George and the Elephants

6:00PM, Friday, March 6th, 2020:

I wave good-bye to my dorm building through the passenger side window as the car pulls away, a hastily-packed bag of clothes crammed at my feet. “Are you sure my plants will be alright for a week?” I ask my mom, worried for my half dozen succulents left sitting on their small wooden shelves.

“I’m sure,” she says, turning onto the main road. “You could have packed them… if you remembered I was coming.” I sigh in response. My mind had been wrapped around the midterms and essays and projects in my six separate classes, all seemingly due the minute before she knocked. When she had arrived, she stood impatiently at my door as I shoved random clothes into a dumped-out bookbag— leaving the room unclean, dishes undone, plants unattended, disaster unraveled.

“Are we going to talk about it?” she asks. I suck air through my teeth. Didn’t think she’d bring “it” up so quickly. “I think we should talk about it,” she says. She means: Explain.

“In my defense, I did not know that he was cheating on me; therefore, it is not my fault that I got chlamydia, and I’m extremely lucky it was something curable, but I’m extremely unlucky that it’s rendered me infertile, and I’m not ready to talk about that yet,” I say in one breath. She reaches out to rub my shoulder.

“Okay,” she says, and the deafening hush of the highway calms the elephant in the backseat for now.

A silent half hour passes before she exits the highway for her signature “I forgot to pee” rest stop. Through the windshield, I see a strange man wearing a surgeon's mask and wiping down every surface he touches. “He must have heard about that ‘CORONAVIRUS-19’ thing they’re talking about on the news,” my mom says. I chuckle.

Upon re-entering the car, our bladders are empty, and I set two vending machine cappuccinos into the cupholders. She scrolls through a few Facebook posts before restarting the drive. “I’m really regretting not teaching you how to drive purely for selfish reasons,” she says, tired of the road already.

“Maybe I’ll finally learn this summer,” I say. “I’ll have the time.”

“Speaking of time,” she says, “I need your help with something. Shelby’s really getting old; she’s in diapers now. She’s up all night, and I can’t keep staying up with her. I’ve got too much going on with work.”

I assure her that I have no problem staying up with our elderly dog. Shelby had been “getting old” since she turned twelve nearly five years ago. From the look on my mom’s face, I can tell this time is different.

“Also, don’t tell your dad that you have chlamydia,” she says suddenly. A laugh erupts from deep within my lungs.

“Why on earth would I tell Dad about my STD?! Mom! What the hell,” I say, continuing to laugh. She laughs too, shaking her head.

“I don’t know; like, if you tell him you’re infertile, don’t say how. Maybe just don’t tell him you’re infertile,” she says. I laugh an even bigger laugh.

“I don’t even tell him when I’m in the emergency room. Why would I tell him that I’m infertile? I don’t talk to him,” I assure her. “It’ll be fine.”

The laughter cut the tension enough for me to turn on some music. Between the rest stop and home, we blasted Billy Joel with the windows down until even the elephant sang along.

8:02 PM, Tuesday, March 10th, 2020:

“I just don’t know why he’s so upset about me taking George,” my mom says as she slams the car door. “My car is broken. Your father is home all day long. He has all day long to fix my car. I work two jobs, and he lets me use his car for that, yes, but he throws a fit the minute I need to take George to the store for something. I just don’t understand,” she says before we even make it out of the driveway.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” I say in agreement. “He has nowhere he needs to be.”

“Exactly!” she shouts, hitting the edge of the steering wheel with a flat palm. “He doesn’t go to the store. He doesn’t go to a job. There’s no reason he needs George right now.”

The short ride to the grocery store is used to vent all the recent frustrations about my dad while out of his earshot. It has only been a few days since I came home for break, but the thought of him already makes my blood boil again. I can’t wait to be back in Columbus.

9:16 PM, Tuesday, March 10th, 2020:

The car doors close. “Did you notice that one lady in the mask?” I ask.

“I did,” my mom says. “I’m thinking of getting some for myself… Just to be safe.”

My phone vibrates twice in my pocket. Email. As I read it, my face contorts. “Looks like I’ll be home for a while longer. OSU just extended their spring break.”

“Yay!” my mom says. “You can keep helping me with Sh-it!” Her palm smacks the wheel. “We forgot the doggy diapers.”

“We have a few more,” I remind her.

“I guess I could pick them up tomorrow between work and work,” she says, exhausted at the thought. It amazes me how she has managed to juggle teaching full-time, working food service in the evenings, and taking care of Shelby.

