Well, we know where we're going

“Well, we know where we're goin' * But we don't know where we've been * And we know what we're knowin' * But we can't say what we've seen * And we're not little children * And we know what we want * And the future is certain * Give us time to work it out…”

-Talking Heads 1985.

"Honestly, Michael, I can work this out," Victor's best friend stands on my porch stoop, shame-faced for my husband. It sucks delivering the news, I know. He shuffles his feet and places a hand on the door frame, leaning in.

“It’s no trouble, I’m here. Let me pack the van.”

The three kids – they’re teenagers, do we still call them kids - stand behind me. Listening.

“Alright, fine.” I give in. At this point, who cares? Michael grabs the cooler and bags and heads out to the silver 2002 cargo van delivered to our driveway by Enterprise just moments ago. He hoists the bags into the back and places the cooler between the rear seats.

“Anthony, give him a hand.” I drop the directive over my shoulder to my oldest. This is, after all, his trip. The autumn leaves have all fallen from the trees and cover the drive, making it slippery. “Careful.” I remind him.

My phone rings. It’s Victor. Great. “Yeah,” I answer it. A pause. “Hello?” I say again. God Dammit. I move outside and hear Vic’s voice. “Hello? Sara?”

“Yes, what?”

“Hey. So, Rob called me into the office about an hour ago and told me he needed me here through the end of the week. The Palace has its Tony Bennet opening, and he doesn’t want Leo to manage the production.” I remain silent. Squirm.

“Yeah.” He continues, “Well, so I won’t be able to do the college thing.”

“Convenient.”

He says nothing, and neither do I for about a minute.

“Hello?” he says again. Jeeee-sus.

“Ok, well, Michael’s here and packing the car. I guess I do this alone. Ironic, ‘cause you always hated the idea of looking at schools.” I let that roll in like a cannonball and sit there waiting to detonate—tick, tick, tick.

“Ok,” he responds.

That’s it? Ok? Blood pulses in my ears.

“Don’t do that.” He says.

“Do what?”

“Don’t bleed all over me.”

“You deserve it.”

“Yes, well, I am in the office, and now my phone is a bloody mess.” His voice rises in anger for the first time.

“Ok, well, I must go. See you in Florida.”

“When do you think you will get there.”

“Who knows.” I hang up.

Michael closes the van doors and brushes his hands together. He shoots me a wave and a thumbs up. He gets into his car and drives off. Anthony joins me at the front stoop. “Can we not go?”

“What?” my head jerks in his direction.

“Ouch.” He holds his hand up to his face.

“Sorry,” I say. And again, “Sorry, but Anthony, the whole reason we are driving down the eastern seaboard to Florida is so you can look at the fifty thousand colleges you applied to.”

“I know, but without Dad.” His voice trails off.

I turn around and go back into the house and shout to all three kids – they are kids - “Come on, get in the van, we’re off.”

***

"The Golden Compass" plays in the van's CD deck as we listen to the audiobook while driving I-95 South. A binder of Mapquest printouts sits on the passenger seat next to me. Anthony is behind me, headphones glued to his ears, plugged into his Walkman. Andrew Bean is staring out the window dreamily in the row after him. Chelsea Rose is tucked in the far back, between the cooler and my overnight bag.

“Bean, help me out,” I shout to my middle son. He climbs over the second row of seats and takes his place next to me. “Read the first map in that binder.”

He flips it open. “To Elon?” He asks.

“Yes.” I lower the audiobook sound.

“It says 95 to the Jersey Turnpike. Tolls.”

“Ok.” The evening is turning dusk, and the north star, Venus, is just rising over the horizon. I cross the NY line—eight more hours to go.

Chelsea calls out from the far back of the van. “Are we going to stop for dinner?”

“Nope, sandwiches in that cooler.”

“Ugh, I’ll be sick eating in the car.”

“Quiet, Chels,” Andrew yells back. I see her sulking frame scrunch farther down into the seat. She pulls her hood low over her brow.

“I want to go to California when we get down south,” Chelsea shouts back to the front.

Bean and I look at each other in confusion. “California?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“Chels, California is not down south.” Her brother responds.

She is silent for a second. “Well, it is if I am facing this way.” She turns left in her seat. Bean and I stare at each other before we burst out laughing. “Ok, whatever.” He says to his sister.

