Finally she says, “Okay. We’ll play it your way. This trip is going to be boring as hell, but if that’s what you want, you’ve got it. I just need to know one thing.”
I eye her warily. “What?”
“Do you have your insulin?”
Chapter Three
I have diabetes. I didn’t have it when Dad died—or if I did, I didn’t know it—but I definitely have it now. And as far as I’m concerned, it’s a major pain in the butt. Not literally. I could take the injections there, but mostly I stab myself in my thigh, hip or belly with an insulin pen. It really does look like a pen, except there’s a needle where the nib should be. Since I take insulin twice a day every single day, I have to keep changing the injection site, so my skin doesn’t close up against the needle. Sadly, injections are now as much a part of my morning as breakfast.
Then there’s the glucose meter. In a way, I hate that even more than the insulin pen, because I have to check my blood sugar four times a day! That means four times every day, I have to prick my finger and stick a blood sample into a machine to be analyzed. The reading shouldn’t be too high or too low, or I could be in trouble—with my health and with Mom.
But the absolute worst part of having diabetes is that now I’m stuck on a strict diet. Not to shed pounds—my weight is fine. But sugar is my enemy. Fat too. Even carbs. That means no more cakes, cookies or chocolate bars. No French fries or potato chips either. In fact, pretty much all the things I like to eat are out.
You’d think I could have a treat once in a while, but no. My mother watches me like a hawk. There’s a chart in the kitchen where I have to record when I take my insulin, and another one where I record my sugar levels. As for food, Mom writes up menus a month at a time, and there’s no wavering from them. Even my grandmother—who does most of the cooking—won’t cut me any slack. If I go out with my friends, my mother reminds me not to have pop or donuts or candy, and when I get home, she makes me test my blood sugar, to make sure I haven’t.
So, of course, the first thing she wants to know when I show up in her truck is if I have my insulin with me. If she had her way, she’d probably make me carry it in a keg around my neck like a St. Bernard.
I roll my eyes at her. “Yes,” I say. “I have my insulin and my glucose meter. And no, I didn’t stash any chocolate bars in my backpack.” I push it toward her. “Go ahead and check it if you want.”
“Why do you have to be like that, Kat?” she says. “This is your health we’re talking about. And it’s my job to look out for you.”
“I’m sixteen, Mom! I can look out for myself!”
“Can you?” She sighs heavily. “I’m not so sure. I don’t think you realize the seriousness of your condition.”
“The doctor said it can be controlled.”
She nods. “Yes, but not by magic. You have to follow the rules.”
“Why? You follow them enough for both of us—in fact, you could be the health police for every diabetic in the world!”
Mom looks at me like she wants to argue the point but then just shakes her head, checks her mirrors for traffic and puts the truck in gear.
“I need to pee,” I announce sullenly. I expect her to be ticked at me for slowing her down even more, but if she is, she doesn’t show it.
“There’s a gas station up the street. I’ll pull in there.”
The service-station washroom is gross. In fact, it’s so bad, I sit on my hands instead of the toilet seat. I would cover it with toilet paper, except there isn’t any. Good thing I have some tissues in my pocket. I’ve been in this bathroom a big three minutes, and already my skin is crawling. All I want is to wash my hands and get out. But the water is cold, the soap container is empty, and the only paper towels are crumpled on the floor. Disgusted, I wipe my hands on my jeans and head for the exit.
As I return the key to the attendant, I say, “Your washroom is out of toilet paper, soap, hot water and paper towels.”
“Thanks,” the woman replies, without even looking up from the magazine she’s thumbing through. Clearly, the state of the bathroom is not high on her priority list. Either that or maintaining it is not part of her job description.
“Yuck!” I tell my mother as I climb back into the truck. “What a hole! That place is filthy. Did you know that?”
Mom frowns. “How could I?”
“You’ve driven through here before.”
“Yes, but I haven’t visited every public washroom. If I’d known this one was dirty, I would have gone somewhere else.”