There is a moment of silence as we pull back into earshot. A few minutes later, we look to each other and nod as if we are about to embark on a dangerous mission. After unloading the groceries onto our arms, we slam closed George’s trunk.

8:45AM, Saturday, March 21st, 2020:

My mom slides into the driver’s side. I close the passenger side door. My older brother, Justin, sits behind me. There is a thin layer of panic as George slinks out of the driveway and bolts down the road. We are running very late for my preselected time to move out of my dorm. The remainder of the semester has adapted into being entirely online. All students must move out of their dorms as soon as possible.

Justin chooses the music, leading to an odd mixture of various rap, chill beats, alternative rock, and acoustic coffeehouse. We each have our own masks composed of multiple layers of thick fabric. The email confirmation for my move-out time “strongly recommends” that we wear them while on campus. It also states that hand sanitizer and gloves will be available for our safety and comfort. You’ll have one hour to move out of your dorm.

The trees at the highway's side look the same, and the sky is no cloudier than before, but the air is electric with the winds of change. The elephant in the back seat has changed names. The ride back to campus is speechless and short.

5:54 PM, Saturday, March 21st, 2020:

Car doors close. Sighs unfold. My brother situates his body amongst a sea of my belongings. The dorm building felt less like a home away from home and more like a hospital, bottles of hand sanitizer at every turn. The casualties from my dorm included: all six of my succulents, four moldy dollar store dishes, and one broken lamp, courtesy of my brother’s ever-buttery fingers.

The world had quickly turned into a distorted version of something recognizable: old faces covered with new masks, friends too fearful to hug each other goodbye, elephants in every back seat.

The ride home blurs by as a mirrored image of the ride there. I feel a trunk breathing down my neck.

10:03 AM, Sunday, April 5th, 2020:

George hums slowly through the neighborhood until we reach the main road. It has been over two weeks since I’ve been outside, let alone gone to the store. My mom lost her teaching job for the foreseeable future, and her shifts at the restaurant are few and far between.

“I saw Hailey at the store the other day,” my mom says carefully. “She said you two aren’t really talking.”

“We’re not,” I say. “Haven’t had a real conversation with her since December when she called me a slut. Didn’t really feel like explaining to her that one hook-up doesn’t make me a slut. Definitely didn’t feel like explaining to her that I got chlamydia.” Two elephants are playing cards in the rearview mirror. (The one with chlamydia wins this round.)

12:32 PM, Sunday, April 5th, 2020:

“Wow,” she says. “That was… rotten luck.”

“She goes to the store a lot,” I say. On the ride home, I recall the seemingly constant fights Hailey and I used to have. “Really, I’m better off. Remember that time she and I were fighting, so she made Justin take her to homecoming, and then she completely blew him off?” My mom gasps.

“I didn’t know she blew him off!”

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “She completely left him alone.” My mom laughs, then sighs.

“Still surprised you ever made up after she bullied you,” she says, and it’s my turn to sigh.

“I didn’t think we would either. We’re like magnets, but she’s the stronger magnet, and every time we broke apart, and every time we came back together, I was the one taking damage. I mean, I miss her. I miss having someone.”

“Hey,” my mom says. “I’m someone.”

“You know what I mean,” I say. In the back, the elephant wears a crop top and lights a menthol cigarette.

11:20 AM, Friday, April 17th, 2020:

“I’ll hold her,” I say, sitting carefully in the back seat. I buckle my seatbelt, and my brother sets a tired Shelby into my lap. “Hey, Baby,” I whisper to her. She groans and taps a cold circle onto my arm with her nose. “You’re alright,” I tell her, kissing her forehead. You’re alright.

George tilts to the right as a new elephant takes the passenger seat. We play Shelby’s favorite songs as we drive to one of the only local veterinarian offices that has remained open during the pandemic.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.

You make me happy when skies are gray.

You’ll never know, Dear, how much I love you.

Please don’t take my sunshine away.

When we arrive at the vet, my mom is shaking through tears on the driver’s side. The elephant rubs her back. Justin gets out and comes around to my side to take Shelby from my lap.

Here we go.

12:10 PM, Friday, April 17th, 2020:

“I’m really sorry, Al,” my mom says as Justin places the lifeless family dog back into my lap. “I thought they’d bring her to the crematorium for us. I didn’t know.” She chokes on a sob.

