Last night, after a rushed dinner, I packed my eleven year old son into the car to drive him thirty minutes to batting practice. The weather was fine. The car seemed fine. And I packed an excellent book that I’d been looking forward to reading. But alas, February, which has always been the most honest and brutal of months, continued her own particular brand of torture.

One moment we were listening to the radio talking a little about the Odyssey, because no matter what people tell you, the kids are alright, and the next minute the check engine light turned on and what had once been my most reliable vehicle abandoned the title with a zest that was both sudden and terrifying. Unable to accelerate above 45 mph, which is not ideal on the highway, I managed to get off at exit 63 and pull into a gas station.

Things were not great.

The guy at the station confirmed this. “Things aren’t great,” he said. “But there’s a place a mile down the road that says it’s open for service. They might be able to help you out. I’ll call for you.”

But being February, there was no answer.

“I bet you can make it one mile,” the guy at the gas station said in a manner that wasn’t entirely convincing.

But, as fortune favors the bold, I proceeded onward. It was arguably the slowest, longest mile of my life, ending at what appeared to be a dimly lit private residence.

My boldness gave way to the good sense I was born with and sometimes exercise.

I kept driving and pulled into the parking lot of a Walgreens.

“Can you get me a snack?” My son asked because he’s eleven and never not thinking about food.

“Sure,” I said because it was warmer in the store than in the car.  I called my husband and then roadside assistance while my son walked the tidy aisles, inspecting the Valentine’s Day cards and snack selection. I bought a chocolate box and we sat at a card decorating station and waited for my husband to collect us, listening to ’90s rock and the cashiers chat about the cost of rent.

When my husband arrived, we were ready to go.

By the time we got home, I was tired and little cranky and trying really hard not to think about how much a new engine might cost because, man oh man, sometimes it feels like no matter how careful we are, we will never get ahead.

And readers, therein lies madness.

And so last night when I laid in my bed waiting for Trish with roadside assistance to confirm that my car made it to my car guy, I thought about when I was little and staying at my grandma’s house. She’d come into the bedroom and turn off the light and crouch down and ask me what I was grateful for. I’d list off all the silly things, making the list as long as possible because it meant a few more minutes of being awake. And when I was done, she’d squeeze my hand and say, “I love you very much.”

So I guess this post is just to say I’m grateful for the extra time with my son and for the fact that I could drive the car off the highway safely and for my ability to keep a level head in a tense situation and to be kind to the people who were kind to me. I’m grateful for the Walgreens in Gray, which is way more delightful than the online reviews would lead you to believe. I’m grateful for my husband and my two boys and my dog and for my grandmother and for the cold and brutal honesty of February.

Updates

My short story “Quick Turnaround” is out in the March/April Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. “The Cottage” is available in A Rock and Hard Place magazine.

You can catch me and a bunch of other crime writers at a Noir at the Bar in Swampscott, MA on 2/20.