The Long Way Home

The Long Way Home

By: Stacey Dorenfeld

I didn't want to go.

Not because I don't love my brother.

I do.

But addiction wears everyone down. It doesn't just consume the person using drugs. It slowly consumes the people who love them, too.

My brother is finally sober. After his latest overdose—heroin laced with fentanyl—he now lives in an assisted living facility in La Mesa. That's another story for another day.

I'd been carrying around enough guilt about not visiting that I finally decided it was time.

So, Monday morning at 7:45 am, my Aunt Bobbie climbed into my brand-new electric Mercedes SUV, and we headed south.

The battery was fully charged.

Life was good.

Actually...

Life felt really good.

We stopped at Starbucks because every road trip should begin with Starbucks.

Then Ralphs, where we bought candy and snacks for my brother.

Somewhere along the drive I realized something.

I was actually looking forward to seeing my brother.

That surprised me.

One hundred sixty-one miles later we pulled into La Mesa.

My battery still showed 45 percent.

Perfect.

I wasn't worried.

Why would I be?

Mercedes had told me charging an electric car was simple.

"Just plug it in and go."

Seeing my brother was harder than I expected.

He has aged at least ten years since I last saw him.

Drugs do that.

Your heart remembers who they were.

Your eyes introduce you to someone else.

We toured the assisted living facility together.

He showed us his room.

The dining room.

The little courtyard.

I tried to picture him building a life there.

He tried to picture himself somewhere else.

When we left, the three of us climbed back into my Mercedes.

I figured I'd simply charge the car while we spent the afternoon together.

How hard could that be?

Our first stop was a ChargePoint station tucked inside an apartment complex.

The chargers were there.

The only problem was that they were in the secured parking garage and I could not get in.

So, I drove around in search of another charging station.

A few miles away, at a neighborhood park, sat another ChargePoint station.

"This has to be right," I thought.

I got out, grabbed the plug, walked back to my Mercedes...

And...

I couldn't even get the plug into the car.

Seriously?

Was there a button?

Was something locked?

Was I doing something wrong?

At this point I had owned the car exactly long enough to know how to drive it.

Charging it?

Apparently, that was graduate-level coursework.

I called my son.

He patiently walked me through what little he could over the phone.

Eventually, I managed to get the charger plugged into the car.
Success.
Or so I thought.
I walked back to the Mercedes expecting to see the battery climbing.
Instead, the dashboard calmly informed me:

Full charge: 6:30 a.m.

Six-thirty...
the next morning.

Eventually, I realized this wasn't the rapid charger I needed after all.
It was one of the slower ones.
Honestly, by then I had no idea what was going on.

So instead of wasting time sitting in a parking lot waiting for a battery to charge until sometime the next morning, we decided to make the most of our time together.

Surely, we'd find a fast charger later.

Besides...

Target probably had charging stations.

I mean...

Target has everything.

Doesn't it?

We spent the afternoon with my brother.

Target.

A television.

Headphones.

Clothes.

The little things you buy when someone is trying to make an unfamiliar room feel like home.

Then BJ's for lunch.

I honestly thought BJ's might have charging stations, too.

If they could feed half of San Diego on a Saturday afternoon, surely, they could charge one electric car.

Apparently not.

After lunch we stopped by the bank so I could give my brother a little spending money for the month.

Would the money change his life?

No.

But maybe, for a few days, it would remind him someone still believed in him.

Sometimes that's enough.

Eventually we drove him back to the assisted living facility.

He climbed out of the car.

I hugged him goodbye.

Then I stood there and watched him slowly walk back inside.

At the time, I thought saying goodbye to my brother was going to be the hardest part of my day.

I had absolutely no idea what was about to happen.

Bobbie climbed back into the passenger seat.

I started the car.

Now all we had to do...

...was find one fast charging station.

And head home.

If you've never owned an electric car, let me save you a lot of trouble.

No...

Target does not have charging stations.

Neither does BJs.

Apparently, the people who decide where charging stations belong have never actually needed one.

Bobbie and I waved goodbye as my brother slowly walked back inside.

I started the car.

Battery: 38%.

No problem.

One fast charger.

Thirty minutes.

Then we'd head home.

At least...

that was still the plan.

The next charging station looked promising.

Until it didn't.

Then another.

And another.

One had a cracked screen. Not just cracked—the afternoon sun hit it at exactly the right angle so I couldn't read a single word.

