by Kristin Lenz
The Christmas cactus on my nightstand was loaded with tightly closed coral-colored buds. Grandpa had noticed it that morning.
“How about that. It bloomed at Christmas, and now it’s ready to bloom again at Easter. Watch now, it’ll probably happen while we’re gone, and we’ll miss the whole show.”
I gave the plant a drink of water and hoped it would be enough to sustain it while we were gone. Outside of my bedroom window, the RV loomed in front of the garage, taking up the entire driveway. The cabinets in the tiny kitchen were already packed with food and dishes and games and Grandma’s arsenal of cleaning supplies. I really hoped she hadn’t stashed some mothballs in there too.
I looked back at my box of books on the floor, judging its size.
We still had to load our suitcases, and Kaitlyn’s and Nick’s. But those outside compartments were pretty deep.
I hoisted the box off the floor, grunting with the weight, and poked my head into the hallway. Blue TV light flickered beneath my grandparents’ bedroom door. I crept down the hallway, through the kitchen, and out the side door, my arm muscles complaining. I set the box down on the driveway with another grunt and opened the side compartment.
I rearranged the camping and climbing gear, and hid the box at the back of the compartment. Climbing rope coiled on top, rolled-up sleeping bag shoved in front. I closed the door, then hustled back to the house, shivering in the frigid night air. I had one thing left to do.
Back in my room, my clock glowed green, 11:26 p.m. I rested against my headboard, pillows propped at my back, knees pulled into my chest, phone in my palm. I had spent half of the evening rehearsing what I’d say.
Tom answered on the first ring.
“I was afraid you weren’t going to call,” he said.
The sound of his voice, husky soft, tangled my rehearsed conversation into a knot.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m okay.”
“So this is it, huh? Your last night.”
“I can’t believe it’s here already.”
“I could kick myself for waiting so long to talk to you.”
“Me too.”
“What? Kick me or yourself?”
We laughed together for a second.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you,” he said.
“O-kay?”
“Remember that day at driver’s ed, when I told you I was nervous about driving?”
I rotated my wrist, the beaded bracelets tangled together.
“Well, I didn’t tell you the whole story, about the car accident I was in.”
He paused, and I felt the chill in the air. I burrowed my feet under the covers, scrunching my toes into the soft flannel sheets.
“I was twelve, and I had spent the weekend with my cousin, Adam. He was just a few months older than me. We grew up together and hung out all the time. By the end of that weekend, at his house, we were fighting like we were brothers or something. When it was time to drive me home on Sunday, he raced to the car and called shotgun. I complained and whined no fair, and we were horsing around. And my aunt said, ‘Tom can ride up front, he’s our guest this weekend.’ ”
Tom paused again. “You still there?”
“I’m here, I’m listening.” I twirled my ponytail, worried about what was coming next.
“It seems so stupid now. I mean, who cares if you ride up front or not. And why did I even want to ride up front next to my aunt? Why didn’t I want to sit in back next to Adam?”
“We were driving home, and my aunt turned left at a yellow light, and a huge SUV plowed right into us.”
I sucked in my breath. My fingers knotted in my ponytail.
“The rest of the accident is a blur. Glass shattered, the airbags went off and pummeled me, but I was fine. My aunt was fine. But the SUV had rammed the door where Adam was sitting. And he wasn’t wearing his seatbelt.”
“Oh, no.” I hugged my knees tighter and closed my eyes, wanting to shut out the picture of the accident forming in my mind. Shattering glass, the scar on Tom’s lip.
“I remember my aunt telling us to buckle up, but I guess she didn’t check to make sure Adam did. I mean, he was twelve. But he was sulking in the backseat since we were fighting and I got to ride up front … And he was poking me and kicking my seat, and I half-turned around and yelled at him to cut it out … Who knows, maybe he had his seatbelt on at first, then took it off to switch spots … and it might have been just as bad even if he was wearing his seatbelt. I can make myself crazy with all the ‘what if’ questions, you know?”