“It’s okay,” I say, holding Shelby as closely as I can without altering her peaceful position. “We’ll be okay.” A five-ton elephant breaks both of my femurs as George pulls out of the parking lot. The crematorium is half an hour away in the opposite direction from home. The closer ones have all closed for the foreseeable future.

Euthanization is performed in a series of two shots. The first causes the animal to fall into a deep sleep. The second causes the animal to die. Shelby passed away after the first shot was administered.

You just had to fall asleep.

You just needed to rest.

You were ready to go.

We made the right choice.

1:30 PM, Friday, April 17th, 2020:

My lap has never felt so empty.

6:03 PM, Thursday, May 14th, 2020:

“Would you give it a rest?” I ask my mother as she rolls her eyes in the driver’s seat. “I don’t want to talk to her. I reached out to her three separate times since I’ve been home, and she hasn’t reached back out to me. The ball is in her court, and she knows that, and she doesn’t care.” A long, gray trunk steals a five out of my purse through a puff of smoke.

“I just think it would be good for you to have someone to talk to about what’s going on,” my mom says, walking on eggshells. “Justin said that yesterday you were holding the cat like a baby, and you started bawling your eyes out. I mean–”

“I don’t want to have kids. It doesn’t make any sense for me to have kids,” I say, cutting her off. “I have more medical problems than I can count, half of which are genetic. I was basically infertile anyways.” My eyes glaze over as I fumble with coins from the center console. For a moment, I nearly tell her about the two miscarriages I had before I even got the infection. “I don’t want kids,” I say, unsure of who I’m trying to convince.

“Okay,” my mom says. “You don’t want kids.” After stopping George at the far end of the grocery store parking lot, she sits in silence. At my feet, a newborn elephant looks up to me. My teeth grind as tears well in my eyes but do not fall.

My mom, oblivious to my expression, furrows her brow in the sun visor mirror, then asks: “What are we here for again? Food and what else?”

“Tampons,” I remind her.

12:15 PM, Friday, August 14th, 2020:

An elephant sits between cardboard boxes and cracking plastic bins in the back seat. My mom turns the key with I don’t want you to leave so soon eyes, despite the fact I have been home for five months. George hesitantly rolls onto the main road.

Billy Joel serenades the drive back to Columbus. This move hits harder than the first two, as I am now completely moving out of my parents’ house. All of my mortal possessions have been hastily shoved into containers that have been hastily shoved into a U-Haul. Delicate items are riding in the back seat of George. The elephant fumbles with, and consequently drops, one of my favorite mugs as my mom hits a sharp turn.

“I’m worried about you,” she says suddenly, approximately halfway through the drive. “You know that I know that you’ve always been depressed. You don’t hide it, nor should you have to. I just wish we could have afforded therapy for you– something to ease the pain.” Her hand briefly leaves the wheel to squeeze my shoulder. “You don’t go outside anymore. You don’t talk to people. You don’t have to reach out to Hailey anymore; I just wish you had a better support system.” Tears slide down her face as she watches the road, unable to face me. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“Mom,” I say, beginning to cry as well. “You’re not gonna lose me. I’m just moving a few hours away. You can come up and visit anytime, even if it’s just to get away from Dad for a bit.”

“You know what I meant,” she says, referring to the moment a few weeks ago when we got drunk on wine coolers, and I accidentally told my mother that I was possibly considering the concept of suicide– possibly. In the backseat, the elephant slurs its words and dramatically feigns death via gunshot wound.

“I’ll be fine,” I assure her. “I’m moving into a great apartment. You’re less than a day-trip away. School is restarting soon, albeit online. I’ll be okay,” I say again.

The rest of the drive is quiet save for the elephant shouting its mortal goodbyes through the window at passersby. There is nothing left for me, it cries. Life is an abyss, and I’ve reached rock bottom. Woe is me.

I lose track of the minutes my mother spends holding me before we leave the car. She sniffles over my shoulder and rubs my back. Eventually, the atom splits, and the move-in commences. Later, George slinks away– elephants waving farewell from the backseat.

6:00 PM, Saturday, March 6th, 2021:

My mother closes the driver’s side door and draws a deep breath. Then, at the maximum efficiency her bruised lungs allow, she screams, eyes shut, palms smacking the edge of the wheel. She screams, and she cries, and she thinks of me. She thinks of how she hadn’t seen me since August. She thinks of how I left her a voicemail before I did it. She thinks of how I tried to call her. She thinks of how I told her, with my final words, that I just wanted to call and say I love you. In the passenger seat, an elephant hums my favorite song.