Hydroplaning

This rain is going to kill you. That’s what you think to yourself as you squint at your windshield, willing the white-gray blur to let up. The rain drops harder, pounding a rhythm a marching band would struggle to match, and you turn the wipers on high speed. If you die in this, will they even notice?

Shaking your head, you press yourself into the back of your seat as the car hits another deep puddle. The edges of this back road are flooding, the road a narrow squiggle of cement that you struggle to keep on. Hitting another deep patch of water, your car sways, and for a moment, you think this is it. Your car is just one more puddle from soaring across the pavement and careening into one of the many pine trees that lines the road. Maybe you should go ahead and secure that seatbelt over you. Why had you taken it off again?

Glancing down at the passenger seat, the answer stares back at you. A long silver bag with black and white tissue paper waving in the current of your heat going at full blast, the gift that you didn’t have time to put together at home. You almost take the wine bottle out and have at it, a last drink of sorts.

Would your sister be upset with you for drinking her gift? No, nothing upsets Ms. Perfect. She’d forgive you immediately, and pull out some expensive vintage wine much more impressive than the vague brand bottle you barely paid twenty bucks for. But your dad will shake his head at you, muttering something like, “That Trish never changes,” and it will cause your cheeks to go red and you’ll reject the expensive wine to prove some kind of point that leaves you miserable.

The windshield fogs up again, but the vent is broken, so you have to lean forward with your sleeve clutched in your hand, and use it to wipe away the obstruction. It fades back in, and your knuckles turn white over the wheel as you stretch over a little more and wipe harder. The car hits a pothole, and you lurch forward, bumping your head against the glass. You pump the brake and lean back, before stopping the car completely.

That was close. You imagine for a brief moment that the hole had been bigger, and your head smashed through the glass. With your head cut open and bleeding, you’d still crawl up the brick steps and thud your hand against the door a few times. The blood would bring out your new pink hair nicely, and your niece would squeal at how you look like one of her My Little Pony dolls come to life. Your sister would make excuses for your bloodied state- “Couldn’t you have just told us you were going to be late instead of making a scene of it?” and there goes your dad again- “That Trish never changes.”

The click of the seatbelt is deafening, despite the rain tap dancing on the roof of your car. The clock shows that you aren’t late just yet, well, not by your standards. For your sister, early is late and on time is a why bother to show up? But this is her dinner party that you promised to go to, even though it isn’t much of a party. Your dad, your sister, and her husband Gary. The niece and the new baby. Will they even care if you fail to show up tonight?

Maybe someone won’t be able to see through the rain, and will plow into the back of you. The seatbelt will keep you from flying through the glass, but then you’d have the airbag to worry about. Does this hunk of junk even have airbags? You straighten, check the rearview mirror, and nod to yourself that the coast is clear. But your windshield still is not. Your boyfriend told you something about this once, well, maybe not boyfriend.

Concentrate, Trish. It doesn’t matter what Cole is to you right now. What matters is that he taught you something valuable in times like this when your vent would be helpful if it only worked. Staying alive would be of optimum importance if you want to worry about the status of your nonexistent love life later on. A shiver runs through you and it comes like a light bulb flickering on.

“The AC?”

“Yeah, it’ll help clear this up.”

“But it’s already cold outside. That’s why the heater needs to be on.”

“Trish, just trust me on this. Next time the windshield fogs over, run the damn AC for a second.”

You sigh at the memory, at the reason the windows of your car had fogged over that night having nothing to do with rain. Shrugging, you turn the dial towards the cool air and punch it to full blast. The windows clear, like blinds slowly opening to reveal the torrential downpour that has yet to let up. You’re tempted to text Cole, to tell him he was right about the windows. But then you’d feel obligated to text your sister, and that leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

You ease the car back onto the road, and squint through the white curtain of rain for the stop sign you take a right at. Who does your sister think she is for moving out in the middle of nowhere? Naomi never thinks of others when making her life choices, but somehow, you’re known for this quality. You suppose that if someone were to look in from the outside, they might agree. You were the one who refused to leave the city, to move closer to home once dad got sick, not that he is anymore.