“I know.” I had been shoving those same questions down, stuffing them away, for months. What if I had asked my parents to stay with me at the competition? What if they were there just one day earlier or later? What if the rope connecting to Uncle Max hadn’t been severed?
I knew what Tom was going to say next. His cousin Adam sprawled on the ground, motionless. His body battered and broken. Uncle Max swept in the avalanche, pummeled and buried by a freight train of snow.
“He almost died.”
My eyes snapped open, and I sat forward. “He survived?”
“Yeah, he made it, but it’s been a really long recovery, like years. I wanted to tell you, because … I know it’s not the same as what you’re going through, but I wanted you to know I understand, at least a little, how you’ve been feeling.”
“Thank you. That means a lot. I’m so sorry about Adam.”
“Yeah, I was really close to him, you know, like a brother. And it’s been really tough for my aunt, too. There were a lot of witnesses, and the police said it wasn’t her fault. Her car was almost through the intersection, and the other guy came speeding through as the light turned red. But still. She felt responsible. Like she should have seen him coming or something.”
“That’s so hard.”
“Yeah, they moved away so Adam could go to this special treatment program. It’s weird because it feels like he’s gone, but really he’s still here. I kind of said good-bye to him, but not really. It doesn’t even make sense.”
“No, it does.” I was thinking of Uncle Max. He had just disappeared. There was no chance to say good-bye.
“You really miss him,” I said.
“I do, yeah. But more than that, it’s like one minute you feel so alive, like playing basketball outside on a hot summer day, you feel the sun, and you’re sweating, you’re sinking shots right and left, you’re invincible. I’m Kobe! And the next minute you realize you could die. You’re gone, just like that.”
He let out a slow, long breath. In a deep, slow-motion voice, he said, “And that’s why driving freaks me out.”
I smiled into the phone. “So, how did you decide to take driver’s ed? How did you get past your fear?”
“I just decided I had to do it. Suck it up. Get some cojones. The summer program with everyone from school would have been too much. But I thought maybe I could handle a smaller, private class. That way, if I freaked and dropped out, then at least no one from school would know.”
“And then I showed up. Sorry.”
“No, that was good. Just by being there, you helped me push through it. I had to pull myself together so I didn’t make a fool of myself in front of you. That first day we were driving and Mr. Asshat made you take all those left turns?”
“Oh no, just like the accident.”
“No cojones. I almost pissed my pants.”
He was being funny, but I felt the fear behind his joking.
“I saw you going to school every day, making this new life for yourself, and I knew that I could get through a stupid driving class. I’d just figure it out as I went.”
Making a new life for myself. I hadn’t thought of it that way. It didn’t feel that way. It felt like I was clinging to a rock face with no end in sight. I sank back down onto my pillows and snuggled deeper under the covers. “How’s your practice driving going, now that class is over?” I asked.
“Okay. It sti
ll makes me nervous. It’s embarrassing. I’m just destined to drive like my bubbie.”
“Bubbie?”
“Grandma. What do you call yours?”
“Uh, Grandma.”
He snort-laughed. “Wait ’til you hear this, it’s hilarious. My mom is a psychologist, so she’s always trying out her head shrink stuff on me. She gets an idea during the last snowstorm. She drives us to an empty parking lot at night, and says we’re going to do doughnuts.”
“Doughnuts?”
“Yeah, you know, where you crank the steering wheel and stomp on the gas, and your car spins around in 360s. You need a rear-wheel-drive car for it to work though.”
“This was your mom’s idea?”
“She’s nuts, totally meshugna. The idea was to force me to lose control, but in a safe way. Wide open, empty parking lot, no other cars around.”
“Did it work?”
“In a crazy way, it did. It was like being on a rollercoaster, and you’re going up, up, up, and you get to the top and you’re dreading going over the edge, and then you go flying down, your teeth are rattling and your stomach is in your throat, and aaaaaahhhhh! Then you get off, and you stumble around, and you’re like, yeah, let’s do it again!”
