I-5
north to Bellingham was packed with people returning home from
destinations to the south or heading up to Canada for the weekend.
Next to the Lake Padden golf course, everybody came to a stop. All I
could see was a line of stoplights going into the distance. The next
exit was two miles away. This traffic jam wasn’t helping my
miserable mood. Lois and I had a big fight before I left this
morning. She was always tired when I got home, and all she had to do
was watch our two toddlers all day. What the hell was so hard about
riding herd on two toddlers?
“I
should have taken Samish Way.” I grumped.
On
Samish Way, the road next to the freeway, cars were traveling north
at fifty miles per hour. The I-5 southbound lanes were also flowing
smoothly. But in the northbound lanes, people were getting out of
their cars and craning their necks to see what the problem was.
The
guy behind me started blowing his car horn. I turned around to see
why. He was an older man with a red face and no hair. Again and
again, he blew his horn. I got out and walked back to his car
cautiously. “What’s the problem? Why are you blowing your
horn? No one can go anywhere. It’s stopped traffic.”
“I’ve
gotta pee,” he yelled, bringing down his window. “Got a
urinary tract infection. I’m about to wet myself.”
I
looked north on the freeway, scolding my paranoia and trying hard not
to laugh at the same time. I had a UTI once. They’re no fun.
Not
only was traffic stopped, but people were standing around and yacking
with each other. “So, nothing is moving. Put your car in park
and go over to those trees to do your business.”
He
looked backward and forward, then realized he had no choice. He
slammed his car into park and took off at a run toward the trees. A
couple of minutes later, he came back looking much more comfortable.
As he got back into his car, he gave me a smile and a thumbs-up. I
waved back.
A
tractor-trailer beside my car had its window down. I could hear the
driver’s CB radio squawking. “Hey, mister,” I
called out. “Why are we stopped?”
“Big
wreck,” she yelled back, grinning at my mistake with her
gender. “Some morons got into a shootout with each other. One
of them hit a tire of a van full of kids. They went into the
guardrail. EMS and cops are all over the place up there.” A
LifeFlight helicopter zoomed over our heads at about five hundred
feet, heading toward the accident. Both of us looked up, then at each
other. “We’re gonna be here a while,” she called
out.
As
I sat in my car, waiting for the police to sort out the wreck, I
wondered what I would find when I got home.
The
car in front of me moved forward a little. “At last!” I
said in frustration.
We
inched ahead until the herd in front of me had passed the assorted
flashing lights and emergency equipment. Fifteen minutes later, I
pulled into our driveway, having to pull around the two tricycles
blocking my normal parking spot. I grabbed my pocketbook in
irritation and walked to the front door.
Inside,
the house was a wreck. Toys lay everywhere. Both kids had dirty,
stained clothes on. The kitchen table still had dishes from
breakfast. The kitchen trash can was overflowing. Nothing was ready
for dinner. Lois was in her pajamas, sitting in the lounger, watching
TV with a glass of wine in her hand. “Hi, honey. How was work?”
I
didn’t reply. Instead, I went upstairs and changed clothes. Our
bed wasn’t made. The hamper overflowed with dirty clothes. A
wet towel lay on the floor of the bathroom. Toothpaste was still in
the sink. The kid’s bedroom matched the rest of the
house—clothes hanging out of the dresser, their bed not made,
their new tea set strewn across the floor.
“So,
why are you so late, Jane?”
“Big
wreck on I-5. Lois, what’s going on? Why are you still in PJs?
The house is a mess.”
“Well,
this morning you asked me what I do all day. So, today I didn’t
do it.”
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