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day—“I Ran” by A Flock of Seagulls. My eyes opened to posters of rock stars: John Cougar Mellencamp, Journey, the Blasters.
    “I ran so far away …”
    And then the reality hit me.
    I was leaving home for good. My exit would be less devastating than my dad’s, less catastrophic than Ruthie’s, but it would complete the final chapter in my family’s personal book of exodus. George Bailey may have stayed in Bedford Falls to save the old building and loan, but not me; I was leaving. I showered and dressed, then transported my already-packed bags downstairs.
    The screen door opened to a perfect August day. I glanced out hoping to see Mitchell’s car—the promise of a quick exit and avoidance of a long good-bye—but there was no Mitchell. Only the sun and sky and two acres of freshly cut green grass between our front porch and West Baxter Road.
    “Jack, breakfast is ready.”
    Marianne’s voice and the smells of a country breakfast and brewing coffee drew me to the kitchen, where eggs and bacon sizzled in a large pan. Two glasses of orange juice sat on the table. A stack of buttered toast rested on a plate. I looked to Marianne for an explanation, but she stood with her back to me, cooking at her post in front of the stove.
    “Coffee?” she offered.
    “Yes, thanks.” I settled in at the table. She poured me a cup and placed a carton of half-and-half on the table.
    “I spoke with your Aunt Nancy last night.”
    “Really?”
    “She wanted me to tell you how proud she is … you going off to college and everything. She says you’re getting the kind of education she always wanted.”
    I poured the cream into my coffee, watching it marble and tumble in the black pool. “That’s nice. Tell her I said thanks.”
    Marianne set a plate of eggs and bacon in front of me. Then she shut off the burners on the stove and leaned against it.
    “Are you excited, Jack? I know how you’ve been looking forward to this.”
    “I think so,” I said, uncomfortable with the thought of the conversation shifting to anything remotely emotional.
    She remained there against the stove, her slight frame and sandy hair painting a picture of someone I used to know well—someone I used to call “Mom.”
    “Did you get everything packed?”
    “Packed up yesterday before Mitch and I made the rounds,” I said between bites of bacon. I hoped Mitchell would show up soon.
    “Who’d you say good-bye to?”
    “Scotty,” I said. “Bruce Tinsdale’s already left for Iowa State. Eric and William won’t be around much longer either. We said good-bye to those guys and stopped by some of the old haunts. I saw Frank Willis in town. Saved me a trip to his farm.”
    “You’ve had some good friends here, Jack.” She laughed. “I can still remember all you boys camping out in the woods behind the house. All the mosquito bites … And wasn’t someone covered in leeches from swimming in the pond?”
    “Yeah,” I said. “Those were the days.”
    The clock above the stove read 8:45. “It’s hard to imagine where all the time’s gone.”
    She was right about that. Mitchell would dock the Cutlass no later than nine o’clock. I had just fifteen minutes remaining before takeoff. Marianne and I were already running low on conversation. We hadn’t been like the typical mother and son for years—all of us Claytons divorced our traditional roles years before.
    “Jack, have you got enough for everything … for school, I mean?”
    I nearly choked, but I bit my tongue instead. It was nice of her to ask, but a little late to be playing the part of the involved, concerned parent.
    I thought about money. Working for Bubba’s Subs through the school year. How Frank Willis had asked me to work summers at his farm that first year after Ruthie’s death. Every dollar I made on the Willis farm I saved—every penny, too.
    “You gonna put all that money in a Firebird, Jack?” Frank would tease me, passing my paycheck across his work desk in the