I was laughing now. “You crack me up.”
“Good times.”
“It’s good that you pushed yourself to get through it,” I said. “My grandma started off being afraid of driving and flying, and now she’s afraid of everything, to go anywhere.”
“I guess it sneaks up on you, when you cut yourself off from everything, huh?”
“I guess. It’s just easier for her to stay home, where she feels safe. I understand it a little.”
“I had been thinking about you, and how you’re so far away from home. After the car crash, Adam was in a coma, and we set up sort of a memorial at the scene of the accident, you know, flowers and stuffed animals, pictures. There’s a tree at the corner of that intersection, and people kept coming and leaving stuff there. It’s been almost four years now, so nothing is left anymore, but there’s still a part of me that’s drawn there. I just go sit under that tree sometimes.”
“Yeah, I know that feeling.”
I curled up on my side, tugging the covers up over the phone pressed to my ear, Tom’s voice captured in the warm, quiet space.
“Do you think you’ll ever go back to Ecuador?”
“That’s what my dad wants me to do. But I’m not feeling like I need to go there. I just feel like I need to go home. Sitting under that tree probably helps you remember Adam and feel connected to him. All of my connections are in California, back in the mountains at our cabin.”
“Please tell me you’re coming back,” he said.
I wanted to get lost in his dreamy voice, swept up in this romance, but I couldn’t, not yet. My longing for Tom was all mixed up and twisted together with my longing for home. I was tied to California, like a bungee cord that was stretched to its limit.
“I don’t know where I’ll end up. I just know I need to go back to California right now.” I paused. Tom inhaled but didn’t say anything. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just don’t forget about me. I’ll be thinking about you every day.”
His words made my heart skip and spark. “Me too,” I said.
“I don’t want to say good-bye.”
“Me neither.”
“Sweet dreams, Cara. My dad used to say, ‘Que sueñes con los angelitos.’ ”
“Sleep with the angels? Much nicer than my dad saying, ‘Don’t let the bed bugs bite.’ ”
“Yeah, that’s what my mom says.”
“My Uncle Max would chime in: ‘Don’t let the mosquitoes bite. Don’t let the mice nibble. Don’t let the ticks burrow.’ ”
Tom chuckled. “And then you were wide awake itching for hours.”
“Exactly.”
Don’t let the scorpions sting. Uncle Max’s last words to me, the night before he left with my parents to climb Mount Chimborazo, his laugh echoing down the hall.
Tom yawned, and I yawned back, my eyes watering.
“Que sueñes con los angelitos, Cara.”
I smiled and sighed. “You too. G’night, Tom.”
I slid my phone onto my nightstand, switched off the lamp, and snuggled back under my covers. The heat from Tom’s voice slipped away into the darkness. He’d wait a week for me. Would he wait a year? What exactly was I searching for? I wanted to go home, but was it still my home?
The green numbers on my clock glowed 12:01 a.m. My phone chimed with a mini burst of light. Tom. I smiled. He knew my old crappy phone didn’t have emojis, so he’d typed out the words instead. Smiley face with angel halo. Sleepy face with zzz’s. Kissy face. Heart. Heart. Heart.
PART III: CALIFORNIA
Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
—Mary Oliver, “The Summer Day”
50
All aboard! Kaitlyn, Nick, and I were giddy with the hilarity of traveling in the RV. Little stuffed Tahoe took turns sitting next to everyone. Grandpa concentrated on maneuvering the monstrosity through the local streets and onto I-94 toward Chicago. I thought Grandma would sit tucked away in the back somewhere, pretending she was in a house rather than on the road. But she was sitting up front as copilot. I wouldn’t say that she looked relaxed, but she looked better than on any other car trip we’d taken before. Maybe sitting up so high, looking down on all the other cars, made her feel a little more in control, a little safer.
