Have you ever been on a misguided trajectory that you could not stop? When—in the middle of doing something—you know you should change your course, but are compelled to keep going?
I had just such an experience yesterday as I was on my way to pick up my granddaughter Rachel after school, which is normally a 25-minute drive. I always get there early and wait 5 or 10 minutes for Rachel to come out. That’s my weekly routine.
But yesterday I got stuck in traffic—really stuck. And as I passed each road I could have turned off on to go another way, I felt even worse.
I couldn’t believe it was happening. I’ve been picking Rachel up from school once a week for ten years. I have never been late. Ergo, I can’t be late today.
I kept thinking I would make up the time I’d lost. And then wondering if I should try to call or text her from my cell phone.
Better not take the chance.
Traffic was stopped, but it could start at any moment. The sun was shining in my face. I was wearing sunglasses. I wouldn’t be able to see the cell-phone screen very well.
“I won’t be that late,” I thought.
I didn’t want to stop and pull over somewhere in order to text her safely and legally, because that would slow me down.
I could not slow down. I had to maximize every opportunity to make up the lost time.
When I finally got on the open road, going 70 in a 55-mile zone, passing other cars, a truck coming the other way veered into my lane. I pulled to the right just in time. I was frantic.
What I didn’t fathom is that Rachel needed to hear from me. She would be fine waiting if she knew that I was coming. Not knowing and not being able to reach me when she called my cell phone—made her think that I wasn’t coming at all.
I couldn’t answer her call—I was driving 70 miles an hour. I wanted her to read my mind. I wanted her to know I would be there.
But what I really wanted was to change reality.
When I got to the front of the school and Rachel wasn’t there, I finally looked at my cell phone and read her text: “I took the school bus.”
“Why!?” I texted back, shocked that she wasn’t standing there when I arrived.
“Ten minutes late,” she responded.
“OK,” I texted back, rushing out of the school parking lot, down the road I know the school bus takes. Then, finally, I caught up to the bus, which was stopping to let a student out.
“I’m behind the bus,” I texted Rachel, expecting her to hop off the bus at that moment to run back to my car and get in.
But she did not.
The school bus started up, and then pulled over to let me and the cars behind me pass. So I went ahead and then pulled into the driveway of her other grandmother’s house—Rachel’s destination--trying to turn around so awkwardly that I almost got stuck in a ditch.
“Where are you?” I texted frantically again, when I didn’t see her.
A moment later, she knocked on the window for me to unlock the car door.
“I thought you forgot to pick me up,” Rachel said. “I didn’t want to be stuck at school without a ride.”
“I would never ever forget to pick you up,” I answered. “But you are right. I should have pulled over and used my cell phone to let you know I would be late. You must have been worried.”
“I was,” she said.
