Road Trips with My Family, or I'm Going to Kill Us All...Again

There was nothing like a good old Sunday afternoon drive. Bellies full after our post-church meal at the Midway, weather crisp and fall-like or sultrily summerish, off we’d go. Most of the time, it would be the three of us—Dad driving, Mom in the passenger seat, and me, often lying prone in the backseat.

My brother would often be allowed to stay home or at a friend’s house for the afternoon; it was probably his reward for being such a well-respected altar boy in church. Me, I just sat like a lump in the pews until it was time for Sunday School. I didn’t do anything except maybe absent-mindedly pull the thread on my dress hem or pick at my fingernails. No earthly reward for me.

Besides, I was too young to stay home, even supervised by my older brother. He was old enough to stay home on his own but not old enough to babysit me. I’m not sure what trouble my parents thought I’d get into under his watch, but apparently I was a hard-to-handle rascal the minute I sniffed a moment of freedom from parental purview. Me, the kid who never came out of her bedroom and always had her nose stuck in a book. Yeah, I was a problem child.

So away we’d go, the three of us, into the wild blue yonder. Back then, once you left town it was endless blue skies over fields as far as the eye could see. Bucolic perfection. The horizon was miles away, punctuated by rolling hills and barns and livestock. It seemed like I could see as far as forever, and I imagined taking a giant leap to drop down into that forever-land. Heaven on earth.

I’d sit for a while as we headed out of town, whispering hello to the cows in the fields and counting the hydro poles as they flew past.

I’d start to feel a little lightheaded, and sooner or later, my stomach would start curdling. I’d have to inhale as deeply as I could to avoid barfing out the remnants of my breakfast onto the floor of the back seat. I’d close my eyes to quell the feeling of nausea, but truth is, from the time I was a small child I’ve suffered sometimes debilitating motion sickness.

Our expeditions would invariably include hills and dales and winding roads, just the thing to keep my stomach suspended somewhere between my solar plexus and my throat. Being the hypervigilant kid I was, I likely picked up on the generalized emotional stress in the front seat and I could anticipate what would eventually transpire. Of course, that added to my gut fears.

When I closed my eyes, my daydreams took me to the Partridge Family house; they’d discover I was their long-lost cousin, and my incredible singing would snag me a spot in their family band. Back in the day, that was my go-to daydream. I’d be besties with Laurie and marry Keith. Eventually, that is. I conveniently had a select imagination, because of course I couldn’t marry Keith if we were cousins. That would be creepy…wouldn’t it?

I’d snap back to present at that turn of thought. Or perhaps it was a call for self-preservation, alerting me that I’d better start paying attention.

Mom and Dad would be up front; Mom would be absent-mindedly gazing at the passing fence posts, Dad would be wondering if we had enough gas to get home.

Then Mom would say something. Dad would answer. Mom muttered something nasty under her breath. Dad raised his voice. Mom would give him a look. Dad would reply with gritted teeth. Mom would sling a sarcastic vocal punch in Dad’s direction. Dad would swear in a high-pitched squeal. Here we go, boys and girls!

“That's it, I’m gonna drive so fast right into something and kill us all!”

And Dad would floor it and we’d be sailing over the country hills, far too fast to count fence posts, cows and hay bales and gravel all tumbling together in a blurry slush of terror.

I’d freeze in the back seat, quickly rolling over the names of those I was going to miss most and imagining what my teacher would say when I didn’t show up for school on Monday morning.

I’m going to die, I’d conclude. Again. On a drive that was supposed to be a happy family outing, a treat we’d wait for all week. Family time.

This was it; my life would be over at 10, broken beyond recognition. I’d be flung far afield, smashing through the front windshield and discovered face-down in a fresh cow patty. Or perhaps, my lone uninjured hand would be waving out the shattered window, pleading for help.