The worst drivers in Los Angeles are not the ones speeding past you or riding your bumper in school zones, but the ones who are so anal retentive they don’t know the difference between the traffic laws and the real rules of the road. In no place is this clearer than at the inappropriately named Los Angeles Airport, LAX, which is not about sitting in a beach chair and having a margarita. Far from relaxed, it’s a public transportation nightmare and for some reason, I always get stuck behind the driver who is convinced that if he uses his gas pedal he’ll wheel out of control.

“Relax,” mumbled my mother.

“Watch!” I declared, pointing to the driver in front of me in his two-story sports utility vehicle. “He’s going to realize the lane ends ahead and will come to complete stop and then try to merge. Ah, ha! SEE!?”

“Well, in New York,” she continued, “The worst drivers are always the ones driving Volvos. They bought the safest car on road because they’re so lousy behind the wheel.”

Drew sat in the back seat, silently smirking to himself. He reached forward and touched my mother’s shoulder. “Mrs. Espinosa, I’m going to miss you.”

“No, you’re not. You’re all sick of me. Hell, even I’m tired of the constant sunshine and blinding capped teeth of the beautiful people around here. Time for real New Yorkers, you know?”

I smiled to myself. My mother--- what a woman. I circled the parking structure, eventually parking in a row of oversized cars in COMPACT spaces. Whoever created that idea is probably a politician. Like I’m going to not park somewhere because it says compact? Give me a break.

As we got out of the car, Drew reached forward and told my mother good-bye, saying he’d rather wait in the car than deal with the impending foot traffic. She nodded, understanding, but then Drew quickly returned to the safety of the car. Odd, I thought. He seemed…well, scared.

The terminal was crowded as another stockade of passengers gathered for the cattle call to New York. My mother clutched her ticket, when a voice boomed behind us, “Mrs. Espinosa?”

We turned, seeing Father Richardson. We all embraced; after all, this was the man that married Drew and I.

“You’re going to New York,” stated my mother.

He nodded, explaining he was taking a vacation to Manhattan to see some shows. A straight show queen? Who knew they even existed.

“Well then, we’ll have to sit together and talk,” she commanded. “Or rather, I’ll talk and you’ll listen.”

We said our good-byes and suddenly I became emotional, knowing I would have not been able to handle the wedding without her. “I love you,” I stated.

Her eyes welled up and she touched my face. “You take care.”

Before I knew it, she was walking to the gate already talking with--- er, talking at--- Father Richardson about God, faith, sex, homosexuals, and movie stars. I was definitely going to miss her.

“How’d it go?” Asked Drew, hobbling to the front seat as I started the car.

“You’ll never guess. Father Richardson was taking the same flight.”

“Oh,” said Drew, clearly disappointed he missed out.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” he retorted, quickly snapping his seatbelt into position. “What?”

Silence borne between us until I admitted, “You’re scared.”

“I’m what?”

“I’ve noticed in public situations, you’re…well, frightened something is going to happen again.”

He was quiet and I knew I struck a nerve.

“I don’t want to hurt again,” he mumbled.

“I wish I could tell you you won’t. But you will, baby. It’s life. Perhaps a cut finger, a strained back--- but it won’t be a ski accident. You’ve had your quota. You’re going to be fine.”

He nodded, then reached over and took my hand, smiling. I swear the entire Universe lights up when my husband smiles.