The green sign tells us the George Washington Bridge is coming up in two miles. Upper or Lower, the flashing sign questions me. Upper, I choose. The line for the toll before the bridge is long, but we wait patiently. Our turn arrives, and I hand the attendant a five-dollar bill.

“Thank you.” He responds. “Welcome to Orange County.” I drive on through. The sun seems brighter; wait. Orange County? Orange County, New York?

“Bean, check the map. Are we in Orange County, New York? I thought we were in New York County?”

He puts away his flashlight. It's gotten light enough to see the maps. Flipping to the first map in the binder, he reads “New York County.” Weird. OK. I drive on.

Then it hits me. I glance in the rearview mirror at my daughter. She has her hoodie pulled fully down, obscuring her whole face.

“Chelsea,” I shout. She jumps but doesn’t open her hood.

“What?” Bean asks next to me.

Anthony pulls his headphones off. “What’s the matter? Where are we?”

I call Chelsea again. “Chelsea Rose!”

She opens her hoodie and peers out at me with her huge hazel grey eyes.

“She didn’t,” Bean says, looking at me pleadingly.

“I think she did.”

“Ugh.” He holds his face in his hands.

I stare out at the highway in front of us. The traffic is bumper to bumper. And all the bumper license plates say CALIFORNIA. I gaze out the side window into the sudden sunshine. A landscape free of buildings and flat as a desert extends beside us in either direction, ending in looming white-capped mountains obscuring the horizon. We creep past a highway marker: “Lake Elsinore, next exit.” And another “Laguna Nigel 41 miles.”

“Take us back,” I say as sternly as I can.

Chelsea stares stony-faced out the window.

“Chelsea, now.” No response.

“Chelsea!” Anthony yells, his face contorted in rage. His sister startles and draws into herself again, a pupa of emotion.

“Fine.” She spits out finally. Office buildings and the backs of shopping malls appear on the horizon. The lighted overhead highway sign states, “Exit 8A, Jamesburg/ Cranbury.”

“Thank you.” I sing back to Chelsea. The east coast darkness settles into the van. We drive along, the Golden Compass completing chapter four.

“Hey, Mom?” Anthony leans into the front compartment of the van. “Maybe we don’t see all of them, ok?” He waits expectantly.

The problem is, we aren’t supposed to be in Florida until Saturday, check-in day at Disney. If we don’t stop at all of the seven colleges on his list, we have nowhere to be when we get to Kissimmee.

“Anthony, we made plans. Let’s just keep them.”

“No, but Mom, really. It’s my college tour. I should have a say in where we go!”

” Mom! Here, here!” Andrew is motioning frantically to the next exit. I lean over to see out the boxy rearview side mirror and then jerk the wheel to the right, crossing four lanes of traffic just in time. Horns sound around us. Fuck me.

My heart racing, I respond, “Anthony, enough.” If I had my phone, I’d call Victor to deal with this, screw work. But it's tucked away in my bag with Chelsea.

Anthony sits back, sulking. I go over scenarios in my head of what we could possibly do for two days with no college tours if I give in. Universal? Daytona Beach? I freaking hate last-minute changes. Andrew is covering his ears and staring at me. “Mom, stop!” he says. I realize the pressure has dropped in the van, like a plane descending, and all my children are covering their ears. “Sorry,” I say.

Anthony says, “I wish I had chosen a school in Arizona.” Arizona? Where the hell did this come from?

“Really?” I ask. The streetlights pop on around us on the back road connecting us to I-895 toward Baltimore. And then, just as quickly, they turn off. Almost in reverse, the sun sits up along the edge of the horizon. A horizon dotted with – cactus?

“Bean?” I say, but he is already flipping through the binder of maps.

“Mmm, nope, not in Jersey anymore, Mom.” He shakes his head.

From the back, Chelsea whines, “Moooooommmmm.” And pulls on her hoodie strings ferociously.

I slow the van down, steering it toward the road breakdown lane and then along the curb. It comes to a complete stop. I turn in my seat. “Ant. Please.” His face tells me it's not up for discussion. Before I can say another word, he has the side van sliding door open, and he's on the grass, staring back in at us, arms akimbo.

“I’m not going.” The sun sits over his left shoulder. It is absolutely breathtaking. Please leave it to my kids to ruin a perfect moment in time, God's magenta and orange canvas in the Arizona desert.

“Get in the car.”

“No.”

