115 - My Dead Son Warned Me But I Didn't Listen

         For a couple hours, I worked on my memoir, then packed up my writing material, and my computer. Lastly, I gathered my French books and stuffed them into my bookbag. (Now retired, I don’t want to lose the language, plus I want to keep my brain active.)  Probably due to the fact that I had a glass of wine, sugar, my enemy, I felt kind of spacey that morning.  Suddenly I felt Kyle's presence which rarely happens now that he has been up in heaven these last 11 years.  I thought, Hey, how come I can't always get in contact with you? 

     Be careful, he said, in a somewhat commanding voice, totally ignoring my question.

     "And what am I supposed to be careful about?"

     He responded in a calm voice,  Just be careful. Then, pop! Gone. I guess he was busy; usually, we have a few seconds of conversation. But I had learned a while ago that it's difficult to carry on a long conversation with someone who has passed away because you don't have much in common anymore and talking about the past gets a bit old.

     Okay, I thought, I'll be careful, confused about what I'm supposed to watch out for. 

     After packing the car, it was time to wake up Alan, and then we’d be on our way up north to our other house.  I was at the wheel of his Ford Escape, on Grapevine Hwy., with two dogs in the back in their kennel,   I had passed a couple cars; okay, it was more than a couple while ascending the steep hill and decided to slow down once I reached the peak.  I turned on my signal, and as I was pulling safely into the next lane and released the accelerator, I glanced at my speedometer, knowing I should slow down even more. And then I saw him,  a cop car parked at the top of one of the side roads built for trucks that have problems with their brakes. He had something in his hand that he was looking at.  “He got me,” I said.  Immediately, he hopped into his car. 

     Alan gave me a strange look, not understanding because he was on his cell with a client trying to maintain his cool, so I didn’t repeat my comment because, unlike me, I can do two things at once, usually.

   "The black box must be a radar machine." The cop car's light was on but no siren, possibly because he saw me already heading over to the right. I wasn't upset; I was guilty. It took me a while to pull over to the shoulder as there was a sea of cars that day.  At last, I safely pulled over, and Alan gave me a, what's up to look, so I explained again, "Cop, I was speeding." He nodded.

  Yup! He Got me.

     I rolled down the window, and I said through a sheepish grin," You got me!"  I knew I was guilty.

     His boyish hardened face, melted and he laughed, surprised at my admission.  He chuckled slightly, and gave me a crooked grin. “You were going 92. May I see your registration and driver’s license?”

   “Are you sure? When I looked at the speedometer, it read 85.”  Honest, I wasn’t lying. That’s what I had read. Then I wondered if he got me coming up the peak of the hill. I had no idea how fast I was speeding up the hill, but I must admit I had felt like a wild horse leading her pack. 

     He handed me the ticket and said, “I lowered it to 85,” and gave me this big grin. “You can either go to traffic school if you haven’t had an infraction for the last 18 months. I couldn’t find one, so I guess you’re clear.  Or you don’t have to since you haven’t had one for  a while.”

         “I don’t think I’ve had one for about 15 years,” I said as I accepted the ticket. I asked him how I could sign up for a class, and he wrote down the info on my ticket, explaining that I’ll also get info in the mail.  “I think I’ll take the traffic school.”

        “Then the points will be expunged,“ he informed.

        “Thanks,” I said, waving the ticket.”  He gave me a quizzical look. “For at least lowering the speed,” I chuckled.

         He nodded, now understanding, and grinned. “You’re welcome. Have a good day.”

         Alan returned to the car and suggested I follow through on taking the class, and I agreed.  “That ticket is going to cost at least $200. What a waste of money.” I folded the ticket and placed it inside my purse.

       Sowly, I gained speed as the cop followed behind me, probably trying to create a safety buffer, so cars will slow down as I'm trying to get into the slow lane.  

     Only later, after driving for another half an hour, then pulling over to fill up with gas and some pretty dang good roadside tacos, did it hit me. "Oh, shit, that's what he meant."

      Alan looked at me, confused. "What are you talking about?"

      I shared that Kyle had popped in for a split second that morning and said, “Be careful.” He didn’t explain; he just repeated the warning and then split.  Alan ignored my comment and took another bite of his taco, obviously not believing someone from the other side can still talk to a living individual after so many years of being dead.

     Once we returned to the car and I began driving again, I apologized to Kyle for not listening.

     It's okay, mom, his smooth voice replied.   

     I behaved the rest of the trip, but I must admit it was difficult.