Driving Her Life Away

By Julie Hadler

Mickey's parents have three outdated ideas about pursuing a university degree: 

If a young woman isn't socially adept enough to find nice men to date, her parents should send her to college to get her "MRS" degree.

People with trust funds might as well use them for higher education rather than wasting them on a debauched lifestyle.

Leaving home to attend college is an acceptable way to prepare for a job if you live in Podunk, Montana.

 

The problem is, Mickey lives in Chicago, doesn't have a trust fund, and never met a stranger. It appears she's stuck in a dead end job driving a senior citizens' bus. Is she doomed to a blue collar job while her best friend enjoys life on campus? 

Time marches on, and Mickey has a few awkward confrontations with several passengers: a man with an illicit side hustle, a woman who hoards newspapers--even her chihuahua Napoleon won't behave! Despite these complexities, she finds herself intuitively capable of helping those in distress. Could these skills contribute to the scholarship applications she continues to complete, despite her parents' indifference? 

 

Just when she's ready to scream in frustration, Mickey finds new purpose volunteering for a fundraising committee chaired by a handsome Ph.D student. But at the fundraiser's after-party a hopeful introduction to a potential mentor is interrupted by the appearance of her scofflaw passenger. Will her innate compassion and emotional intelligence lead to a university career, or will she just 'drive her life away?' 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julie Hadler
• Release date: Sep 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201653293

Julie Hadler

Julie Hadler is proud to have been raised in the Iowa City area. She now lives in Chicago with her husband and two daughters. When not writing, Julie has more passionate interests than will fit on this page. A few interests that will always remain are Christian meditation and baking!

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

When you aren't into your job, it's easier to do things that will land you in trouble. Get you written up; fired, even. That's what I said to myself. I wasn't sure I bought it completely, but it seemed a good enough rationalization.

Often I saw Chanelle hoofing it down Austin Boulevard on her way to Ms. Coralee's at this time of the afternoon. Her sister dropped her off at her first client's home at eight, but she didn't have a ride to Coralee's afterward. So I was it.

I drive a PACE Paratransit mini bus equipped with lift for people with disabilities. My route takes me all around Oak Park and the west side of Chicago. Right now I was only carrying Mr. O'Malley, strapped down tight in his wheelchair, which creaked and groaned whenever I failed to avoid a pothole.

A few yards from the next corner I spied Chanelle, sporting scrubs decorated in a sort of Valentine's Day print, loping down the block. Her canvas bag bulged, probably containing a couple of danishes or bear claws for Coralee. It was Wednesday, after all. Easing off the gas, stopped for her, though the bus stop was a long way off.

Oh Mickey, you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind! Chanelle greeted me as she stomped up the steps in her rubber clogs and gave me a high-five.

Chanel No.5! How you be? My illegal passenger sailed by me and found a seat.

What time is it? said Mr. O'Malley. You're not gonna make me late again, are ya? Mr. M hadn't been tardy to dialysis in over six months, but I cut him some slack. This was life-sustaining medical treatment; not a trip to the Horseshoe Casino.

Chanelle's phone began caterwauling. It might be a client; and a nurse's aide has to be conscientious, so she answered.

As I peered in the rear-view mirror, her face changed from urban-blase to true-believer.

Relax, Coralee; I'm almost there. Yes, ma'am, Mickey got me. Five minutes.

Of course, Mr. O'Malley figured this scenario needed his comment.

Mickey, why do you keep doing it? She's not on your route, he said, jerking a thumb in Chanelle's direction.

We ignored him; he seems to think he's better than Coralee because his aide is private-pay and Chanelle works for the Illinois Department on Aging.

Though I was a good six blocks from Coralee's, Chanelle rose from her seat.

Can you hurry it up, Mickey? Ms. Cora says she can't get outta bed. Says she didn't fall, but I don't know...

Coralee had been known to embellish a story on occasion; such as maintaining she never had a second slice of Louisiana Crunch Cake. You got to watch diabetics real close, Chanelle says.

We arrived in front of Coralee's two-flat without incident, and her aide bounded out of the bus, cell phone pressed to her ear.

As the vehicle tilted to the right by a few inches and then righted itself, Mr. O'Malley rolled his eyes. I reached for the lever and closed the heavy passenger door; then noticed Chanelle trying unsuccessfully to enter Coralee's foyer. Why wasn't it unlocked like usual?

Just a minute, 'Nell, a voice drifted down from the upstairs window toward the street, both loud and wavery. I got a plan; just stay there, honey. Don't you go nowhere. Turning toward the shaky voice, Chanelle strode into her front yard and gazed up at the second-floor.

Ms. Cora, Chanelle yelled, hands planted on her ample hips. What you doing up there? Let me in right now.

I turned on my hazards and tripped down the steps to join her on the front lawn. Is she okay?

Girl, I got no idea; she sounds like herself, though, she said.

Taking my turn tugging at the front-foyer door, I failed like  Chanelle had. Now I'm at least ten minutes behind schedule. Sure enough, when I stole a glance at the bus, Mr. M was gesturing angrily at his watch and beckoning.

We gave up on the door and stood in front of the building; shielding our eyes from the sun and focusing on the distant voice.

Already I told you, I can't do them stairs today, 'Nell. Got this key all set, though. Just a minute, almost ready...

Should I call 911? What was her eighty-something brain concocting now? Then a clunk came from above. Chanelle and I craned our necks and squinted against the light reflecting off the half-opened windowpane. A cotton string appeared out of the window and gradually increased in length, easing down the brown brick wall below. A key dangled at the end of the string.

Fer goodness sake, Ms. Cora, said Chanelle, shuffling side to side to line herself up with the strand as it bounced down the side of the building. You a crazy woman. The key now hung only five feet or so from the ground, and she grasped it and tugged gently.

Okay, I got it; you can let go. Everything alright up there?

Silence. Chanelle shifted her eyes back and forth between the key and the second-story window as she unknotted it from the string.

Now it was my turn to consult my watch. What I saw wasn't welcome, but the peril of Coralee fixed me to the spot. She had already pushed the key into the lock and was jiggling it left and right while shaking her head and muttering something about needing Jesus and the Holy Spirit now!

Mickey, just wait a minute til I get this, okay? I think, no; dang it!

After a few more tries she let me have a crack at it, but it wouldn't budge. We'd have to call the fire department. Worse yet, Mr. O'Malley was going to be really late.

Then a high-pitched voice broke through the extraneous street noise.

"'Nell, I figured something out. Why you can't move that key. I gave you the one my sister used before Reverend Tommie told us to change the locks. After them gangbangers was giving me trouble, you remember?" Wanting to encourage a condensed version of the story, we nodded with enthusiasm.

A round brown face beamed down at us. I found the right one now. Here it comes, watch your heads!

Mickey, that woman might not get no more bear claws this week, my friend said, sighing.

Can I have hers, then? Chanelle laughed and handed me the paper bag stained with deep-fryer oil.

When I pulled into the Fresenius Dialysis Center twenty-five minutes late, Mr. M scowled at me from under steel wool eyebrows. Later I wasn't surprised to learn someone had reported me. This would be my second time getting written up. According to my supervisor, one more time, and I was fired.

CHAPTER 2

When I was thirteen I became obsessed with going to college. It didn't matter much which one, as long as I