Dodge

The red flashing lights are the worst. They are my phobia, they plague me all the time now, ever since . . .

Ever since everything went bad. It's one of those times when everything piles on top of you until you're suffocated with the weight of all of this bad stuff, and there's nothing you can do to get out, you know?

I've been dodging cops for months. Sometimes I get so scared I start shaking, and when I find a place to park and I think I've lost them, I can sit down and cry.

Three years ago, when my son turned two years old, my husband left us. I didn't have a job that would support us, and the economy is so bad. I was so desperate. And then I got laid off and I put us on welfare. I did odd jobs for whatever money I can get, but the majority of the things I buy, the things Benjamin and I need, are paid for with government money, EBT, Medicare, that whole drill. My parents own our house, so I don't have to worry about a mortgage.

I hate pity money. When my mother calls me up and says, 'Honey, I could use some help doing odd jobs around the office,' or one of my girlfriends suggests that 'You could come help me clean my house, yeah? I haven't had the time lately . . . and of course I'll pay you.' It's pity money. I'm more than happy to do their jobs, but I feel so ashamed of myself when I take the money that they justify giving me by loading me up with meaningless tasks.

Have I sunk so low? How is this even possible?

But I need that money. I need it so my boy doesn't grow up getting teased because he can't go on the kindergarten field trip to the zoo. That's where every penny of that money goes, every penny I can afford to spend is spent on Benny.

But I hate this. This is not where I wanted to be, here at twenty-six years old.

Once I lost my job, things just kept coming. Bad things.

Last month my car, the trusty red van that one of my father's family friends gave me for free, died.

I needed a car. A girlfriend from church, someone I used to be close to, gave me her car to use. I hate her at the same time I'm glad for her, her generosity. She's just another holy do-gooder, thinking she's earned her space in the sky, plus interest. It disgusts me, but how can I refuse Fiona's offer?

My license is suspended. I got a ticket for not having that stupid sticker on my plate. I'm still paying for that ticket, and until it's paid, my license is suspended.

But what do I do? What can I do? If I can't drive, how will I get my boy to school and back? How will I take care of us? I need money from my odd jobs and the part time job I managed to land. I need that money to keep the lights on, the heat, the water.

Benny is so small, so innocent . . . He won't understand. How can I tell him that mummy can't support him in this godforsaken life where the rich get richer and the poor get poorer? He is only five years old. I'm like Wonderwoman to him. I can't do it.

So I keep driving. My plates still haven't changed, because I'm doing everything I can to keep life functioning. The lights go out and I tell Benny we're having a special sleepover, just him and mumma, in the darkness and the flickering light of our fireplace. But on the inside I'm crying.

I'm a horrible mother.

I keep driving. My license is suspended. My plates stay the same. I still haven't paid. Worse still, I don't have insurance on the car. And it's registered in Fiona's name.

I can't get pulled over. I cannot. It will look like I've stolen the car, it will give them a chance to pounce on me, who doesn't have enough money to buy another toaster when ours breaks. I don't want to bring Fiona into this. We don't even talk anymore. Didn't she listen- never do business with friends. She trusts me, and I cannot let this go back on her.

What would I do then?

We're at McDonald's. Benny was in a little play that his kindergarten class did. I am so proud of my boy, he can't stop smiling and asking, 'Are you proud of me, mumma? Did you see me?' Yes, yes I see you. You are a fantastic little boy. I promised him that we would stop for a Happy meal before going home.

But when we pull into the parking lot, my heart sinks like a rock, a lump rises in my throat. We go inside and stand in line.

There was a police car, two officers in the parking lot, like they were waiting for me. I pray, 'God, please don't let them run my plate- Fiona's plate. Please.' I'm not focused as Benny prattles on about his little 'girlfriend', Elisabeth.

Both officers come inside. My palms sweat. I hear them talking to each other behind us and when it's our turn to order, I am so disoriented I ordered the wrong thing for myself. I'll eat it anyway.

Would they nab me right there?

Benny is so please with his Happy meal. He smiles as he talks to himself, eating his nuggets into little shapes. I keep an eye on the two officers. They order burgers and fries and drinks, a massive platter of fat, and head to a table in the back.

'Are you ready to go, baby?' I ask several times. I want to leave, I want to get away. Thankfully, we do leave before the police, though I look over my shoulder to make sure that they're not following us out.

I take all the back roads when I can. I fantasize about getting pulled over and breaking down in tears to pour out this story to the officer, fantasize about them taking pity on me, letting me go, or helping me in some way.

Damn the government, greedy money-grabbing whores. They just want my money. All of it. They want to watch me wriggle helplessly. They have all this welfare, all this help. Why not for this?

As we near the house, I have to swing into the parking lot of an apartment complex. Dodging another cop. The noose is tightening, rough against my throat. I can't breathe.

I tell Benny a story to keep him occupied. We don't leave for another fifteen minutes, just to be sure he's gone, and then I get us home as fast as I can. I carry my baby boy up to bed, it's late. He falls asleep quickly as I tell him another story. I stroke my baby's hair and sit there with him in the dark for a moment, thanking God for him.

Then I tiptoe to my bedroom, not a sound to be heard in the entire house. I lay down in my bed and I cry, silently sobbing. Why, dammit, why? Why me? Why Benny? Why us? Why not someone else? Why won't someone help us?

I'm afraid. I'm afraid for my life if I am pulled over, I am afraid for Benny. For our future. What will they do when they know I can't pay them? What will I do with my life then? What will Fiona do to me? I know I'll see the disappointment, the 'I trusted you' look. The 'this is all your fault, why did I ever put my stock in you' look. It'll kill me.

I want to cry, to scream, to yell my heart out to God or anyone else who'll hear me. I am so stuck. There is no help . . . No help.

But I can't. I keep it to myself, make my sobs no louder than a whisper, containing myself. I try to sooth myself when I know my life will be over in a day, another month.

I can't wake Benny with my sobs. He can't see mummy cry.

I have to be Wonderwoman, don't I?

I have to be Wonderwoman.

But how can I be Wonderwoman when I'm nothing special at all?