Waiting for My Boy

July 14, 2012

Waited an hour for E’s Amtrak train to pull in to New Rochelle.  I’d insisted on heading for the station early, just in case we got lost, or the train arrived ahead of schedule. Instead, I ended up pacing around its dilapidated parking lot, on the hottest day of summer (so far), worrying about every possible thing that could have gone wrong, trying to stay calm.

E is the second-born, younger than R. by two years. The baby: all 5’9”, 150 pounds of lacrosse-hewn muscle. I’d driven him to Brown University in Providence, RI for a four-day lacrosse camp on the previous Thursday and stayed overnight with a friend before heading home to New York. A little much-needed girl time and rest.  Besides, who wants to drive to Providence and back twice in four days? I figured it’d be easier to put him on Amtrak.

Easier on him.

I’d sweated the ticket purchase. E. will be 16 in November. Under Amtrak’s terms, he’s a minor and wasn't permitted to get off at New Rochelle, an "unmanned" station, which is closer to where we live; instead, he was supposed to get off at Penn Station. But he’s a hunky young fellow who could easily pass for 16. So I bought him an adult ticket to New Rochelle online, and that was that.

Until I started worrying that Fate would slap me for lying.

I spent the rest of the week losing sleep over the logistics of his travel: Would he be allowed to claim his ticket with his YMCA photo ID? Would an Amtrak official stop him because he looked too young? Would he be abducted and sold into sexual slavery? Would the train derail and crash?

Be glad you don’t live in my head.

I’d e-mailed, called and texted the head coach the day before E. was to travel to make sure someone would help him claim his ticket and make sure he got on the right train. When I confessed all of this to E., he rolled his eyes and said, 

“Yeah Mom, it was really complicated getting my ticket. I had to scan the bar code on the paper you gave me.”  Such a wise guy.

That was it. Nobody even looked at his face. Still, the train was an hour late and I was trying to tamp down a smoldering panic.

It finally pulled in, on the platform opposite from the one where we were stood. I begged my husband to run up the stairs and cross to the other side, lest E. think we weren’t there (even though he and I had been texting for the past hour, during which time the train had shut down, and he kept telling me not to worry). I craned my neck for any sign of his dirty blond hair and then, as the train slowly pulled away, I spied him, dragging a sports bag as big as he.  Without warning, my throat tightened, my smile quivered and tears stung my eyes like a thunderstorm that strikes from out of nowhere.

I couldn’t wait to get rid of this kid four days ago and now I ached with longing to put my arms around him.