Safekeeping

July 21, 2012

Standing outside R’s door, early on a Saturday morning, I listen for the sound of her ceiling fan. R needs the whir and breeze of the fan to sleep; if it’s on, I know she came home the night before.

R. is two months away from 18, and weeks away from leaving for college. Tethering her to a curfew, no matter how liberal, is meaningless at this point. As she informed me recently: “In a few months I’ll be at school and living on my own in the city and staying out till all hours. What’s the point?”

It’s a nightly gamble during these summer months, with no deadline or commitments forcing her to get to bed at a reasonable hour. Although she has some part-time work, she’d rather go through the next day bleary-eyed than sacrifice a night of fun.

I suppose I could continue to insist that she be home at least by 2. But the truth is, I can’t stay awake that late and, unlike parents I know, I refuse to sleep with my cell phone turned on and under my pillow so I can receive texts from her during the wee hours assuring me she’s alive. Instead, I kiss her goodnight as she heads into the evening, tell (beg) her to be safe and make sure she has her key. Before F. and I go to sleep, I close up the house and make sure the porch light is on; I leave  front door unlocked, because she often forgets her key, and thank G-d, in advance, for her safekeeping. But I’m never completely at ease.

Recently, I woke up in the middle of the night and saw the porch light burning and her bedroom door open, the room quiet and dark. The fan was off and I knew she hadn’t come home yet. Instantly, I panicked. It was after 2 and I couldn’t imagine what useful thing she was doing at that hour. I turned on my phone and texted her. She answered right away, explaining that she was with friends nearby at one of their homes. The text calmed me, but not enough to help me sleep. Not until she was home, close to 4, did I doze off.

As her dorm move-in date nears, we both grow nervous: R., about leaving home, and I, about the prospect of not being able to count on the whir of her fan and the glow of her nightlight to tell me she’s safe.