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and filling out around the middle, she trundled to the family physician, Dr. Swayze, thinking I was a fibroid tumor gotten out of hand (I’ve been called worse).
    According to Mother, when Doc Swayze gave her the news, she fainted dead away, hit her head on the examining table, and had to get twenty stitches. (Mother always exaggerates, as you’ll learn; it was probably only fifteen stitches.)
    I don’t know what Father thought about my surprise arrival—there was nothing recorded in his daily musings, which stopped just before I was born. Shortly thereafter, he departed for the Great Beyond, courtesy of a heart attack. Guilt feelings that somehow my unexpected (unwanted?) presence may have contributed to my father’s premature exit had haunted me for years.
    Of course, I’m over it now. Aren’t I? And my marrying an older man couldn’t have anything to do with daddy issues. Could it?
    Mother came downstairs looking normal (relatively speaking) in emerald-green velour slacks and jacket, her silver, wavy hair pinned back in a neat chignon. But the blue eyes behind the thick, large glasses were a little wild, even for her.
    “Hurry up, Brandy,” she commanded, in a manner both regal and hysterical. “You know how Peggy Sue hates it when we’re late! And she’s been so thoughtful to have us over for dinner before we leave for the auction.”
    I found it prudent not to point out that I had been ready for an hour. And had packed the car.
    Not wanting to add to the palpable tension, I said simply, “Okay,” and scooped up the pooch, who had been dancing at my feet, knowing something was in the air. When Mother had pronounced that fateful word, “dinner,” Sushi had practically done a back flip.
    With the inside automatic light switches set (which fools no one into thinking we’re home) and the house locked up, we headed out into the crisp fall evening, the kind perfect for burning leaves, if the city hadn’t banned it.
    I had a little trouble backing out of the driveway, what with a U-Haul hitched to my new used vehicle, a burgundy Buick.
    Mother, seated next to me with Sushi secured on her lap, said, “Brandy, dear, whatever direction you want to go, turn the opposite way.”
    This was helpful advice, as long as I ignored her contradictory and (of course) theatrical hand gestures, though I did wonder if her words about turning opposite to my instincts might also work in my rudderless life about now….
    Peggy Sue lived in an upscale housing development on the outskirts of town with her husband, Bob (a CPA), and their only child, Ashley (a senior in high school). To get to this promised land, we had to cross the Red Sea of a treacherous bypass.
    One of the first built in the state—cleverly routing business away from our fair town—Serenity’s bypass was designed with too great a curve factor for drivers to properly see the on-coming, fast-moving traffic, and had no “safe zone” between the four lanes where terrified souls might hole up after a misjudged crossing, waiting for their sobbing to cease and another dangerous opportunity to present itself.
    The bypass was originally conceived with no traffic lights to slow people down as they sped around our little burg…but over the years, in response to the number of traffic fatalities, several lights had been installed—just not at our juncture. Apparently, the intersection where we now sat idling hadn’t racked up enough of a body count to warrant a light. Patience. (Or is that patients?)
    I squinted to the left into the setting sun, wishing I hadn’t blown off my appointment for new contact lenses. Choosing between shopping and my eyesight was no contest. Mother looked to the right, but I had little confidence in her vision with those thick, trifocal glasses.
    I saw an opening in the steady stream of traffic.
    “Now!” I exclaimed.
    But Mother shouted, “No!”
    So I braked, the car shuddered, and so did I. We waited. Another car pulled up behind us