He Started It(6)

That’s screwed up, if you ask me. Like girls don’t have enough self-esteem problems already.

On the upside, my therapist would probably be crazy proud of me for recognizing such an unhealthy question. I’m going to tell him about it when we get back. Dr. Lang isn’t a real doctor, he’s just a therapist, but I call him Dr. Lang to remind him of what he’s not.

Our sessions are like being on one of those spinning things on the playground—the metal kind with the bars on them. Why can’t adults see how stupid and dangerous those things are?

I ask the same question about my therapy sessions.





13 DAYS LEFT


Felix doesn’t know a lot about the first road trip. He knows it happened, yes, but not everything about it. I know, it’s terrible of me to keep such big things from my husband, but I stand by my decision, even now. Couples who think they need to tell each other every little thing they do or did are destined to fail. All those details build up to a heaping pile of crap and you can’t stay married to that.

But I’m in no condition to go on a walk, so I don’t hide my late night with Portia.

“Good for you,” he says. “I’m glad you spent some time with your sister.”

I want to hit him. It’s probably the hangover.

Even when I get to the diner for breakfast, the rum is still seeping out of my pores. Portia is young, so she still looks good without makeup, and her hair is tied up in a knot on top of her head. Just looking at it makes mine hurt more.

“You guys went out last night?” Eddie says. He looks crisp and ironed, even in a T-shirt and khakis.

Krista is beside him and she’s pouting. I bet she didn’t realize what kind of motels we’d be staying in.

“We didn’t go out,” I say. “We just drank.”

“Yeah, we didn’t go anywhere,” Portia says.

Eddie’s eyes narrow, like he’s about to say something fatherly: We should be careful. We’re not here to party. We have no business drinking alone in a strange town.

But he doesn’t say that. Instead, he smiles. It lights up his eyes and shows off his dimples. Eddie morphs from asshole to lovable asshole just like that.

“You should have asked me to join,” he says. “We need to have some fun on this trip.”

Portia nods. “You need to have some fun. You’re starting to be a boring old man.”

“Thanks.”

“If I don’t tell you, who will?” Portia asks.

“That’s what little sisters are for,” I say.

Eddie is still smiling as he looks over at Felix. “They’re ganging up on me.”

“Looks like it,” Felix says.

“Any advice?”

“Head down, mouth shut?”

“Solid.”

They bump fists.



* * *



–––––

    We return to the motel to get our things. On the first trip, I took an ashtray from every motel room. Twenty years ago, motels like this had ashtrays and matchbooks. All the rooms were smoking rooms. Every ashtray was the same, too, like they were all bought them from the same company: square, with indents at each corner for the cigarettes. Made of glass, I think. They felt heavy and solid and I liked that, so I took them.

I wrapped them up in my T-shirts so they didn’t clink together. When I had five, Grandpa noticed how heavy my bag was.

“Books,” I said.

He gave me a funny look, like it was weird that I’d have books.

A few nights later, my bag was even heavier. Grandpa emptied it that time. He unwrapped ashtray after ashtray, eight in total. “But Beth,” he said, “why?”

I shrugged. “Because I can.”

Grandpa hemmed and hawed, saying what we should do is take them back. If we were honest people, that is. Grandpa wasn’t.

“Keep one,” he finally said. “We’ll drop the rest off at a Salvation Army or something.”

I kept two. Never settle. Even at the age of twelve, I knew better.

Today, there are no ashtrays in the motel room. There’s nothing solid or heavy at all. The room has nothing except some threadbare towels and scratchy linens. No Bibles. The TV is bolted down and the remote is attached to a wire.

This is an unexpected letdown. I leave the motel with nothing other than a drunken night of sleep. As we drive away, I look back at the Stardust sign and think about taking a picture. I don’t, because I don’t want to remember that rat hole.

My husband is one of those picture people. If anything interesting happens, Felix takes out his phone. He’s that guy in the middle of a parade who also records the parade. He recorded us loading our luggage into the SUV, driving away from the car rental place in Atlanta, and he took pictures of the Roundabout. Probably of the Stardust, too. I didn’t ask.

Sometimes he posts the videos on social media, other times he reviews and deletes. Doesn’t bother me. I never watch them. Does anyone? Bet not. Bet you don’t, at least not more than once. Not until someone dies, and then you watch and replay every little thing they did because it’s all you have. I’ve done that.

One day, those pictures and videos may be all that’s left of someone. Pick and choose with care.