger pains. For Mum it’s her precious mints. My parents are so well known for these travel accessories that, like a rideshare driver who provides a charge port and cold drink, when they’re missing you can’t help feeling a little disappointed. Drove with Jude and Pete today and they failed to supply mints and water. Disappointing. Three stars.
* * *
To exit the vehicle, Dad rocks himself backward and forward repeatedly, gradually building up momentum, muttering along with the effort. A one, and a two, and a three, and a four . . . and he’s sliding down the car doorway then he’s up on his feet!
He shuffles, millimetre by millimetre, towards the front door, then struggles with the keys. The smallest key is for the screen door, but it would appear he’s never once let himself inside his own home and doesn’t know that. Flabbergasted, I finally twist the key in the ignition to relieve the three of us who remain in this sweltering box from some of the late-December heat. Dad casts a disapproving glance at me over his right shoulder. He is running his own race, with very specific rules that require him to never lift his feet off the ground, never discern housekeys by instinct and he is not to be hurried.
I am immediately calmed by a blast of cool air (and the lingering scent of goat fur).
‘Him and his water,’ Mum says. ‘Honestly, sometimes . . .’
‘Well, you should have brought his water, shouldn’t you? Shouldn’t you, darl?’ I counter.
‘I’ll give him frigging water!’
‘You could have brought me a flask of tea, actually, Jude,’ Jeff helpfully suggests from beside her.
‘And a five-course picnic for everyone,’ Mum says, and throws in a little sigh.
