Sisters on the Road

A short-story fiction

Photo by Dave Poore on Unsplash

She’s taking me away, and I relish the letting go. She is commandeering the vehicle, just enough room in the trunk for our bags, cooler, tent, canopy, chairs, cooktop, and some inner tubes for the river. My sister and I. A grand adventure is upon us I feel. She promises nothing of the sort with words, just a long weekend away from the mundane. And that is everything.

“What do you want to listen to?” she asks, ever the thoughtful driver.

“Something reminiscent of a hot man that I never have to see again,” I reply.

“Ok,’' she laughs, thinks a moment, then turns on Kings of Leon and the headiness of that distant summer of their popularity fills the space. A very youthful, stoned time. No kids. No serious financial concerns. Fun. That’s all we gravitated towards.

Now, the complexities of meaning have fully infiltrated our lives. Our families, however intact or co-parented, our negotiations with staying in consensus reality, hearing the news, feeling heavy, angry, trapped, sorrowful. And pulling back, social media cleansing, sitting outside on the homogenous suburban patio at dusk to breathe deeper.

“What did Jack say before you left?” I asked about her husband, who would be in charge with their kids while we were gone. A good man (which is hard enough to come by), he sometimes had the habit of going rogue, pulling away emotionally and seeking solitude.

“He was in good spirits, even offering some up to us to make sure we have a good time,” she replied, pointing to the bag near my feet. I rummaged through it and found a bottle, pulled it out. Vodka, an old friend of mine I scarcely visited anymore.

She was more of a ‘good-time-gal’ than I at this point, drinking with her friends I would estimate monthly. And probably to better health than the teetotalers despite recent headlines citing studies that criticized any alcohol consumption. Is zero really better than having a social network you can count on, a group to belong to, a circle to laugh with, cry openly, release the pressure of modern living? Fuck no. Unless you have to abstain obviously. I felt borderline, having played it up to excess early in life and for awhile, long enough. I like psychedelics better anyway. But only occasionally for similar reasons of temperance. The ‘doozy’ ones you can’t easily use in public or casual group setting that I found simple enough to keep in contained relation. She knew this too and asked.

“Did you bring anything? I know you don’t drink much anymore, but thought it would be nice to have the option. I’ll use it myself anyway to howl at the moon.”

“I did, yeah, I got some shrooms for the occasion.”

“Nice! It’s been awhile. I find I need some space around them to integrate everything that comes up, so it’s not a casual Friday night for me anymore either,” she said. “But I can’t deny a little hooch!”

I smiled, imagining us at the bonfire, sipping a slow warmth and belly of amusement that evening. Yet I also began to recall all the times I could not slow down, could not keep the contents of my stomach to myself, the shameful display occurring on lawns, in bar bathrooms, strange stairwells. It shifted me to a serious consciousness, darker, caution and fear rising. I reminded myself that it’s been a long time. I found my center and sense of control, I was safe now. Safe with her. I relaxed with intentional breath to come back to the present.

The early fall air was perfectly crisp and we cracked the windows as we drove despite having to turn the music up louder. It shifted to 80’s new wave, 90’s female artists like Tori Amos, Melissa Ethridge, Paula Cole, and then to 2010’s indie, more of what I still prefer, MGMT and vampire weekend.

We stopped at a gas station and once inside the convenience store, egged each other on to buy all the colorful junk food from our childhood. Little Debbie snack cakes (ho-ho’s, cosmic brownies, zebra cakes), peanut butter M&M’s, fruit flavored Mentos (was it supposed to be a mint? It’s just a chewy candy), and Funyons, those onion flavored chips that I thought were nearly sophisticated at age 9. I never eat this stuff anymore, sometimes let my kids have it, but it suddenly sounded perfect and tantalizing.

When we got back in the car, Erica talked about some physical aches and pains she was having, neck and back issues that would come and go with increased tension in her life.

“I swear, on our worst days together, I just think about Jack’s hands, the magic he can do with them to work my knots…and other things,” she paused, smirking for effect, “and I don’t think I’ll ever leave him. Don’t you miss having that?”

“I do,” I admitted, sighing. Not even so much that I longed for my ex’s strong hands, but the long-fingered, guitar playing ones belonging to the tall man that lived across the ocean. I dared to become entangled in a super long-distance thing. I truly may be mad. I pondered it.

She could see my wistfulness and read the unspoken.

“I don’t know how you do it, but it must be pretty special to withstand the time and space between you two.”

“Thanks,” I replied, “it is.” I stretched my arms out in the passenger seat. “But I’m not trying to dwell on all of that. This weekend is about the open sky of possibility. And that actually does connect us all.”

She nodded, thoughtfully. “You go deep with it, sis. Yeah, that’s true. Space is subjective to what you feel. Your heart knows.” She reached over to put her hand on my shoulder for a moment.

My heart was aching some to be sure. For many reasons several months after my separation, over a year into my divorce. But with her by my side, I could let go easier. To the pain of what recently transpired. To the uncertainty that lied ahead in my career and love life. To a weekend unfolding under the stars, a song held in the brisk morning at dew glint, feet crunching on the path from the rustic bathroom back to the tent, crickets still harmonizing. The hearth of my heart would be lit. I would learn how to do it, yet again.

If you appreciated this story and would like to encourage me to dedicate more time to writing as a single-parent with a day-job, it would be received with the highest gratitude.

Thanks for reading and sticking around,

Valerie L S