Deborah Davis

Leaving By the Lake

Deborah Davis

They could see her from the rear view mirror, standing outside the apartment building, waving one gloved hand at them halfheartedly as the car pulled away. It was colder than usual that late afternoon in November, and cloudy. A tiny person, barely over five feet tall even in her heels, she looked as if she might blow away in the Chicago wind. They watched the small, solitary figure as the drove away. The moving van was just ahead; it proceeded carefully down the narrow, tree-lined street. Driving the three blocks east to Sheridan Road, they could see Lake Michigan, blue and brilliant, extending to the horizon, going on forever. Choppy, aggressive whitecaps disturbed the lake's calm on this blustery day. He drove his family on to bigger things. She grew gradually smaller, fading away. The car turned south and she was gone from view. Evanston was left behind, and so was his mother.

Chicago's north shore was home and always had been. He'd come here at the age of ten, with his parents, to Hubbard Woods. He graduated from New Trier, and four years later from Lake Forest College. He went to work in the Loop. He married and took up residence in an Evanston apartment, three blocks from Lake Michigan. Leaving, beginning a new life in a new place, had not occurred to him. But his Chicago office offered a transfer to Dayton, Ohio and he jumped on it. “Better money,” he announced at the dinner table. A house, a yard, no more apartment living. “It'll be fun to live in a new place,” he said. It'll be great! You'll see.”

His wife paid attention to her food. His ten­-year-­old daughter asked, “But what about Grammy? We can't leave her here alone!”

“She can come visit,” he said. A bone thrown, an attempt at reassurance, a bit of repentance–he was well aware of their attachment to each other. Well aware. How could he explain to his daughter? He loved his mother, but he needed to have his life. After years of dealing with his parents' troubles, he sometimes felt as if he couldn't breathe.

And wasn't he doing the right thing? His household came first, after all. Priorities, he reminded himself, assuaging his guilt. Only two men in his office had been picked for this round of promotions. He should feel good about this! Just yesterday his mother had said so herself. “Good for you, Stevie,” she said (she still called him Stevie in spite of his thirty­-six years). “I'm proud of you! I know you'll all enjoy your new home.”

Her stalwart expression pierced his heart. He looked away, besieged by the memories. Chicago. The places, too many to think of at once, all the places that had been the backdrop for their lives together. He didn't like to think of leaving these places. Taking the Northwestern into his office on State Street, daily, all these years.

Weekend drives up the shore, weekend evenings at the Palmer House for dinner. Afternoons at Wrigley Field. The nights at Evanston Hospital when his daughter was born, when his father died. Watching the lake's tide come in; watching it go out. He didn't like to think of deserting his mother. All of her relatives lived in Dallas. Through all the years of his father's alcoholism and illnesses she had leaned heavily on him, her only child.

Three months ago his father died. In those months she had spent every day and evening with Steve and his family. Every day and evening. He was eaten up, torn, trying to be there for her. And now, a chance to escape. He packed boxes. She would be all right, he told himself. She had a nice apartment. She could drive. She would be all right.

She was back in Evanston, at her apartment, alone. He was headed to Ohio where he would have some time with his wife and daughter, some space of his own. Traffic was heavy on the Outer Drive. Their car moved slowly, allowing them a good look at the city. Crossing Belmont, they looked out over the yachts, safely docked until their next travel. The museum campus greeted them from the south, old buildings with strong pillars. Buttressed by skyscrapers to the west, the Chicago skyline was a sight that never changed. He looked at it as if he were seeing its beauty for the first time. He drove on. He could breathe.