“Yeah, right,” I grumble.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I know you’re ticked at me for stowing away in your truck and putting you behind schedule.”
She looks at me like I’m some sort of alien. “So you think I would punish you by sending you into a filthy bathroom? Now you’re just being ridiculous,” she says and pulls back onto the main road.
And just like that, I’m dismissed—again.
I look out the window. Almost before I can blink Pine Falls slides away and is quickly replaced by trees, sky and a road that leads off into eternity. It’s like a boring video that keeps playing over and over. There’s not even a dead skunk on the highway to break up the monotony. I know I said I’d rather stare out the window for days than be stuck in Winnipeg with Tina, but I didn’t really think it would happen.
I can’t admit that to my mother though. She’d say, I told you so, and with everything else that’s gone wrong in my life lately, I don’t need that.
I pull out my phone and check the time. It’s ten fourteen. I groan. We’ve been on the road for barely an hour and a half, and already this trip is agony.
I can’t believe I was actually looking forward to it. I’d been so sure it was going to be fun—something for Mom and me to do together. The two of us talking and laughing, being silly, sharing our thoughts and dreams—just like we used to.
I glance across the cab at her. She’s close enough to touch, so how come she feels so far away?
All the anger and hurt I’ve been holding inside for the past eight months comes bubbling to the surface. My life used to be so good, and now it’s horrible. I hate it! I’m mad at my dad for dying. I’m mad at my body for breaking down, and I’m mad at my mother for abandoning me when I really need her.
I’m just about to break down and start blubbering when Mom’s phone rings, startling me out of my pity party.
“Hello,” she says, never once taking her eyes off the road. She doesn’t need to, because her phone is hooked into the truck’s Bluetooth. All she has to do is hit a button on the steering wheel to make the connection.
“Hey, Iron Maiden, how’s it going? Long time no see.”
Mom laughs. “Oh my gosh! Nobody has called me that in years. Harvey Dickinson, is that you? How are you?”
I check the screen on Mom’s phone. She’s right. It is Harvey Dickinson, whoever he is.
“I’m good,” he says.
“And Mandy?”
“She’s good too. Holding the fort with the kids.”
“Uh-huh,” Mom says. “So what’s up? How’d you get my number?”
“I was talking with your dispatcher.”
“You know Charlie?”
“Oh yeah. He and I go way back. Anyway, I’d heard you were driving again, and since I knew Dave had driven for Charlie, I played a hunch.”
“Well, if I recall correctly, your hunches were always pretty good. I take it you’re still terrorizing the highways.” Even if I can’t see the big smile on my mother’s face, I can hear it in her voice.
“I do what I can. Got my own company in Saskatoon now. I’m breaking in a rookie as we speak. He’s driving, and I’m sitting back with my feet up.”
They both laugh.
“I understand you’re hauling a load up the winter road, east of Bloodvein,” Harvey says.
“Yes. I have a shipment for Pauingassi.”
“That’s what I heard. As
it turns out, I’m heading up there myself—as far as Little Grand Rapids anyway.”
“No kidding,” Mom says. “Small world.”
“Anyway, based on when Charlie said you picked up your load, I’m thinking you’re not far behind me.”
“I turned onto the 304 about twenty minutes ago,” Mom tells him.
“Excellent.” Harvey chuckles. “What say we meet up for lunch in about an hour? I’ll wait for you at that truck stop on the hill about halfway along the highway. You know the one.”
Mom nods even though he can’t see her. “I do. See you then.”
When the phone disconnects, I lean forward and peer at my mother. “Iron Maiden?”
She looks embarrassed. “It was my CB handle back in the day.”
“How the heck did you get a name like Iron Maiden? No, wait. On second thought, I don’t want to know. I might end up scarred for life.”
Chapter Four
Mom laughs. I don’t. I want to, and a few months ago I would have. But now it’s like my mother and I are standing on opposite sides of the Grand Canyon. If I laughed, I would be saying everything is okay when it isn’t.
