Parking Lot Mother's Day

This past Mother’s Day, both my children were out of state; Dearest Son in Colorado, the Princess and her wee bairns in Florida with Firefighter Mike’s family. That’s fine…my birthday is the week before Mother’s Day, and I always feel a bit gluttonous, having two celebrations of myself within days of each other. Dearest cleverly sends me flowers each year that say “Happy Birthday/Mother’s Day Week!” (I’m rather proud of him for that.) The Princess always writes a beautiful card.

I told McIrish we should visit his mother in New Jersey. We never go to NJ for Mother’s Day, though we’ve invited Polly up many times on the day. I brought my own mom flowers and a card Saturday evening and let Buttercup smother her with kisses as an early celebration. Early the next morning, we popped Buttercup in the car (her favorite place) and drove down to the Garden State. One brother-in-law hosted us at his gorgeous house, the other brother-in-law did the cooking, and McIrish bought two desserts. We had a lovely brunch, visited an iris garden, allowed smitten strangers to pet and worship Buttercup, then went back to my mother-in-law’s place. Around three o’clock, we decided to hit the road.

Though we had sailed down that morning, we were not so lucky on the return trip. And also, did I mention we have an electric car? Chief Brody, my Hyundai Ioniq 5. The entire universe was heading north out of Jersey, and we inched along the Garden State Parkway, dealing with the idiots and morons who weave in and out of traffic like they’re in a video game. Though Chief Brody would technically make it to New Jersey and back on a full charge, I knew it would be close. We decided to juice up at the Tappan Zee Bridge (which is what I will call it until I die). There’s a lookout there, and a fast charger.

I will admit that this first mistake, one of many to come that day, was mine. “Let’s go to that park in Tarrytown instead,” I suggested. “Charge the car, let people adore Buttercup, maybe get an ice cream cone.” Because it was also my Mother’s Day, I reminded my husband. “Of course!” he said merrily. There was a charging station right in the park.

Here’s the bane of EV owners everywhere. There are dozens of companies that supply chargers, and you need an app for every single one. No, they will not accept credit card payment. Instead, you have to scan a QR code, load the app, open the app, fill out the required fields. Being Gen X, I’m will never be graceful about filling in forms, so it was krustan…delete delete delete…kristsn delete delete delete kristan. Enter your credit card number. Click yes. Click accept. Open your email to verify your account. Done. Open the app and enter your account information. “Sorry, user name not recognized.” I tried again. And again. And “Let’s just go to another charger,” McIrish said. “There are a bunch along the highway.” This was the second mistake—his (and yes, of course I’m keeping score). We should’ve just called the help number.

Given my propensity for carsickness, I said I would drive, and he could be the navigator. The navigator (usually me) has the job of announcing the distance to the next turn, reading the interesting signs and pointing out pretty things to look at. Also, telling entertaining stories to amuse the driver. McIrish is terrible at these things, so I, abhorring a vacuum, filled in. “Look at those gate posts!” and “Oh, that house is abandoned. We should buy it and restore it.” Busy being such a good travel companion, I went past the entrance to the highway. “You missed the turn,” said my (uninspired) navigator.

“I’ll just do a U-turn,” I answered.

“No, no, it’s already rerouting us,” he said. Again, his mistake. I blame the rest of the day on him, therefore. “We can charge at the rest stops along the Merritt.” Our GPS were sent down an incredibly bumpy, patched up road through Hudson River Valley towns. “How is this Westchester County?” I demanded. “Don’t they have enough tax dollars to fix the roads?” McIrish stared out the window. “Read me the signs!" I said. "You're the navigator, remember?"

“There was a nice house back there,” he said. I sighed. The tooth-rattling road was taking us miles and miles away from our usual route, heading north when we should’ve been heading east. I said nothing. He was the one who suggested we follow the car’s route, after all. “We’ll consider this a lovely Sunday drive,” I said.

“Sure,” he answered. Buttercup continued to sleep in the backseat like the angel she is. Since my navigator was completely falling down on the entertainment side of things, I became the tour guide. “Look at the water!” I said. “Put your phone away. You love this stuff. It must be a reservoir.” Readers, this would usually delight him, but let’s just say that a day away from his lawnmower and other various power tools makes him grumpy. “Yes,” he muttered. “It’s the Croton reservoir.”

“I set a few books up here,” I said.

“I know,” he answered. No further comment. I heaved another sigh. We pulled onto an unfamiliar highway, thick with terrifying New York and New Jersey drivers. The console told me my battery was at 18%. We had about 65 miles to home, and the car said we had 67 miles available, which is a lie. I know my car. It would need charging. ““Where’s the next charging station?” I asked. “You said there were a bunch along the highway.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “That was on the Merritt. We’re not on the Merritt.”

