Road Trips and Remembering

Our yearly road trips began at seventeen.

It had started out as a dream between us. She was always the more fantastical one, longing for an adventure and an escape from her home and the reality that came with it. She would show me the pictures on her Pinterest boards of beautiful sunsets over magical looking mountains and large forests full of mystery. She was silly like that, squealing as she showed me a picture of a beach, shiny rocks on its shore. 

I was the realist, the one who realized how impossible and expensive it would be to visit all these places. But it was hard for me to point that out to her, to crush the beams of excitement that seemed to light up the world around her as she spoke. 

As luck would have it, our school planned a trip for those going into their senior year. We were going to Florida. It’s amazing how vividly I remember the way her face glowed when we heard the news.

She was consumed with the details, everything from our outfits to the itinerary. I smiled as she danced around, basking in the light in her happiness. 

Unfortunately, a month before the trip, my school cancelled it due to lack of funds, returning our money and giving us their deepest apologies. My friend was distraught. I comforted her, trying to figure out a solution. 

It occured on me that we didn’t have to go with our school, that we could still make the journey ourselves. The money had already been set aside, and we were old enough to drive from our home in Georgia to Florida. 

We suggested the idea to our parents and hers and after a lot of questions and deep discussions, they hesitantly agreed. Once all the details were ironed out, we screamed and she threw herself into planning once more. 

The morning of the trip I drove to her house, my packed bags sitting in the trunk. She was in her driveway waiting for me, and I helped her load her bags next to mine. She climbed inside, and we began our journey. 

Though it wasn’t the magical journey with all of our classmates we had imagined, I loved it more because it was just the two of us. We discussed stories of our childhood and recalled our favorite memories together. We listened to the playlist she’d made up and danced along to our favorite songs.

She was most excited to see the ocean for the first time, but it was the road trip that brought me the most joy. 

The five days we spent in Florida were wonderful, filled with selfies and laughter and inside jokes and lots of souvenirs. The beach were amazing and all of the architecture, buildings, and landscapes were beautiful, but my favorite part was the hours we spent in the car together. 

The next year we had our second road trip. This time it was on our way to college. She wanted a career in writing, I wanted to design technology. We made our way through the country, going through the Appalachian mountains and up onto the Gateway Arch on our way to Minnesota. We stopped in Chicago and spent some time there, looking around and shopping a little. We reminisced about our last road trip and how much fun we’d had as we unpacked our bags into our dorm room. 

College seemed to fly by. The classes and new people we met all blended together in an excited blur. At the end of the first year, we both were happy but exhausted. And so, once again, a road trip was on our mind. 

We drove home, taking the scenic route. We hit some different landmarks and interesting places along the way. She seemed more relaxed this road trip, as if she’d found her place in the world and at college and was content. Though our other road trips were more about the destination for her, this one was mostly to give us a short break from the pressure and overwhelmingness of college life. 

Three years passed like this, the craziness of college combined with the excitement and refreshingness that accompanied our trips. We both worked hard and did our best, and finally we received our much desired degrees. Her smile and exhilaration were contagious as she clutched her diploma on graduation day, surrounded by family and friends.

It was then that we finally entered the real world, finding jobs that suited our skills and apartments that fit our personalities. We lived close to each other, a short hour away, but it was the first time we’d been more than five minutes from each other. It was odd to not show up to her house randomly, to live alone after all those years with family and college friends. 

We would visit each other often on weekends, sometimes going on short overnight getaways together, just to relive the excitement of the road trips we’d done in the past. It was something I looked forward to, anticipation filling my chest every time one was close. 

Two years passed as we slowly adjusted to our adult lives. She published her first novel and I helped design a best-selling game. I met a man in my office, and we slowly became friends. When I was twenty four, after getting permission from my dad, he proposed. 

One weekend in September, we planned a day trip to a lake near her house. She had seemed off recently, her texts seeming oddly pessimistic. She barely had any friends besides me and though her first novel had been well received, she was having trouble with the draft for her second one. I knocked lightly on the door, and she opened the door slowly, her heavy eyes staring at me, unblinking. 

Worry crept into me. I stepped towards her and wrapped my arms around her, her small body shaking as she descended into sobs.

I’d seen her break down before, seen her struggle to hold the tears back, but this seemed worse than normal. It was as if something inside of her had collapsed, had broken to pieces. I helped half-carry her to the couch where she leaned her head against my shoulder, tears dripping down her face. I stroked her back, holding her close to me, trying to comfort her. 

“What’s going on?” I asked, using my thumb to lightly wipe the tears from her face. “What’s wrong?”

She sniffled and shrugged. 

I gave her a moment to collect herself. She opened her mouth and whimpered softly. 