Kaitlyn and Nick looked a little less goth than usual, but it was still enough to make Grandma tut, tut under her breath. I was pretty sure Nick wasn’t wearing any eyeliner; Kaitlyn still wore her thick line of black curved up at the corners of her eyelids, but no purple black lipstick. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She looked cute, and you could tell Nick thought so too. He twirled his fingers through Kaitlyn’s ponytail until she finally swatted his hand away.
We sat on the benches around the table, catching our bags of chips and popcorn as they slid with the bumps and swaying of the RV.
Nick and Grandpa debated the environmental impact of the gasguzzling RV versus cross-country jet fuel if we had flown instead.
“It’s just one trip. Let it go already!” Kaitlyn said.
Grandma had packed a ton of food, filling the fridge and freezer, so we didn’t need to stop to eat. Grandpa pulled over a few times to stretch, and we offered to share the driving duty.
“Yeah, right,” he said.
Indiana, Illinois, and Iowa, were a blur of sleep, music, reading, and card games. We crossed into Nebraska and camped overnight in an RV park, one of those family places with hot showers, an indoor pool, and miniature golf with windmills.
Kaitlyn, Nick, and I roved around the park, the path lit by campfires and party lights strung up outside the RVs. We passed by a neon six-foot-tall palm tree on one site. How did people even call this camping? The sky was clear, but the stars were drowned out in the wash of electricity.
We strolled through humming generators, country music, and crying kids. At the miniature golf place, Nick shook the closed gate, rattling the fence.
“Closed! Aw, come on, it’s only ten o’clock.
“Maybe we’ll have time in the morning.” Kaitlyn pulled him away.
No time for golf the next morning. No sleeping in, either, with all of us crammed into the RV. We’d brought two tents but decided they weren’t worth setting up for the quick stopover. We’d wait until California. Kaitlyn and I had slept on the bunk above the cab, Nick on the fold-down benches, and Grandma and Grandpa got the real bed in the back.
Grandma was up early frying bacon, and the smoky grease hung in the air through Nebraska. When I saw the first car with a Colorado license plate—forest green stamped with a snowy mountain range—I pulled out Walden and flipped through the pages. The cover held on tight with the tape, but the spine was broken, threads visible, and a yellowed p
age slipped out, a passage highlighted and underlined.
I left the woods for as good a reason as I went there. Perhaps it seemed to me that I had several more lives to live.
Mom and Dad were living their life, the one they felt passionately about. They weren’t afraid. Maybe they were still trying to learn what the mountains had to teach. They had separated me from that life. Like Thoreau, I left the woods, but he went deliberately while I was forced to leave. Because I had several more lives to live?
Nick and Kaitlyn leaned against each other on one of the benches, shoulder to shoulder, sharing Nick’s earbuds, heads nodding to the beat. Nick noticed my book. “Hello? This is spring break. Aren’t you supposed to be reading some sappy romance novel?”
“Shut up.” Kaitlyn swatted him.
“Yeah, you should read Thoreau,” I said. “You’d relate to his ‘simplify, simplify, simplify’ motto. He’s a big environmentalist. Individualism, autonomy …”
Nick raised one eyebrow, his dimples flashing. “Fork it over.”
I handed him the book. He carefully weighed it in his palms. “What did you do to this thing, kick it around in the dirt?”
I smiled. “It’s been through a lot.”
Nick’s cell phone rang, startling Kaitlyn. She tugged the earbud out and passed the phone to Nick.
“RV express,” he answered.
A man’s deep voice barked through the phone loud enough for the rest of us to hear, but the words were an angry jumble.
“I’m on the retirement train heading through prairie-ville, where do you think I am?”
Nick held the phone away from his ear. The barking continued.
“We’ve barely crossed the Colorado line,” Nick responded.
He listened for a moment, then stood up and huffed to the front of the RV. “For fuck’s sake,” he muttered.
He handed the phone to my grandpa. “My dad wants to talk to you.”
Grandpa took the phone and assured Nick’s dad that Nick was indeed still with us and would remain in our sight the entire time.