“Why did you become a trucker anyway?” I sneer.
Her laugh dries up. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Her voice is flat. “I’d graduated from university, and after four months of job hunting, I still hadn’t found anything. So much for a commerce degree. Since my father was hinting it was time I moved out, and I had a pile of student loans to pay off, I was getting desperate. So when I saw an advertisement for tractor-trailer drivers, I jumped at it.” She shrugs. “It meant forking out more money for driving lessons, but I figured it would be worth the investment in the long run.”
“Isn’t that a bit extreme?” I ask as if I am the parent and she is the kid. “I mean, you could’ve taken a job in a store or a restaurant.”
“Oh, Kat,” she mutters under her breath. “If I’d done that, I’d still be paying off my student loans. Long-distance driving pays a lot better.”
“So marrying a trucker helped pay your bills.”
Mom’s mouth drops open. “What an awful thing to say!”
“Hey, you just admitted you needed to pay off your student loans,” I remind her. “And Dad was a trucker. And he was ten years older than you, so he probably already had some money.”
“For your information, your father did not pay off my student loans!” Mom huffs. “I did that myself, thank you very much.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever.” I go back to staring out the window.
After a few minutes, Mom sighs. “Those early days were good though. I enjoyed driving more than I thought I would. It gave me a lot of time to think.”
“If you enjoyed it so much, why’d you give it up?” I practically spit out the words.
Mom’s voice hardens. “Because I became pregnant with you.”
“So you’re saying I was an accident.”
Mom slams her hand on the steering wheel. “Damn it, Kat! What in the world is wrong with you?” Her words bounce off the walls of the cab. “I’m not saying that at all! In fact, you were very much planned. Why are you being such a little witch this morning? It’s like you’re looking for a fight.”
She’s right. I am, though I’m not sure why. Maybe I want my mother to hurt as much as I do. Maybe I’m so desperate to connect with her, even a fight would feel good. Or maybe I just need to vent the frustration and anger that’s been building since my dad died. Who knows? Maybe it’s all those things.
At any rate, emotions swell inside me like a tidal wave. If I open my mouth to speak, I know they’ll come pouring out, so I blink back the hot tears stinging my eyes and turn to the window once more.
But my mother knows me too well.
“Come on, kiddo,” she says softly. “I know something’s wrong. And it’s more than the last-minute change of plans. Tell me what’s bugging you.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t. My throat is swollen shut. I can’t even swallow, never mind speak. But somehow a sob gets past the boulder lodged in my throat.
“Oh, honey,” my mother says in a way that reminds me of my old mom, the one who used to send me off to school with a kiss and a wave every morning, the one who took me to get my ears pierced, the one who laughed at my dumb jokes.
All the memories of life the way it used to be come flooding back and swamp me. And suddenly I’m bawling like a baby. Why did everything have to change?
Mom pulls over to the side of the highway, slips the semi into neutral and sets the brake. Then she unbuckles her seat belt, and the next thing I know, she’s swallowed me up in her arms. I instantly melt.
“I’m right here, baby,” she says, stroking my hair. “Tell me what’s bothering you. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”
I shake my head and whimper into her shoulder, “We can’t.”
She tries to console me. “Of course we can.”
I push away from her and swipe at my tears with the heel of my hand. “How?” I demand. “I can’t bring Dad back. Can you?”
She shuts her eyes and shakes her head. “I miss him too, Kat.”
“It’s not just that!” I wail and grab a tissue from the box on the console. I blow my nose before continuing. “It’s everything else too.”
“You mean the diabetes?” Mom says.
“All of it! My whole life! Don’t you see?” I wave my arms in frustration. “Our house is gone. I had to change schools, so I never see my friends anymore.” I pause before adding, “And I almost never see you. You’re always on the road. We never talk or do things together. It’s like you ran away when Dad died.”