First born Naomi can do no wrong. Her hair is a silken waterfall, and she never bites her nails, or cusses when something surprises her. She is married with two children and three dogs, living in her huge pristine house in the middle of freshly mowed acres of land with a white picket fence packaging the wholesome image of perfected middle America.

You’re an hour late before you reach the stop sign. Not too much longer now. No one has bothered to call. Isn’t it raining there? Shouldn’t they wonder if you’re okay? In a matter of thirty minutes, you have already imagined three near death scenarios. And what have they been up to?

You can see it perfectly. Naomi has your dad nice and comfy on the big recliner, a glass of bourbon in his hand with the big square ice cubes he likes to clink around while telling a story. Gary has the football game on, and he is shouting at his team that barely wins, but he’s a true fan and will never give them up.

Your niece, Susan, is probably showing off her newest ballet move, which is basically a bunch of different ways to point her toes with fancy words attached. And Naomi will clap her hands, asking her to show another while your dad chuckles and nods his head, as if he understands it all. The baby will sleep soundly in his bassinet that has been moved to the sitting area so that everyone can enjoy him at random.

And here you come, still in your work uniform, because, no, you could not take the day off. Your hair is cut in an asymmetrical bob that your friends consider edgy, but your dad will call a disgrace. You’ll be way too skinny and a little overweight, all at the same time and how will you ever land a husband with that dark make up caked on?

Well, you reason as you pull up the gravel driveway, every family has one and you do manage the part only too well. It isn’t until now that you realize the rain isn’t beating against your car, that you can see the porch as clear as day, can even see inside the open windows. The rain has let you survive this and for a brief moment, you wonder if it delights in your misery. Death would be more painless than what is to follow you inside.

The wet leaves stick to your boots and you try your best not to slip up the stairs. The door opens before you have the chance to knock, and Naomi’s haggard face greets you. “Please tell me that’s wine,” she groans before snatching the bag from you. You stare, open mouthed as she upturns the bag and catches the bottle in her hand.

She doesn’t look like the Ms. Perfect sister you’ve struggled to measure up to your entire life. Her black dress is stained with white splotches and her hair frizzes out from under the top knot piled haphazardly on her head. Her skin is pale and her eyes are dark, made ghostly by the darken circles underneath. She opens the bottle and takes a few big swigs, before gasping and shoving the bottle into your hands.

“Is that Trish at the door?” Gary’s voice sings out. He appears behind Naomi, opening the door wider, and the sounds of inside can be heard. Susan screeching at the top of her lungs to the music of Swan Lake and a baby’s incessant waling.

“Hi, Gary.”

“Little Thomas is crying for you again, babe, and your father would like a refill.” Naomi closes her eyes and nods, and you think that maybe you can hear her teeth grinding together, little perfect pearls made jagged by her sudden frustrations.

“I’ll take care of it. Thank you, Gary.” But it doesn’t sound sincere or even pleasantly fake. It comes out grated and you’re reminded of how the rain nearly murdered you.

“Couldn’t wait till you got here, huh, Trish? Let’s at least get you a wine glass for your next drink.”

Naomi freezes at the backhanded comment and looks at you, her eyes pleading something foreign for her. This is your moment, your moment to drag her under and let her wallow in the muck alongside you. But as you look at her, something in you isn’t as satisfied as you think it should be.

“You know me.” It comes out weak and strangled, which only adds to your lost cause effect, and you manage a guilty looking smile. Naomi closes her eyes, and nods just a fraction to show that she understands.

You hear your dad call out, “That Trish never changes!”, as if it needs to be said at that very moment. But it doesn’t sear you in the places it usually does. Instead, you embrace it.

No, Trish never changes. You take it as it comes, happy to hydroplane through life until you crash into the great unknown. Few people can handle a life like that. Those people who thrive on the impossibilities of imperfection.