It was a bright, balmy morning when I pulled into the Temple of Doom’s parking lot. 

Willie had an appointment.  

Willie’s primary care provider requested I accompany Willie on her visits with him since her unfortunate diagnosis. 

Which sounds easy enough. 

But for two things. 

One, Willie’s doctor is a 40-minute drive from the Temple of Doom.  

I could exceed my word count explaining why Willie sees a doctor the distance of four KYW Traffic and Transit on the Twos. 

But I’ll simplify it to this: 

Willie does nothing the easy way. 

So instead of, say, evacuating an island four days before a predicted hurricane, Willie might wait until 12 hours before that hurricane makes landfall. 

At the house you’re renting. 

Blowing in the windows. 

And submerging the house in seawater. 

Just, you know, hypothetically speaking. 

The second reason taking Willie to her appointments is difficult is Willie’s lifelong absent relationship with time. 

So when I told Willie I’d pick her up at 7:15 for the 8:15 appointment, Willie said the following: 

“I would think 7:45 is better.” 

And 7:45 is better. 

If we wanted to arrive fifteen minutes after Willie’s appointment. 

When I rolled up to the Temple of Doom, Willie wasn’t waiting. 

To Willie, “I’ll pick you up at 7:15” means “I’ll arrive at 7:15. When I see you’re not waiting out front, I’ll call you. You’ll take fifteen minutes to get outside because you’ll finish loading the dishwasher. And a hand of solitaire. And your toast. All before you get dressed.” 

Could I expedite this by helping my ailing, octogenarian mother? 

No. I couldn’t. 

Alzheimer’s has incapacitated Willie like gamma radiation incapacitated Bruce Banner. 

And you can’t help someone who doesn’t want help.  

It’s why I told Willie I’d pick her up an hour before her appointment.  

One hour minus the fifteen minutes for Willie to get to my car equals 45 minutes to get to a doctor 40 minutes away. 

That is some Alan Turing math right there. 

My family’s casual relationship with logistics was never more on display than the week before.  

I had a lunch date with my aunt, cousin, and Willie.  

We agreed on a restaurant. We’d meet at 12:30. 

My aunt texted me the day before. She needed to talk about lunch. Nothing big.  

Except we couldn’t meet at our chosen restaurant, and certainly not at 12:30.  

A diner would be better. And my cousin had an appointment that day, near my house.  

So I suggested the diner across the street from my cousin’s appointment.  

“Eh,” my aunt said. 

So I suggested a diner between my house and the Temple of Doom. 

“Eh,” my aunt said. 

Also, the timing of our lunch was dependent upon the nebulous length of my cousin’s appointment. 

So I told Willie I’d just have to call her when I was on my way. 

Knowing I’d sit outside the Temple of Doom for 15 minutes while Willie finished the dishes/schooled her computer in solitaire/ate her toast. 

Yes. Willie eats in before she eats out.  

I — I don’t know why. 

If I knew why, I’d know why Willie moved into the Temple of Doom with a carton of expired Egg Beaters. 

Or why she saved a decade’s worth of pharmacy receipts and not five years’ worth of W2s. 

Or why she once picked me up with a gallon-sized Tupperware of wilted fruit salad wedged against her car’s console. 

Or why she believed an oceanfront house is safe during a hurricane because “we’ve come here for 40 years and never had a problem with hurricanes. Did you know you were conceived here?!” 

True story.  

Hypothetically speaking. 

When I heard from my aunt, I called Willie’s landline. 

Nothing. 

I called Willie’s cell. 

Straight to voicemail. 

I went to the Temple of Doom in the absurd hope Willie was waiting for me out front. 

I think we all know how that turned out. 

A trip to a diner a 10-minute walk from my house turned into a 30-minute drive and Where’s Waldo?-style search as I tried to pick out Willie among the Temple of Doom residents milling about outside. 

I’ve been thinking about that Thanksgiving each member of my family thought another member was hosting. 

And I’ve been thinking about that Christmas each member of my family thought another member was hosting. 

And I realized my family’s feud with time is sucking up a lot of my own. 

And that no one ever listens to me. 

When they really should. 

Because I kind of saved Thanksgiving. 

And Christmas. 

And their lives during that hurricane.

Hypothetically speaking, of course.