194. Stranded (2)

Before I even have the time to call my husband, my daughter sends a picture. My first reaction is that it is a beautiful picture. A desolate place, a couple of cars by the side of the road, desert sands stretching to the horizon where the sun is already sinking, red and orange hues matching the browns and ochres of the soil: an evening somewhere far away. 

I look at the photo and think my daughter is at last developing an artistic eye and I am proud as I had given up on this. So I look closer. I can see one of the cars has got its bonnet open and there is even a thin streak of smoke rising from the engine. A proper mise-en-scène: this is definitely really good! A little distance from the car in the hazy background there is a girl talking into a mobile phone. I can feel the dust, the wind and the heat too as it will keep its hold on the scene as long as the sun is up. 

That's when I freeze on the spot. 

This is not art. 

This is not mise-en-scène. 

This is the story behind the 6 AM phone call to dad about oil levels and engine checks. My daughter and her friends rented a car for a girls-only road trip and the car has broken down. And night is approaching. And there are alone, somewhere. Suddenly it makes sense. She calls her dad for help, but her dad is thousands of miles away! And her dad is not panicking at all. Her dad thinks this is an excellent opportunity for a little catch-up session on the basic components of oil engines and to run through the before-you-drive checklist.

I am going crazy. This family going crazy.

Captions follow.

In the middle of nowhere. Truly the middle of nowhere even more so than our house in the Cantal.

Shivers down my spine. That must be bad.

Nice man saw the car smoking- stopped to help - said engine dead.

More shivers. How nice is the nice man? How dead is the dead engine?

I do what she does and call my husband who's probably thinking we all take him for some kind of all-purpose 24/24 call center.

'It's OK. Don't worry.'

...

'They hired a car. From the trustworthy firm you recommended. So she listened to you. But got given a car with no oil cap and they burned all the oil and burnt the engine. They'll get an other one. Don't worry.'

Bip. A caption from my daughter. These two seem to be connected.

'Don't worry. We'll be OK.'

And he gets back to his real work (which has nothing to do with answering calls from stranded daughters and freaked-out mothers). I call my daughter thinking I am turning obsessive, the control-freak in me thinking she can control things from across an ocean. I need to let go. I need to go to work. 

And I am also thinking this is completely crazy. Us parents have lost it completely. We have either read too many parenting books or read the wrong ones, or missed out on the 'preparing for independent adulthood' or 'after the teenage years' chapters. It doesn't surprise me as these chapters are probably right at the end of the book and we must have thought plenty of time for this. AND THIS IS THE ABOMINABLE RESULT.

I call my daughter and I lecture her at great length about 'what did mum and daddy taught you' and the 'have you never listened to us' and 'what about all the driving lessons we paid for' and did we not tell you that 'the lessons on the engine and the car are as important as the ones about the road signs? Have you ever ever listened to us?' I can see her giggling with her friends. I am on speaker now and they all think it is funny! 

'Please! Listen to me!' I speak louder now.

My daughter says: 'Look mum! Everyone of us got a lecture from parents. But you win! But don't worry, it's all going to be okay!'

I want to ask about the nice man but I might be late for work. I also want people around me to stop saying 'Don't worry' to me. I am not worried. I am just being RESPONSIBLE. Well, trying anyway. 

At breaktime I check her Instagram account (the special one where mother is allowed and therefore where news and stories are sparse). There is a short video: a close-up on a police car, shots of girls squeezed behind a chicken-wire screen, an other one sitting next to the policeman who is driving the car. The last shot is the stranded car disappearing in the dusty distance. Mr Nice Guy is standing there waving.

I laugh and relax. Time to go to work.