Perfect.

The next station proudly informed me there was...

No Internet Connection.

Wonderful.

At this point my battery was dropping faster than my confidence.

Every time I got back in the car, my son had another address.

"Try this one, Mom."

Off we went.

Meanwhile, my Mercedes navigation system kept directing me back to another ChargePoint station. By now, I trusted my son a whole lot more than my navigation system.

Every single time I pulled into another parking lot, I thought,

"This is it."

It never was.

Then...

Electrify America.

Finally.

Now we're getting somewhere.

The charger accepted my credit card.

Victory.

I picked up the charging cable, walked over to my Mercedes...

And it didn't fit.

How does an electric charger not fit an electric car?

Seriously?

I opened the trunk.

There was my adapter or so I thought.

"Ah-ha!" I thought.

"This is it!!"

It wasn't.

I stood there staring at the charger and, what I realized was, it was the portable plug in my hands. What is an adapter?

Then at the car.

Then back at the charger.

By now I had officially entered the stage of the day where I began questioning my own intelligence.

My son was still trying to rescue me over the phone.

Patiently.

Very patiently.

Far more patiently than I probably deserved.

Then he sent me to Tesla.

Surely Tesla knew how to charge an electric car.

I found the station.

I climbed out.

Looked for the adapter.

Pulled the portable charger out of its case.

Nope.

Still wasn't the adapter. What are they talking about?

At this point I honestly had no idea what I was looking for anymore.

Battery: 36%.

How could something that was supposed to be so simple...

feel so impossible?

Then my navigation sent me to a place labeled...

Restricted Area.

Restricted?

Restricted for who?

The military?

Employees?

People who actually knew what they were doing?

Or just me?

By then it was after five o'clock.

Driving as the sun sets isn't my favorite thing anymore.

My eyes get tired.

My patience had already packed up and gone home hours earlier.

Still...

I drove into the "Restricted Area."

Why not?

Nothing else had worked.

The chargers looked exactly like every other charger I'd already visited.

Which wasn't encouraging.

I stood there squinting at another screen I couldn't read.

Bobbie was laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

Honestly...

by then I was laughing too.

Because once your day reaches a certain level of ridiculous...

there really isn't much else you can do.

That's when I saw him.

A man walking toward his car.

"Excuse me!"

He turned around.

"Can you help me, please?"

His name was Ali.

For the next twenty minutes, this complete stranger became my personal charging consultant.

He downloaded apps.

Scanned QR codes.

Moved from one charging station to another.

Tried the "Restricted Area."

Then the "Unrestricted Area."

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

I was beginning to think my Mercedes had personally offended the entire city of La Mesa.

Finally, Ali looked at me with genuine disappointment.

"I'm so sorry," he said.

"I wish I could get it to work."

Imagine that.

A stranger cared more about getting me home than the charging stations did.

He wished me luck.

And just like that...

he disappeared back into his own life.

By now I had another problem.

Actually...

a very urgent problem.

I had to pee.

Not the kind of "I should probably find a restroom."

The kind where every woman over sixty starts negotiating with her bladder.

Ali told me there was a Starbucks nearby.

Perfect.

Except...

there wasn't really a Starbucks.

There was a Starbucks.

With only a drive thru.

No front door.

No lobby.

No restroom.

Seriously?

Even Starbucks had betrayed me.

Back into the car we went.

Next stop...

McDonald's.

I don't remember ever being so happy to see the Golden Arches.

I practically ran inside.

Relief.

Sweet, beautiful relief.

When I came back out, I looked at the dashboard.

Battery: 24%.

Sixty miles left.

Home was more than one hundred twenty miles away.

I finally admitted what I'd been refusing to admit all afternoon.

I wasn't getting home.

Not tonight.

Now I am the kind of person that always looks for solutions to a problem, and this was definitely a problem. 

I called AAA.

I've been a member since I was sixteen.

Surely, they would save me.

The dispatcher cheerfully informed me that someone would be there in...

Two and a half hours.

Two and a half hours?

Should I wait?

Should I keep trying?

Then my son called again.  He had already found another station.

But by then I'd spent hours chasing chargers.

Hours driving through unfamiliar neighborhoods.

Hours convincing myself the next one would finally work.

I was done.

Bobbie looked at me.

I looked at Bobbie.