“Well, maybe you could find one,” I said. He tapped at the car console, then his phone. Because he was definitely not entertaining me, I started to tell him about a book I was reading, a common conversation topic. “Anyway, the father dies, and—Jesus!” A car had nearly clipped my back bumper as I was slowing for the exit lane. It swerved around me on the right and slipped through the very small space between my car and the tractor trailer in front of me. I braked.

“Honey, you’re too nervous!” my husband barked. “And you get too distracted when you’re telling me these stories!” Rude! I had not made a single error, and I was the one carrying the entertainment part of this trip. “Is this not the appropriate exit lane?” I snapped. “And is it my fault that this guy’s an idiot?”

“You get jumpy and zone out when you’re involved in these stories.” He ignored the fact that my love of stories is why I’m an international bestselling author. Oh, readers, it was so hard not to whip that one out. I said nothing to punish him, and we sat in traffic for the next eternity. Death-taunting drivers flew past the exit lane, then tried to force their way in closer

to the ramp. I, of course, would never do that. McIrish (who would) sighed yet again. Since I was not speaking to him at the moment, I didn’t even comment when another tractor trailer jumped the divider to the exit ramp and tried to force his way in front of our car. I did not react, nor did I let the idiot trucker in. I was cool as a cucumber. Had I not just completed a 2800 mile solo drive across country without a single incident? I had. Did my spouse show any respect for this? He did not.

The car told us there was a fast-charging EV station at Western Connecticut State University just eight miles of bumper-to-bumper traffic away. We nudged along. Buttercup wagged her tail during a happy dream. Finally, I got off the highway and followed the directions to the college. Drove up the hill and looked in the parking lot. No charger. Drove down a hill and looked in another. No charger. The map on the console showed a flag where it should be. In real life, there was an empty field. “It’s probably behind that building,” McIrish said. I dutifully turned around and drove around the building. Nothing. “I don’t think they actually have one,” I said. “This happens. They might be planning to put one in later.”

“Let me drive,” he said, like that would make a difference. I got out, took Buttercup, gave her some water and strolled around while McIrish zoomed silently away. “Hello,” I said to a student worker who was emptying trash. “Do you know where the electric vehicle charging station is?” He did not, but admired Buttercup, who wagged eagerly.

Moments later, McIrish came back to tell me there was no EV charging station on the campus. “They’re probably going to put one in later,” he said, echoing my words from seven minutes earlier. “Then maybe we should find another one,” I said through gritted teeth.

Off to the Holiday Inn parking lot we went, 1.8 miles away. Another app. I downloaded, filled out the fields, verified, opened the app and was told that the charger was broken. “There’s one across the street in the grocery store parking lot,” McIrish said. “A Chargepoint.” We had that app. We even had a little card to wave in front of the console to start juicing up.

The little card didn’t work. McIrish called the help line and, after several terse moments where he said, “I don’t know my password,” he learned he could use his credit card after all. He plugged us in. The charger was the slow kind. It estimated it would take 11 hours and 19 minutes to fully charge our car. We sat, staring at the dashboard. We only needed about 65 miles to get home. Still, the charger was about as strong as the kind you use to plug in a light. This was going to take some time.

“Go buy Buttercup some dog food,” I ordered, since it was two hours past her suppertime. McIrish asked if I wanted anything. I did not (because I was still irked from that comment about me being a nervous driver). When he came back, we fed Buttercup. Then I went in the store to buy Chapstick. I perused some flowers. Went back to the car. Took Buttercup for a stroll so she could be admired and adored. She tried to eat a few cigarette butts and straw wrappers. I took her back to the car. “I’m sorry I was irritable,” McIrish said. He has mastered the art of the apology after three decades under my tutelage. “Do you want to get some food?”

“No,” I said. Then, as we waited and waited for Chief Brody to amp up enough to get us home, I said, “Yeah, sure.” We walked over to Burger King. I stood outside with Buttercup and said yes as passersby asked if they could pet her. My sister texted me to say she had the most wonderful Mother’s Day, and both her girls gave her unusual and thoughtful presents. My other sister said she was at home, working on art projects for her college students, watching a movie. I texted back to say I was in a parking lot, waiting for fast food. I sent them a photo of the moon rising. They laughed.

Then McIrish and I took our food back to the car, popped the hatchback and ate our burgers. Finally, Chief Brody was ready to go. We got in the car, secured Buttercup and headed back to the highway. About halfway home, the car flashed a warning light: Battery dangerously low. Charge immediately. There was no way in hell we were going to stop again. At ten o’clock, five hours later than planned, we pulled into our garage, two miles left on old Chief Brody. “Made it!” McIrish said smugly. “Next time, we should—”

“I’m going to bed,” I announced, and I did. Next Mother’s Day, I vowed, I would stay home and do absolutely nothing.