46. Then
Then: July 12th, 17 years ago
“Girls’ Trip”
M om never mentions anything about her upbringing. She told me once that both of her parents were deceased and she’s never mentioned any siblings, cousins, or anyone. When I was younger I’d ask why she doesn’t like to talk about her past, and she usually responded with big arm circles in the air, waving me and my questions away. We don’t need to live in the past, silly. We are living in the present. The past doesn’t matter.
I’m not so sure that’s the truth though. The past shapes everything we are. For better or worse. Sometimes I feel like I know her better than anyone. After all, she’s the only real friend I’ve ever had. But when it comes to something simple, like if we were similar as kids, I wouldn’t have a clue. Because my mom only lives in forward motion, never looking back.
I can’t recall the last time we took a vacation. We’ve never ventured too far outside of our cozy town, Atlas Creek. Except for the few hiking trips we’ve made. But they are always day trips, never overnight stays. Some could say my parents shelter me, and maybe that’s true. But I’ve never resented them for it. I’m a bit of a homebody myself. I don’t mind though.
So, on a Saturday morning in early July, when Mom tells me over IHOP pancakes that we are packing our bags when we get home to drive all the way to California, I nearly choke. She can’t be serious. Only, she one thousand percent is. Dad can’t go, just us girls.
Girls’ Day. For real this time.
She’s in one of her playful moods, and I don’t want to burst her bubble, but I need to know more about what exactly she’s planning for us. We’ve never even driven out of the state, and why California?
After we finish our breakfast and hurry home, she immediately follows me into my room. She’s never in my room, and yet here she is going through my closet, tossing shirt after shirt at me to stuff inside my suitcase. A lump sits in my stomach, and I can’t help but feel like maybe this isn’t such a good idea.
“Mom… why are we doing this?” I tread carefully as I slowly fold the shirts she’s tossing at me, making no move to add them into my suitcase, yet.
She throws another shirt into the air and I catch it. She laughs in return. “Really, P? We’ve always dreamed of going somewhere like this together, just you and me. It’s going to be so much fun. It’ll be warm and sunny, and we can spend all day at the beach. The beach! Can you imagine it?”
This time she turns around and faces me. Hands on her hips. “Don’t tell me you don’t want to go?” She challenges me.
I know better than to challenge her when she’s like this. Yet I can’t push away the nagging feeling inside. I feel it in my very soul.
I sigh and set another folded shirt aside. “We’ve never gone anywhere that far before, and I hate to leave Dad behind… Are you sure he can’t come along too?” What I should also be asking is if Da d knows the details of Mom’s plans for this trip, because so far she hasn’t given me much—which is typical, but still.
“Fine, P. Don’t go. I’m still going though. My bags are already packed. I was only trying to help, but if you don’t like the idea, then stay here.” She throws her hands in the air and starts to walk out of my room.
Panic suddenly seizes me. She has been a little on edge the last couple of days. I can’t quite put my finger on it, yet she seems jumpy and quick to make decisions. Like right now. Sometimes she disappears during the day for hours, and to be frank, I don’t know that I can fully trust her judgment.
This time she’ll be gone for at least three weeks… I can’t let her do this on her own. I’m afraid if I let her go this time—she won’t come back. I can’t let that happen. I leap off my bed, some of the folded shirts crashing to the ground, and I throw my arms around her. We rarely touch, but this time I do. I hug her, tears welling in my eyes, and I don’t let her go.
“Mom, I want to go. I’ll go with you,” I whisper into her soft hair that smells of vanilla and honey. She wraps her arms around me softly and kisses the top of my head. She doesn’t say anything else, but she doesn’t have to. We are going to California for three weeks. Without Dad. But at least she won’t be alone. Neither of us will be.
I was shocked when Dad said we could go. He didn’t put up a fight, but he made sure I had my phone with me. I’m a fifteen-year-old girl, of course I wouldn’t go anywhere without my phone. I don’t text a ton, but I made a few friends towards the end of the school year that I message here and there. Dad hugged me goodbye and reminded me that he would be no more than a phone call away.
Turns out Mom has a sister who has been living in Cali for the past seven years. They just reconnected (no idea how) and she invited us to come stay with her. I am excited to meet my aunt. We have a family after all. Who knew?
I can’t help but wonder if this aunt, who is a stranger to me, isn’t a stranger to Mom too. Maybe she’s the reason for Mom disappearing. Mom would never admit anything outright though. She would just deny, deny, deny.
My aunt lives within walking distance of the beach, so that’s nice. She’s shorter than my mom and has lighter hair and eyes. Her name is Margaret, but she insists I call her Margie. If I knew better, I’d say they weren’t sisters at all. But I don’t know that for a fact, and I don’t want to ruin this trip for either one of them. I can’t squash Mom’s “Girl Trip,” even though when she’d said that I’d assumed it meant us . Not some long-lost sister she’s never once mentioned before.
Who knows, maybe Mom is telling the truth about her. Maybe this doesn’t have to make sense. Maybe it just is. Mom doesn’t go into details about her past, and maybe Margie is part of that past. For the sake of this trip, I won’t question it. Sister or not, in the end, it doesn’t matter that much. As long as it makes Mom happy coming here, I’m on board with it.
Margie, my “aunt,” cooks for us the first two nights, and then something unexpected happens. Mom wakes me up early on the third morning to announce that she and her sister are going into town for the day. She doesn’t ask me to tag along but says there is plenty of food in the kitchen, TV I can watch, or I can spend the day at the beach. She tells me not to wait around for them, that they will probably return late. The awful feeling in my stomach returns, but I just nod and say okay. What else can I do? Beg her to let me tag along? Maybe, but I don’t.
I find leftover lobster mac in the fridge and reheat it for lunch. I decide to spend my day at the beach. I bring along a journal and a novel. I read for two hours straight and then start working on a story until sunset. I head back to my aunt’s beach house, but it’s empty. I don’t know what time they return, I’m already asleep.
The next morning Mom greets me the same way. This time they are checking out antique shops and shopping in local stores. She promises to buy me something and bring it back for me but again doesn’t extend the invitation.
I can’t help but be a little disappointed, but I don’t mind the solitude. It’s nothing I’m not used to, besides I enjoy listening to the sound of the waves crashing along the shore.
It goes on like this for the rest of the vacation. Mom had said we’d be here for three weeks, and miraculously, she kept her word. Three weeks to the day, we start the long drive back home. She came home with all sorts of new things. Totes full of books, paintings, and small pieces of furniture she is able to stuff into her small car.
Music blaring over the speakers, windows cracked, she yells over to me from the driver’s seat, “Did you have a wonderful time in Cali, Sweet P?”
I can hardly hear her, but instead of reaching for the volume dial, I shout back, “Yeah, it was nice.”
“Nice,” she repeats.
I can’t tell if my lack of embellishment has upset her.
“I enjoyed the beach, Mom,” I try again.
“It was nice, wasn’t it?” she says more to herself than to me, and that seems to satisfy her. She leans back in her seat. I think for her this has honestly been a dream vacation. In her eyes, she’d done nothing wrong.
The next time we stop and fill up with gas she asks me to drive for a while so she can rest. I say okay and drive for five hours straight while she sleeps the entire time. This trip was far from perfect, but I am glad I came. Because at least this way, I know she’s coming home with me.