The Highway

Her mother glared at the sky through the bug-splattered windshield then slammed back into her seat, arms crossed.

“Should have gotten a motel,” she grumbled, cutting her eyes at her husband.

He squeezed his fist around the wheel, his knuckles turning white as he glared straight ahead at the open highway. “You know we can’t afford that.”

“Maybe if you didn’t blow all our money every month,” she said.

The girl leaned her forehead against the window in the backseat and watched the fields of green rolling by while she searched for wildlife. She’d heard bison were in Wyoming, sometimes blocking the roads as they crossed. They said Pronghorns bounced across the fields on spring-like legs. She didn’t think she’d see a bear from the road, but oh, how she wanted to. Especially a mother. She’d heard they were violently protective of their cubs.

The girl had spent the last two days the same way, trying to find something to look at, something outside she could focus on instead of what was happening right in front of her. It was a three-day drive to her grandparent’s house if they didn’t run into trouble. She hadn’t been there since she was too small to remember, but she’d spent years studying the stacks of photographs Meemaw sent, every one notated in her grandmother’s neat cursive.

“Peonies, August 1984,” one was labeled—a picture of her grandmother’s flowers. She wasn’t really sure why she documented them—plants, her garden, empty fields—but she did. And she mailed a new envelope of photos every month. The pictures of her grandpa made more sense. Meemaw took dozens of him working in his yard, always wearing the same thing—mesh Farmer’s Association cap, blue polyester pants, cotton plaid button-downs—even when the temperatures were well past one hundred.

The girl didn’t know them well, though she wanted to—these quiet people who took time to tend to and celebrate simple things. She wondered what it must be like to be with them.

The girl didn’t know them well, though she wanted to—these quiet people who took time to tend to and celebrate simple things. She wondered what it must be like to be with them. Wondered if they’d show the same care for her as they did for their plants. They didn’t talk much, she knew that. Kept to themselves, mostly, according to her mother. But she thought that would maybe be okay—the quiet. She thought that didn’t sound so bad at all.

Grandpa had a creek, her father told her. And they could go down and fish in the evenings after supper.

“But don’t expect him to talk,” her father added. “Don’t expect to bond. You’ll sit in silence for hours, pulling worms from an old Folgers jar before stabbing them through with hooks. He’ll park you on a bucket and sit beside you without a word as you bob your line from the muddy bank.”

The girl didn’t think she’d mind.

The idea of sitting in quiet was almost unfathomable. Not that it wasn’t quiet at home, but this was a different sort. Every word not spoken buzzed the way the sky does before a storm. Every passing minute was a countdown to an inevitable eruption.

She looked out the window again and watched the dark clouds rolling closer. A wave unfurled toward them—large, white curls rolling across the sky. At least, that’s what she thought it looked like. She’d never actually seen a wave before; she’d never even seen the ocean. They lived five hours from the Pacific, but that was west—a direction they never traveled. Her father only drove south. He only drove home. And he only did it every decade or so.

The photo practically glowed in hues of amber, and she’d sometimes press it against her chest, hoping some of the warmth would seep into her. She’d hoped to climb that tree when they arrived. She thought she might stay up there forever.

The sky grew darker, and she pulled the photograph from her pocket, the one she’d swiped from the stacks her grandmother sent. It wasn’t anything special, just a large shade tree in the front yard. But the afternoon sun behind it shone bright through the branches, illuminating the green veins of the wide, green leaves. The photo practically glowed in hues of amber, and she’d sometimes press it against her chest, hoping some of the warmth would seep into her. She’d hoped to climb that tree when they arrived. She thought she might stay up there forever.

“What, exactly, is your plan?” her mother asked in the front seat. Her father craned his neck to look up toward the approaching storm, then resumed staring at the long, empty highway.

“What do you suggest?” he said.

Her mother shrugged. She rarely had suggestions, only observations. Only questions. Especially for her husband.

Watching her parents sniping at each other in the front seat, the girl wondered how they’d made it here—why they hadn’t split years ago. There’d always been a simmering anger beneath them. Passive aggressive digs hurled through clenched teeth until one or both erupted into full-on insults and shouting. When that happened, the girl slammed her door and sat on her bed, quietly slinging her own loathsome thoughts at her parents. She wanted one of them to throw in the towel. She wanted one of them to leave.

She was jealous of her friends with divorced parents, even though they often moaned about it. They told her how hard it was. How sad. But they clearly didn’t know what it was like when parents fought to stay out of spite. Or stubbornness. Her friends didn’t understand that there were things far worse than leaving. Like feeling broken and alone because your parents insisted on staying together.

It never took long for her dad and his too-short fuse to detonate. It didn’t take long before he was hurling something—or someone—across the room. Her mother seemed to triumph when it happened. She’d dig in, lips curled in a smirk as she sliced him open, her tongue as sharp as a scalpel—cold and precise.

A bolt of lightning crashed onto the highway in front of the car, and the family screamed as thunder cracked above them, the boom so loud, it rattled the girl’s chest.

“Jesus Christ,” her father said.

“I told you,” said her mother. “We should have stopped.”

“There’s nothing I can do now,” he snarled. “Unless you can turn back time.”

The girl wished her mother could but hoped she’d go all the way to the beginning when she tried to change the future.

Her mother didn’t answer as she yanked the road atlas from the glove box. She flipped the waxed pages around the plastic spiral binding until she found their highway. “There’s a national forest campground up ahead.” She pressed two fingers on the page, measuring the distance. “I don’t know where we are, exactly, but it’s there. Somewhere. I think it’s close.”

Another bolt of light sizzled on the road in front of them. Thunder boomed and the sky opened up, dropping large, white chunks of hail. Ice the size of baseballs slammed into the car, pelting the windows with sharp pings.

The girl’s father turned to her mother. “Can you keep an eye out? I’m busy trying to keep us on the road.”

Her mother nodded, but her father couldn’t see with his eyes focused ahead.

“Well? Will you help me or not?”

“I said yes,” her mother growled.

Her father shot her a glance. “You didn’t say anything.”

Her mother sighed.

“I can look for the exit,” the girl said quietly from the back seat.

But her parents didn’t hear her. They hadn’t for years. Not since she was little, when they’d each take a hand and swing her between them, their laughter carrying her high into the warm summer air.

She was pretty sure if she screamed now, they wouldn’t even notice.

“I’ll look for signs,” her mother said. “Just try not to crash, okay?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” her father grumbled.

The girl traced her finger against the window—wet with cold from the barrage of hail still pelting their car. She glanced down at her photo; the edges curled in her sweaty palm. She studied the sunlit tree in her grandparent’s front yard, then huffed a hot breath against the glass. She traced her finger slowly, drawing three vertical hash marks in the steam. Then she drew a slash through one line and whispered, “Two more days.”