The following is an excerpt from "Call Me When You Get There," my memoir about my mom. For an in-depth look, read my 2016 tribute post.

The Gas Leak (1980)

The cartoon's theme song, a catchy jingle that always brought a smile to my face, hummed from the TV as I kicked off my shoes at the door of my grandmother’s house. It was time for Underdog to save the day again. My classmates would be unwrapping sandwiches or swapping snacks back at school, but not me. Every day, I’d slip away from the chaos of fifth grade just as the clock hands inched towards half-past eleven. The playful banter and conspiratorial whispers about crushes on boys, usually underscored by a hummed tune of Rick Springfield's latest hit, would fade into the background for the next hour. My classmates never questioned it much, accepting the oddity of my midday departure with the nonchalance only children could muster.

The lunchtime ritual had unspoken rules; my mother's insistence was disguised as convenience. She'd say, "No need to stay at school when home is just around the corner," as if proximity was a reason enough to miss out. But I knew better. It wasn't about distance—it was about control. The few occasions I lingered at school were marked by the alluring aroma of grilled patties on 'hamburger day,' where my mom played the role of benevolent volunteer, her eyes tracking my every move while doling out her frosted cupcakes.

Yes, the leash was short, and my world was a small bubble defined by the boundaries she set. But within those walls, Underdog and his animated comrades became my silent companions, filling the void with adventures untethered by reality or restrictions.

As sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a warm glow across the living room, my head throbbed with an insistent ache that had been my unwelcome companion since the morning bell.

"Here you go, sweetheart," my grandmother murmured as she settled a can of RC and neatly folded napkin on the tray beside me. Her eyes were soft with concern, but she masked it well with her usual cheerful demeanor.

"Thank you," I muttered, unable to muster more than a whisper. The throbbing in my temples intensified, making the room spin slightly.

Mom appeared then, holding out a plate on which a sandwich rested innocently, its contents hidden within the confines of white bread. It was probably turkey—my favorite—but today, the very thought churned my stomach.

"No..." I pushed the plate away gently, bile rising in my throat. "I feel like I’m gonna barf." My voice was barely audible, a hoarse croak that relayed my misery.

Nausea clung to me like an unwelcome shadow as I lay on the couch. Migraines had been my uninvited companions in childhood, casting a haze over many bright days. They were like storms clouding my vision, unpredictable and fierce, easing only as I marched steadily into adulthood.

"Do you want to stay home this afternoon?" My mom's concern was a soft thread weaving through the room's stillness.

On ordinary days, the prospect of evading classes was tempting enough. But on this day, ridden by genuine illness, it was nothing short of necessary. I had no desire to navigate the rigid structure of school halls when my head felt ready to split open.

I mustered the energy to offer a faint nod, not trusting my voice against the nausea that threatened to overwhelm me. Relief washed over me as understanding and empathy softened my mom's eyes. Today, my absence from school would be justified not by boredom or escapism but by the very real rebellion of my own body.

As I closed my eyes, trying to escape into the quiet darkness behind my lids, I could sense my mom's presence lingering—a guardian watching over me. Despite my urge to be part of the bustling world outside, I was grateful for her protective instincts today. Today, they aligned perfectly with my need for sanctuary.

With a nod, I accepted the cold comfort of a rag from my grandmother's weathered hands. I sank deeper into the couch cushions, the chill of the compress seeping into my skin, drawing the fiery pulse of pain away from my temples.

“I’ll be back,” my mother announced. “I’m going to run to the school and tell them she won’t return for the afternoon classes.”

The back door clicked shut behind her, and Sweet Polly Purebread’s singing pierced through the haze of my discomfort. I tried to focus on the cartoonish mischief, a distraction from the nausea that twisted my stomach in knots, until a blanket of drowsiness settled over me, heavy and warm. With each breath, I felt the weight of my eyelids grow until, at last, they surrendered to the pull of slumber, and everything else slipped quietly away.

The clatter of the screen door slamming shut yanked me from sleep, and then I heard it—my mother's voice, sharp and serrated with panic.

"Everyone was outside," she gasped between sobs, "fire trucks, ambulances... children on the grass with oxygen masks!"

Pushing myself up, the cold rag fell from my forehead as I turned to see her silhouette framed in the hallway, her body shaking with each harrowing breath.

"Carbon monoxide," she said through her tears. "It was leaking into the school all morning. Kids and teachers were getting sick."

A deep, icy dread settled in my stomach. The cartoons, the comfort of the couch, the quiet safety of Grandma's house—all felt like another world away as the reality of her words sank in.

"One teacher... she just collapsed," my mother continued.

My mind raced with images of my classmates and friends sprawled out on the field, their laughter and songs silenced by the invisible threat that had been lurking amongst us.

"The parking lot was swarming with ambulances and fire trucks," Mom choked out.

I slid off the couch, moving toward her on unsteady legs. We stood together in my grandmother's living room, her sobs slowly subsiding into quivering breaths as the gravity of what might have been—and thankfully wasn't—settled heavily upon us both.

My mother's voice quieted to a shiver of its former hysteria; her eyes glazed over with the reflective sheen of distant memories. "It—it's like Our Lady of the Angels," she murmured, her breath catching on each syllable. I’d learn decades later that in 1958, when Mom was just fourteen, a fire broke out at Our Lady of the Angels School in Chicago, Illinois, shortly before classes were dismissed. Ninety-two students and three nuns died when smoke, heat, fire, and toxic gases cut off their normal means of egress through corridors and stairways. Many more were injured when they jumped from second-floor windows, which, because the building had a raised basement, was nearly as high above the ground as a third floor would be on level ground. Although my mom had gone to a different school, the news rocked her neighborhood and was the lead story all the way up to the Vatican.

"Thank goodness you were here," my mom whispered, almost to herself. Watching her closely, I could see the relief etched into her features, grateful that her protective instincts had kept me away from the school.

I often reflect on that day as a stark reminder of how quickly the ordinary can become a backdrop for disaster. It took me decades to realize the paradox of my mother's love—how it was constrained yet cherished, barred yet embraced. I understood that my mother's vigilant protection, often a source of childish resentment, was her invisible shield.

That day, beneath the stillness of the darkened living room, we found solace in the quiet aftermath. I was home, safe, and on that day, that was everything.