Empty Nest: You Did What in a Limo?

Illustration by Robert Weinstock.

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A few weeks ago I got the following e-mail from my son Sam: “MOM,” it began, “GLENDA,* ALLISON* AND I JUST GOT PICKED UP IN A LIMO AND ARE BEING GIVEN A FREE TOUR OF NEW YORK. I LOVE THIS CITY. I am not drunk don't worry. Love you.” The e-mail was sent at 2 a.m. It was now 8 a.m. “Listen to this,” I called to my husband, John, who was getting ready for work in the next room. Halfway through my recitation, John came in half-dressed and launched into an anxious monologue about kidnapping, white slavery, and Sam’s responsibility to young women—friends who had been visiting him—who entrust themselves to his care. John’s darker scenario inspired me to place a just-in-case call to Sam’s cell phone, which he didn’t answer. (Of course, he wouldn’t answer if he had been out until all hours, I reasoned. He was, most likely, asleep—not bound and gagged and on his way to some private compound owned by some international human trafficking ring.) But just in case, I texted Sam: “WHAT????????” I asked as neutrally as possible. “Let me know how this happened, okay???? xxooMOM.”

At first I was not as worried as John, but as I told the story to two friends at lunch and watched the color drain from their faces, I did get a little more anxious. But just then, my cell phone chimed—Sam was awake after his night on the town. Apparently he had been walking back to his dorm with his two comely guests when a limo had pulled up to a stoplight. “Nice limo!” one of Sam’s friends chirped to the driver. He offered them a free tour of New York because, he said, he didn’t have to pick up his clients until 4 a.m. He took them around Manhattan and across the bridge to Brooklyn, let them put their heads through the sunroof, and, even better, open a bottle of champagne and spray it all over the city streets. Then he dropped them off at Sam’s dorm. If you are friends with Sam (which I am), you can see the photos on his Facebook page.

My lunch companions were not relieved by this confession, truthful though it was. Sam jumped into a stranger’s limo? He wouldn’t have jumped in a private car, right? And what if their daughters had been with him? I confess I never reached that level of anxiety, probably because Sam and I have been in touch since the day he left home, thanks to texting, Facebook, e-mail, Skype, and his trusty cell phone. It’s not the same as if he were still living in his bedroom in Houston—and we’re a long way from the days I controlled his every move—but we aren’t experiencing radio silence, either.

I remember very clearly how I communicated with my parents when I went away to school. I called them every Sunday morning—at my small, pricey, experimental college every student had a phone in his or her room—and probably didn’t have much to report, because, frankly, I didn’t go out much. (Maybe if I had, I would have said even less.) Yes, grades were good; yep, classes were fine; indeed, it was cold. On very rare occasions, like when there was really nothing else to do, I wrote them very dull letters. My husband, who is only a few years older than I am, made do with a hall phone he shared with about 20 other people, which means he talked to his parents even less. This was the grim scenario I imagined when we said goodbye to Sam in New York City.

He and I have always had a very talky relationship. I loved hearing all the gossip from his high school—which teacher came in from very long weekends, which kids had broken up and why. Sam was never my best friend—that never seemed like a good idea—but for 18 years he had been a constant in my life, a daily lesson of my limits and gifts, the repository of a love I never could have imagined. Learning to let go was my new project, at which I failed almost immediately. A few minutes after I watched Sam walk down the street, away from us and toward his new life, I pulled out my BlackBerry and texted “Love you.” Within a few seconds he texted back “Love you too.” People can complain all they want about dehumanizing technology, but you won’t hear a bad word out of me on the subject. The fact is, thanks to cell phones, IM, Skype, e-mail, texting, and Facebook, Sam and I have never stopped talking.