Bethlehem County Bus Number 615

I’m not exactly sure when it happened, but my mother has changed a lot. She used to be one of my favorite people. Now all she does is ask questions, try to micromanage my life, and embarrass me just by being who she is. Of course, she still throws in an occasional hug, which – if I’m lucky – I’m able to sidestep when I see it coming.

It’s amazing how fast people change, especially when you’re not expecting it. So when Mom became the substitute driver on Bethlehem County Bus No. 615, the bus I take to school every day, I died a thousand – no, make that two thousand – deaths.

It would have been fine with me if she’d been my bus driver when I was in first grade and imagined that the yellow bus was a ship carrying me away from dry land into rough seas. Or in third grade when the bus seemed like a menacing rocket launching me into a classroom with Mr. Pealesmen, the worst teacher I ever had. But I didn’t want Mom to be my bus driver now that I was in eighth grade and she could watch my every move through the rearview mirror.

Why, why, why did Mr. Armstrong, our regular bus driver, have to make a blundering body check in the men’s hockey league and throw out his back?

Mr. Armstrong was the kind of bus driver who only cared about getting kids from point A to point B with all their body parts intact. Mom does that, too, but she CARES – with capital letters! What I mean is, she cares about what’s going on in kids’ lives. Really, she’s like a social worker disguised as a bus driver. I feel sorry for her clients who are trapped on the bus and unable to escape. Can’t Mom see that kids are annoyed with her when she pays attention to them? Doesn’t she understand that they don’t like her?

I especially feel sorry for Christine Dietwieler because I know that Mom watches her like a hawk. Every day. And especially today since it’s the last day before the holidays, and yesterday at suppertime Mom said, “It’s going to be a tough Christmas for the Dietwielers.”

It’s so annoying when Mom states the obvious and makes it sound as if she’s saying something wise. Of course, it’s going to be a tough Christmas for Christine’s family! Everyone knows that. So why talk about it?

Frosty windows

This morning from my seat in the middle of the bus I watched as Mom opened the bus door and Christine plodded up the stairs. I prayed that Mom wouldn’t ooze sympathy all over her and that Mom’s eyes wouldn’t well up with gushy tears like they usually did when she felt sorry for someone. Just like every other day, I knew she’d say something to Christine like “It’s good to see you,” or “Say hi to your dad from me” or “You look nice today.” Why didn’t Mom just ignore the kid? It was obvious that Christine didn’t want Mom to talk to her.

I shot a warning glance at the rearview mirror, but Mom didn’t look back just then. She worked that rearview mirror like a pro, picking and choosing when to look at me through it and which of my warning glances to pay attention to and which to ignore.

I quickly rearranged my backpack on the seat beside me so Christine would have to choose one of the empty seats behind me. Ever since her tragedy, I didn’t know what to say to her. But she stopped by my seat and asked, “May I sit here?”

I nodded, and moved my backpack over.

When I looked up, I caught Mom spying on us in the rearview mirror. She smiled. I’d seen that

“I’m proud of you” smile before. I used to like it. Not anymore. I wiped the frosty window with my mitten and looked out at the drifting snow along Middle Road till we arrived at our school.

Later in class Christine sat beside Pauline, three rows over from me. While we waited for Mr. Tyson to start morning devotions, Pauline talked nonstop with Christine as if nothing had happened to Christine’s mom in the barn on Crispin Road.

Mr. Tyson hurried into the room with a bundle of papers in his hand. “Class, sit down and let’s get started on devotions,” he said. “I’ll read Luke 2 – the Christmas story – and I want you to focus on the gift Mary placed in the manger: Jesus, God’s gift to us. After I’ve finished reading, I’d like each of you to write a paragraph or two in your journal about the most special Christmas gift you received this year.”

Lily’s hand shot up. Mr. Tyson must have known what she was going to ask because he said, “I know. You haven’t received your Christmas presents yet. That’s what you were going to say, right, Lily?”

She nodded.

“We know that Christmas isn’t about receiving material things. And neither is this writing exercise,” Mr. Tyson said. “It’s about gifts you’ve received, like a special event you experienced or an encouraging comment someone made to you. It could be an act of kindness someone did for you or a funny joke you heard. Or it could be about a time you experienced God’s grace and strength. Spend some time thinking about it, and write it down. Later I want you to share what you wrote with the class.”

Why do teachers make us do stuff like this? I wondered. I knew right away what I was going to write: about the time in July when I camped with my family and finally got the courage to jump off King Kong rock into Gurd Lake. But didn’t Mr. Tyson realize that Christine couldn’t possibly have something good to write about after what her mother did to herself? Sometimes teachers don’t think before they talk.

After Michael (the guy I like) had seriously chewed the top of his pen for several minutes and finally scribbled what I knew would be a brilliant sentence or two in his journal, Mr. Tyson said, “Finish up, and then you can share with the class what you’ve written.”

I didn’t pay much attention until it was Michael’s turn. In that deep voice of his, which only squeaks once in awhile, he said, “Our team won the Bethlehem County soccer championship. I was the goalie. I was great! The team was great!” For some reason Mr. Tyson didn’t seem as impressed with Michael’s paragraph as I was.

Tangled up

Then it was my turn. I wasn’t nervous when I read my paragraph, but my stomach flip-flopped when Mr. Tyson asked Christine to read her paragraph. Everyone knew that Christine was a great writer because she had often read her stories in class. Before her mother died, most of the stories that she wrote were hilarious. We always liked hearing them. But everyone was fidgeting now.

What gift had Christine received?

“Josie’s mom gave me a card.”

Everyone looked at me. I gulped. Couldn’t I ever get away from Mom?

“Inside the card she wrote about something she once saw in her garden,” Christine continued without looking up from her page. “She told me that in her backyard she had seen a vine – I can’t remember its name – that had grown into the shape of a question mark. She said she looked twice because it was so amazing. But there it was. The next day she looked again, but she didn’t see the vine shaped like a question mark. She thought the wind had forced it down into the tangle of the other vines. But she said that didn’t mean that the question mark vine was gone. It was still there in the tangle of the other vines. And she said that she knew I had lots of questions, too – you know, about my mom. And maybe I always will. Josie’s mom promised me that even when life went on for other people and they forgot that I had lots of questions, she wouldn’t forget and neither would God. She said that if I ever wanted to talk to her about my questions, I could. And God could handle my questions, too. That helped me a lot.”

Christine shut her journal and stuck it into her desk. “Thanks for sharing your stories about the gifts you received,” Mr. Tyson said to all of us. “Put your journals away now. In five minutes we’ll go to the auditorium and watch the primary students present their Christmas play.”

Later after school I sat at the back of the bus as we headed home for the Christmas holidays. I glanced at Mom now and then in the rearview mirror and thought about how Michael had brushed past me in the hall on the way to the auditorium and had said, “Cool mom, Josie!”

When I looked at Mom again in the mirror, she caught my eye and smiled. Before I could stop myself, I smiled back. Like I said, she knows how to work that rearview mirror like a pro.