His resolve is admirable if you're not his mother. “Get in, now,” I say again, steadying my voice.

“No.” He is firm on this.

“Fine, then we will leave you here.” I turn in my seat and shift into drive. Bean looks at me, horrified. “Mom!” He braces his hand on the dash and stares at my side profile. I feel his words in my head…please, Mom, don’t do this. I turn to him. “Fine.” I say and put the car back in park.

Chelsea pipes up from the back. “I'll get us back.” And Bean and I shout in unison, “No!” If she takes us back to Jersey with Anthony outside the car, we won’t find where we left him. Maybe ever.

“Ok, ok.” she says quietly. “But I’m hungry.”

“There's sandwiches in the cooler.”

“And I’m tired.”

“Then sleep, Chelsea!” Andrew yells. And then to me, silently… Mom, can we just get him in the car and get back to where we were?

“Yes,” I say out loud.

“Hey,” Chelsea whines. “Not fair.” She knows her brother is talking behind her back.

“Don’t worry about it.” He snaps back. Then he turns to the open side door and his brother, now sitting dejectedly on the curb of the road. “Ant, just get in the freaking van.”.

“Chelsea, get Mommy her phone.”

My cell flies forward and lands on the center console, bouncing into Andrew's lap. He hands it to me, and I flip it open, dialing Victor's number.

“Good evening, Palace Theater Waterbury. How can I help you?” His secretary patches me through. He answers, and I thrust the phone out to Anthony, who refuses to take it. I put it back to my ear.

“Your son is being impossible.”

“What's going on?”

“He is sitting on a curb and won't get back in the car.”

“What? Why?”

“Because suddenly he doesn't want to see these colleges. For three months, I’ve been planning this road trip. Three months and $270 in application fees, and he doesn’t want to see any of the colleges!” I’m screaming now, my phone burning the inside of my hand.

“Not all the colleges; I want to see a few!” Anthony shouts into the car.

“Sara, calm down, or I won’t be able to hold this phone much longer.” I know his hand is burning, too.

“Victor, you have to fix this.”

"Where are you?"

"Arizona."

“Ok. But what are you doing in Arizona.”

I take a deep breath. “Guess.”

“Oh, no.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, give him the phone.”

I thrust the phone out again at Anthony, who now takes it to his ear. He says nothing. I can hear mumbling from the earpiece.

“Andrew,” I whisper, “Tell me what they’re saying.”

Andrew looks at me wide-eyed. “Mom, no! You told me not to do that.”

He’s right. “I’m sorry. You’re right. Forget it.”

Anthony gets up off the curb and gets in the car. He hands his brother my phone, not making eye contact with me.

The door closes, and we sit silently, each staring out our windows.

“So,” I break the silence. “You want to get us back?”

I start the engine and pull away from the curb. The sun dips dramatically, and suddenly, we are in pitch black. And cold. Tremendously cold. The car starts to skidder around as if on ice. I put on the high beams and see – ice. Pure snowy white ice-covered roads.

“Jesus Christ, Anthony,” I hiss. “Bloody hell.”

Andrew starts to giggle, followed by Chelsea. Anthony sits staring straight ahead. His face lit by the dome light of the van, placid and unfeeling.

I search the dark road for a street sign, a marker, or anything. “Anthony? Where are we?”

No Answer. Fine, you spoiled brat.

“Chelsea, get us back.”

The sun rises dramatically once again, and palm trees surround us. And flamingos. And beautiful orange and vibrant purple birds of paradise along the road's median.

“You kids are killing me.” All three start to snicker, their laughs cascading into guffaws, rolling on the floor, belly laughs, tears from the eye kind of laughter.

I drive along, listening to their laughter, floating in the joy bubble. Over the crest, we see the glistening of an aqua-blue expanse of sea, white birds dipping and swirling over the ripples. Dark-soiled mountains rise next to us, and we swoop down toward emerald-green treetops.

“Ok, guys, time to get going.” And then, just as we turn the corner, the sun disappears, the road becomes heavy with cars and trailer trucks, headlights illuminate our faces, and we are on the turnpike again.”

“I miss Dad,” Chelsea says quietly from the back. Before us appears a sign, Palace Theater, home of the Polo Club, Waterbury, Connecticut.

Oh, Chels. I pull the car up to the front of the Theater and pick up my cell. I dial my husband.

“We’re here.”