“I have cancer.”

Silence stretched sickly across the room. What was I supposed to say?

I wrapped her again in a hug, pressing my lips close to her ear. “It’s going to be okay,” I murmured. “We’ll get through this together.”

She clung to me as if I was the medicine that would save her and I held her back, suddenly afraid this might be one of the last times I would be able to do this. 

We both wept together as she explained to me what her doctor had said to her at her appointment earlier that week. She said it was stage 4 ovarian cancer, and there was little hope. Her surgery was scheduled for the next day, and chemotherapy started the following week.

I didn’t want to go home that night, and so I stayed with her. We had a sleepover, with chocolate and chick flicks, something similar to what we’d done as teenagers. I tried to cheer her up, pulling out the scrapbooks I had made of each of our trips, but she seemed distraught. So I just sat close to her and told her that I was there for her, unsure of what else I could do.

I called in sick the next day at work and stayed at the hospital all day. After surgery, she seemed to be doing a bit better, and had a determined look back in her eyes. She thanked me for staying with her and I gave her one last hug as I left. She’d promised to text me daily with updates with her treatments.

The next week passed uneventfully. I received a few texts from her telling me about her symptoms from chemo but mostly it was quiet. 

I was nervous but the feeling faded slightly as more time passed. She was doing well and the chemo seemed to be working. I drove to her house on the weekends to help her out, my fiance sometimes driving with me. He was supportive of me and my desire to care for her and I was grateful for that. She lost her hair after about a month of treatment, but I helped her find a wig that fit her well, and we had our own little fashion show, laughing and giggling like little girls. 

She had a one week break from treatments in June, and I suggested a road trip back home to see our families. She agreed and together we set off.

This road trip seemed more subdued than the ones we’d gone on when we were younger. We still listened to music and told stories but it seemed a lot quieter and more introspective. Maybe it was the fact that we were adults now and we understood the deep problems rooted into our world much better, or maybe it was the troubles that we currently faced. 

We made it home and had a wonderful week with our families before we headed back. I hugged my friend tightly that night and headed to my own home, grateful for that sweet time and seemingly brighter future ahead.

When you’re expecting something, the shock and blow is much softer. Yes, it is still terrible, but you knew it was coming. 

But when you aren’t expecting something, when darkness comes as a shock and changes everything you once knew, it is as if your entire world has changed. 

That next week, Felicity Mae Johnson died in her sleep due to complications from her cancer. 

I don’t know how long I laid in bed after I heard the news, sobbing and clutching a stuffed animal she’d given me as a kid. Maybe somewhere deep down I’d expected it, but I’d always clung to the hope that she’d survive, that she’d made through. Even though cancer was terrible, I thought my friend was strong enough to beat it. 

After the funeral, I walked up to the casket that now carried my friend. I stared down at her lifeless body and swallowed as I thought about the difference between this and the beaming ray of sunshine I’d once known. So much had happened, and it was as if the person in front of me was an empty version of my friend, created just to honor her instead of the living, breathing girl I’d once known and loved, as if she were my very own flesh and blood. 

I slowly made my way out to my car, but I had no desire to go home and no desire to even be with my fiance. Home would be full of silence and casseroles and fake sympathies and I needed an escape, at least for a while. I just couldn’t imagine my future without her. 

Her family had honored her life with flowers and soft music playing, but I wanted to honor her in my own way. I felt as though I knew her better than almost anyone, and she would have been more happy with something crazy and happy than a calm, sorrowful occasion. 

I decided to honor her memory by taking one last road trip.

I drove along the familiar roads to the grocery store, made my way onto the gravel roads that took us to our childhood homes. Tears flooded my vision as I drove, realizing I’d never be able to hug her again, never be able to wipe away her tears, never be able to reminisce on our past, never able to dance to our favorite songs. I’d never be able to go on a road trip with her again, never be able to laugh with her over our inside jokes. 

After a moment I realized I’d never be able to live with this grief. I wanted instead to focus on the good memories with her, to be grateful for the times I had with her. Though I was still grieved with losing her and overfilled with sorrow for her passing, I didn't want to waste the rest of my life wishing she hadn't gone. She wouldn't have wanted me to do that.

She’d been the best friend I’d ever had, and I know my childhood wouldn’t have been the same without her. She’d laughed with me, cried with me, watched scary movies and helped me have the courage to audition for college choir. She’d given me confidence and happiness no one else could have possibly given me. She would have wanted me to enjoy my life, to spend the rest of it doing things that made me happy, even if she wasn't here to be happy with me.

And so I took a deep breath, smiled, and let myself be overwhelmed with thankfulness for Felicity.