French fries suddenly sounded like a perfectly reasonable dinner.

So, we ordered fries.

A Diet Coke for me.

Then we waited.

And somehow...

the waiting became the best part of the day.

There was nothing left to do.

So, we waited.

French fries.

A Diet Coke.

Bobbie beside me.

Battery: 23%.

AAA had quoted me two and a half hours.

Maybe sooner.

Maybe not.

By then I'd stopped believing in "maybe."

About an hour into our wait, my son called again.

"Mom, I found another rapid charger," he said. "I'll send you the address."

I just sat there for a minute.

Normally, I would've gone.

But by then I'd spent the better part of the afternoon driving from one charging station to another, convinced this one would finally be the one.

Every single time...

I was wrong.

Somewhere along the way, I'd lost faith in charging stations.

My luck, I figured, would be leaving McDonald's, driving another twenty minutes to a fast charger, only to discover it was broken...or slow...or needed another app... or another adapter...or was hiding behind another apartment complex.

No.

I was done chasing chargers.

I'd wait for AAA.

For the first time all day...

I wasn't going anywhere.

So, Bobbie and I turned up the music.

As the sun slowly disappeared behind the buildings, 100 Years by Five for Fighting came on.

I watched the sky change from blue to orange and then slowly fade into evening.

Without warning...

I started to cry.

Not because of the car.

Not because I was stranded.

Because I'd just spent the day with my brother.

Because somewhere between childhood and yesterday...

he had become an old man.

And somehow...

so had I.

The song ended.

A few minutes later If I Were a Rich Man from Fiddler on the Roof came on.

Bobbie looked at me.

I looked at Bobbie.

And we both started singing.

Loudly.

Terribly.

Every word.

I could almost hear my mother and grandmother singing right along with us.

I'm pretty sure they were looking down from heaven smiling.

Because if there was ever a day, they would've enjoyed watching...

this was it.

Then...

as if the universe hadn't already had enough fun with us...

Jackson Browne started singing Running on Empty.

Bobbie and I looked at each other.

Then completely lost it.

Of course.

Of all the songs in the world...

Running on Empty.

You simply cannot make this stuff up.

The wait felt endless.

Every thirty minutes, almost like clockwork, I'd look at Bobbie and said,

"I've got to pee."

Back into McDonald's I'd go.

By the third trip, Bobbie looked at me and said,

"You really need to do something about your bladder."

I laughed.

"Oh, I know."

"You should get that bladder lift."

Without even thinking, I answered,

"I don't have time for a bladder lift. I'm too busy waiting for AAA."

We looked at each other.

Then absolutely lost it.

The harder we laughed...

the more I had to pee.

Which, of course, only made us laugh harder.

At some point we were laughing so hard neither one of us could breathe.

Maybe because we'd reached that point in the day where absolutely nothing made sense anymore.

9:35 pm.

Finally.

The flatbed pulled into the McDonald's parking lot.

I have never been so happy to see a tow truck in my life.

Out stepped Jose.

Calm.

Smiling.

Completely unaware that he was about to become one of the main characters in our story.

He loaded my beautiful Mercedes onto the flatbed like he'd done it a thousand times.

Watching my car disappear onto the back of that truck was strangely comforting.

At least...

we were moving.

Then Jose opened the passenger door to the cab.

Bobbie looked up.

Way...

up.

Now, if you've never climbed into the cab of a tow truck before, let me paint the picture.

There were two enormous metal steps with sharp teeth, each about a foot apart.

Not little steps.

Not normal steps.

The kind of steps that probably work perfectly well if you're twenty-five years old, six feet tall, and wearing work boots.

Not so much if you're a seventy-something-year-old woman who accidentally left her cane in her husband's car twelve hours earlier.

"Okay, Bobbie," I said with far more confidence than I actually felt.

"One foot."

She lifted one foot.

"Good."

"Now one leg."

Then another foot.

Another leg.

We stopped after every movement as though we were climbing Mount Everest instead of getting into a tow truck.

Somewhere along the way...

we started laughing.

Not little laughs.

Hysterical laughter.

The kind where you can't catch your breath, your stomach hurts, and your body completely stops cooperating.

Which, as it turns out, isn't particularly helpful when you're trying to lift your aunt into the cab of a tow truck.

The harder Bobbie laughed...

the less she could move.

The harder I laughed...

the less strength I had to push.

