He Started It(2)

“No,” Portia says. “There’s nothing vegan.”

She isn’t vegan but checks anyway. Portia also looks for wheelchair access and won’t go in anywhere that doesn’t have it because fairness is important.

“Should we leave?” I say.

No one answers. I sit.

The burgers are chargrilled, the fries are crisp, and the bacon is greasy. A fair deal, if you ask me. The only thing missing is decent coffee, but I drink their bitter version of it without complaint. I can be a good sport.

“We probably should get something settled,” Eddie says. He looks like our father. “We’re going to be driving for a while. A lot of gas, food, and motel rooms. I propose we take turns covering the expenses. More than anything else, let’s not argue about it. The last thing we need to do is fight over a gas bill.”

Before I can say a word, my husband does.

“Makes sense,” Felix says. “Beth and I will pay our fair share.”

Only a spouse can betray you like that. Or a sibling.

That leaves Portia. Given that she’s doesn’t really have a career, the deal isn’t fair.

Oh, the irony.

She yawns. Nods. In Portia-speak, she’s agreeing for now but reserves the right to disagree later.

“Great,” Eddie says. “I’ll get this one.”

He takes the check up to the register, because that’s the kind of place this is. Felix goes to the restroom and Portia steps out front to make a call. That leaves Krista and me, finishing those last sips of lukewarm coffee.

“I know this must be terrible for all of you,” she says, placing her hand on mine. “But I hope we can have some good times, too. I’m sure your grandfather would’ve wanted that.”

It’s a nice enough thing for Krista to say, if a little generic. Given the circumstances, I expect nothing less and nothing more.

Still. If everything falls apart and we all start killing one another, she goes first.

You think I said that for shock value. I didn’t.

No, I’m not a psychopath. That’s always a convenient excuse, though. Someone who has no empathy and has to fake human emotions. Why do they do bad things? Shrug. Who knows? That’s a psychopath for you. Or is it the word sociopath? You know what I’m saying.

This isn’t that kind of story. This is about family. I love my siblings, all of them, I really do. I also hate them. That’s how it goes—love, hate, love, hate, back and forth like a seesaw.

That’s the thing about family. Despite what they say, it’s not a single unit with a single goal. What they never tell us is that, more often than not, every member of the family has their own agenda. I know I do.





ALABAMA


State Motto: We dare to defend our rights

We’ve been on this road trip before. Twenty years ago it was Grandpa’s trip for us, the grandkids, and it was because our parents hadn’t been getting along. Lots of yelling, lots of slammed doors, and too many silent meals. Dad slept on the couch but pretended he didn’t, and Mom pretended not to be mad. Not easy for her, given that she was always slamming cabinets, doors, and whatever else got in her way.

Eddie and I were the closest in age and we talked about it a lot, preparing ourselves for an inevitable divorce. We even picked a date: New Year’s Eve. Eddie marked it on his Nine Inch Nails calendar, filling in December 31 with a big X. We bet that by next year our parents would no longer be together.

That was in the summer, when the fighting made the hot days seem even longer. We all lived in Atlanta then, including Grandpa. He showed up at our door in August and he was alone. Grandma had died six months earlier.

Grandpa gathered us all up, sat us down on the couch, and said, “Your parents need some time alone. They need to figure out grown-up things.”

“Are they getting divorced?” Eddie said.

“No, they are not. They just need to be alone, so we’re going on an adventure.”

“What kind of adventure?” I said.

“An amazing one.” Grandpa said it strong and loud, trying hard to convince us it was true.

I was ready for anything other than another day at home. The summer had been long, hot, and miserable. When Grandpa said an adventure would make things better with our parents, I couldn’t get out the door fast enough.

Grandpa drove a minivan. Always had, as far as I could remember, and it was that same greyish-green color as every other minivan. A lot of my friends’ parents had them and I’d been in them a million times. The upside was we had plenty of room to move around if we wanted. There were enough seats for at least six people, so we all piled in and off we went.

First stop: Tuscumbia, Alabama. North of everything, almost into Tennessee. In 1880, Helen Keller was born in a house called Ivy Green and now it’s a tourist site. That was where Grandpa brought us first.

The house itself isn’t large; it’s a simple, white, one-floor building. We went on the tour and learned all about Helen’s silent, dark world and how Anne Sullivan had saved her. The original well pump is still there, the place where Helen first learned the word water and started her long climb out of the abyss.

Outside the house, we walked around the grounds. Grandpa kept going on and on about how amazing Helen Keller was. I can’t remember if I knew who she was before we went there or not. It feels like I should have, but maybe that’s me hoping I knew more than I did.