At noon I went outside to go to the gym and nearly slid down the driveway. The little angel was still at school: Images of her getting off the bus, taking two running steps and cracking her noggin open on the street immediately flashed in my head.
I am paranoid about falls on ice.
I told myself if the number for the school was in my phone's contacts, I would call. If it wasn't, I'd take it as a sign from God to quit being so overprotective.
It was there.
Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you.
First I asked if there was an early release. Kansas City's been prepping for a storm that hasn't fully arrived yet, though as I look out my window this morning, I see tiny, powder flakes billowing this way and that as gusts of wind buffet them off my roof.
"No," said the school secretary, clearly annoyed.
"Okay, I'm going to come pick my daughter up after school, then," I said, and she made some notes, her keys clacking loudly in my ear.
I got home from the gym, set an Outlook reminder, and felt good.
Until the school called at 4:15 to ask why I hadn't come to pick my daughter up when school released at 3:55.
I looked down at the reminder, which had just gone off an hour too late. Not 4:15, 3:15. It should've been set for 3:15.
Her school bus passed me as I whipped down the streets, which weren't as slick as they were at noon. A small boy leaped off the bus without busting his skull and went dancing and hopping across the pavement with no harm to his person, as though to taunt me for my stupidity. When I arrived at school I was greeted by the principal, who clucked at me, joking and not joking. The little angel peered at me from beneath her stocking cap, relief in her face.
"I'm so sorry," I said, as we drove home. "I wanted to come get you because I was worried about you hurting yourself when you got off the bus."
"It's okay," she said. "I looked at the gecko. It was kind of boring, there, with nothing to do."
"Were you scared?" I asked. "Because you know I would never leave you. I'm sorry I was late. I made a mistake with the reminder."
"No," she said. "There were other kids there."
Which is what my mother said when I called her, sobbing, on the way to the school. She used to work at a school. She said parents are late all the time. Calm down, Rita, you're not a bad mother. Intellectually I knew that was true -- of all the bad parenting moves I could make, an honest mistake in picking up a kid is pretty low on the life-changer list. But the emotional part of my brain went ahead and kicked the academic part's ass, pretty much, until we got home and the Corolla struggled to get up the already-slick driveway. I've never been so happy to spin my wheels.
I was outside throwing salt like birdseed across the driveway when the neighbor appeared on her doorstep. "My husband saw a bus off the road on the way home from work today," she called across the drizzle. "I don't think we'll have school tomorrow."
I nodded, looking at the little angel standing at the edge of the garage floor, wanting so bad to walk on the icy driveway even though I'd warned her not to. I tried very hard to resist picturing her bus ever sliding into a ditch as she screamed.
And then? I didn't give a shit that I was late.
