folks like to tank up for the last time,” he says.
“Please, no,” says Glinda. “I never want to tank up again.”
“I could use a bathroom,” I say.
We park in front of a diner with a flashing neon sign that reads: MOM AND POP’S DINER—ALL U CAN EAT.
I go in to use the loo and wonder if Cal and Glinda will be there when I emerge. The bathroom smells of fake roses and shit. It has cutesy cartoons of dogs and cats on the walls.
On arrival, we seem to have entered the frozen tundra of America. The entrance to the building is down a snowy path. The place seems deserted, yet a few minutes after we press the bell, a handsome white-haired male nurse greets us. Glinda grabs my hand.
“I need to talk to Glinda alone now,” he says. “You should probably wait outside.”
“Don’t go, Mommo.”
“I think I should.”
“Glinda,” says the white-haired man, a counselor called Jim R., “I need to ask you some specific history of what brought you here, and I think you might be more comfortable talking if your mother isn’t here.”
“Okay” she says.
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