Finally, we reached the last step.

The impossible one.

There was nowhere left for Bobbie to go except...

up.

I ducked my head behind her...

and gave her one good push.

Suddenly my entire world consisted of my aunt's backside.

One more shove...

and...

she was in.

I stepped back.

Completely out of breath.

I looked at Jose.

He looked at me.

There was a moment of complete silence.

Then all three of us burst out laughing.

"Well..."

I said.

"That worked."

Somewhere around Oceanside, the conversation wandered from family...

to brothers...

to addiction...

to politics.

Jose told me about growing up with seven brothers and sisters. About the family business. About buying his first home at just twenty-five years old.

Then we started talking about our brothers.

I told him about mine.

About the addiction.

About almost losing him.

About how grateful I was that he'd survived.

Jose told me about his brother. Drugs, prison. Different person, same story.

For a while, neither of us said much.

We didn't have to.

Somewhere along the drive, Jose stopped being the AAA driver.

He was simply...

Jose.

Eventually I found myself explaining why Bobbie and I had been laughing so hard back in the McDonald's parking lot.

"So..." I said.

"Here's the thing about women."

Poor Jose.

He never saw it coming.

I explained our entire bladder lift conversation.

By the time I got to,

"I don't have time for a bladder lift. I'm too busy waiting for AAA,"

Bobbie was laughing all over again.

Jose just shook his head.

"I've never heard it explained quite like that."

Neither had I.

A few minutes later...

I had to pee again.

Jose spotted a Starbucks.

I ran inside.

Again.

When I came back carrying an iced vanilla macchiato for Jose, Bobbie and I ordered our usual Mango Dragon fruit Refreshers.

By then...

Starbucks felt like family.

When we arrived at Bobbie's house in Thousand Oaks, I suddenly realized I had another problem.

I'd somehow managed to get her into the truck.

I wasn't tall enough to get her out.

My uncle couldn't help because he has physical limitations of his own.

Without saying a word, Jose climbed down from the truck and gently helped Bobbie onto the ground.

I walked her safely into the house.

Used the restroom...

again.

Then Jose drove me the rest of the way home.

When we finally pulled into my driveway, it was well after midnight.

I climbed down from the truck.

We stood there for a minute saying goodbye.

I thanked him for getting us home, for helping Bobbie, for stopping at Starbucks, for listening to our stories, and for laughing with us instead of at us.

Before we said goodbye, I smiled.

"I write," I said. "I'm going to tell this story someday."

He smiled.

"I hope I get to read it."

"You will," I promised.

We wished each other well.

Jose climbed back into his truck and disappeared into the night.

I can't wait for him to read this.

The next day I called one of my closest friends to tell her about our adventure.

By the time I finished telling her about the broken chargers, Ali, McDonald's, the bladder lift conversation, and Bobbie climbing into the tow truck, she was giggling.

Actually...

she'd been giggling almost the entire time.

Finally, I stopped.

"What’s so funny?" I asked.

There was a pause.

Then she said,

"I have to tell you something."

"What?"

"I made a bet."

"A bet?"

"Yep."

"What was the bet?"

"That something like this would happen to you."

I couldn't stop laughing.

"Please tell me you bet on me."

She didn't even hesitate.

"No."

We both burst into laughter.

Honestly...

I couldn't even argue with her.

That's when it hit me.

This wasn't just another Lucy moment.

Actually...

this was my life.

I don't go looking for these stories.

Somehow...

they always seem to find me.

As Jose drove us home the night before, every pothole made the truck bounce.

Every crack in the freeway.

Every bump.

Normally, I would've complained.

That night I was grateful for every one of them because every bump reminded me we were getting closer to home.

And somewhere along that drive I realized something.

We spend so much of our lives wishing for smooth roads.

The easy roads.

The perfectly paved roads.

But when I look back...

it isn't the smooth roads I remember.

It's the bumps.

The bump that finally got me to visit my brother.

The bump that introduced me to Ali.

The bump that gave me one more unforgettable day with Bobbie.

The bump that brought Jose into our lives.

The bump that reminded me there are still incredibly kind people in this world.

Without the bumps...

there wouldn't have been a story.

There wouldn't have been laughter.

There wouldn't have been kindness.

Maybe it isn't the well-paved roads that shape us.

Maybe it's every bump along the way...

that finally leads us home.