Mom tears up, and her chin starts to quiver. “Oh, Kat, I know it’s not like it used to be, but you’re not alone, honey. When I’m away, you have Gran.”
I shake my head again and frown. “It’s not the same. I love Gran, but she’s not you. Why can’t you stay home like you used to?”
“Oh, honey, I wish I could. I miss our times together too. But I have no choice. I have to make a living.”
“I get that, but why do you have to do it driving truck? Couldn’t you get a job in Winnipeg?”
She sighs heavily. “Not doing anything that pays as well.”
“What if we spent less money?” It seems like an obvious solution to me. “Scrap my allowance. I’ll give up my cell phone. Cancel the cable. I’ll get a library card. Whatever we need to do, let’s do it. Please, Mom. I just want you home.”
She squeezes my hand and tries to smile. “If only it were that simple.” Then she looks around the cab of the semi. “This truck is only a year old. Your father bought it brand new. I have to pay for it, and that’s a lot of money.”
“So sell it,” I say.
“I’ll never get its full value. I’d still have a huge debt but no truck. Then there’s all the other everyday costs of living—rent, food, insurance, clothes, saving for university and a hundred other expenses.”
Just when I thought we were making progress, we crash into another wall. I start to close up again. “So you’re saying you won’t find a different job.”
“I’m saying I can’t—at least not until I pay off the truck.”
I give it one more shot. “What if I got a part-time job?”
Mom smiles sadly. “Not only do I not want that for you, but it wouldn’t help much, I’m afraid. Still, I love you for offering.”
“You see,” I say, giving up. “I told you we couldn’t figure it out.”
She shakes her head. “You’re wrong. Recognizing the problem is a start.” She sighs. “To tell you the truth, I guess I have pulled away since your dad died—without realizing it. I’ve been so focused on making everything work—earning a living, staying on top of your diabetes and trying not to burden you with how much I miss your dad—that I haven’t thought enough about what you’re going through.
“I have to work, Kat, and for now that means driving truck. But it won’t be forever�
��I swear. In the meantime we have to make the most of the time we do have. What do you say? I’ll try if you will.”
I want that more than anything, though I have my doubts, so I nod and smile, but I also tear up again.
That’s all it takes for Mom to get choked, and when our hands collide reaching for tissues, we both laugh.
She climbs back into her seat and dabs at her eyes. “If I’m going to drive, I need to see the road.”
“Yup,” I say. “That would be good.”
Chapter Five
Since truckers keep crazy hours, truck stops are open twenty-four/seven. Food might not be served the whole time, but drivers can always gas up and have a shower. So there’s usually a few tractor-trailers around. But when Mom and I pull off Highway 304 to have lunch with Harvey Dickinson, there are so many semis in the parking lot, you’d think we were at a trucking convention. The sun is shining, and despite the snow it feels more like May than March, so I leave my jacket in the truck.
Needless to say, the restaurant is packed. Harvey must’ve been watching for Mom, though, because as soon as we step inside, a guy at a booth across the room starts waving his arms like the starter at the Indy 500.
I nudge Mom with my elbow and nod toward him. “Looks like you’ve still got it, Iron Maiden,” I tease. “Or else that’s your friend.”
My mother actually blushes. “Enough with the Iron Maiden cracks.”
I nod obediently. “Whatever you say. Should I call you Donna then? You could say I’m your younger sister.”
Mom glares at me. “Don’t be cute, Kat. Call me what you always call me.”
“To your face or behind your back?” I try to look innocent.
She rolls her eyes, then grabs my arm and starts pulling me across the room. Into my ear she whispers, “Embarrass me in front of Harvey, and I’ll switch your shampoo with white glue—I swear.”
“That should take care of my flyaway hair,” I mutter and then snicker at my own joke.
Though she tries to keep a straight face, Mom chuckles too, and by the time we reach the booth, we’re both outright laughing.
Winter Road Page 2
