Road Trip

 Road Trip

a short story by 

Stephanie S. Sommers

Childhood memories are dim things when one has gone a handful of decades past them. Details become faded and are not made clearer with concentration. There are times when it seems that those very memories are actively evading discovery, like they might be wild animals scurrying through the underbrush, not belonging inside anyone’s head. These are the reasons that I doubt my own experience, that I wonder if what I will swear is a real memory of events is in fact fanciful stories a child told herself long ago. I’ll let you decide.

 

I was seven or eight years old when this happened. What I know for certain is that I was with my parents and we were transporting our car on a flatbed. I have no idea why our car wasn’t running and I probably didn’t know even then, nor would I have cared. I do know it was a Cadillac bought second or third or fifth hand because we were not a family that routinely owned luxury items. It was dark red and had white leather seats and huge fins for taillights. At that age I thought the car was the height of style and even now have a weakness for classic cars that has nothing to do with knowing the slightest thing about cars and everything to do with my childhood in the backseat of that car on family trips.

 

My father had borrowed the flatbed truck and loaded the Caddy up with help from friends. After the load up we went to dinner with those friends and I remember my mother worrying about the late start to our trip home. I remember my father was not worried.

 

It would be a long drive and it was dark when we left the restaurant. It being Summer, dark came late, so our delay was significant. Looking back I can understand the tension between my parents but in the moment my child’s mind was unaware that my parents were less than happy with one another. I can’t tell from all these years removed if I had unconsciously picked up on their attitudes or if my reactions were my own.

 

It seemed to me that we had driven for hours upon hours in the dark, not seeing any passing cars or trucks, never passing the lights of any towns. We were on a two lane highway crossing empty prairie, outnumbered hundreds to one by antelope, jackrabbits, and sagebrush.

 

In the small hours of the morning my father pulled over in a turnout and announced he needed a short nap. I don’t remember the conversation but I do remember feeling scared. It was very dark once he turned off the headlights. He decided that he and mom would sleep in the Caddy because it had legroom and I would stay in the cab of the truck. Alone. I did not like this idea one bit but my father was not a man to argue with, so I didn’t.

 

Mom made sure I was bundled up in my coat and told me goodnight, assuring me I would be fine with the doors locked. I trusted her. I tried my best to sleep and I must have finally managed it because the next thing I know I am startled awake to the sound of a door shutting outside. I looked out the windshield and it was still pitch dark, not even stars shining. There were clear footsteps approaching, the gravel crunching as someone walked closer. I thought it must one of my parents checking on me so I waited for one of them to unlock the door of the truck cab and climb inside. The footsteps stopped but nobody was unlocking the truck.

 

I became scared again and closed my eyes very tightly. I had no idea if anyone could see inside. I didn’t want to move and give away the fact that I was awake. I waited. The footsteps continued as if whoever was outside had rounded the hood of the truck and was circling around. The footsteps stopped again. I was petrified, afraid to move or open my eyes or even breathe too deeply.

 

The next thing I knew it was daylight and we were pulling into a little tourist trap of a pit stop to have an early breakfast. My mother was cajoling me awake, promising pancakes. I was confused and having trouble waking up. I asked why they had gotten out of the car and walked around the truck in the dark and why they hadn’t said anything to me when they did.

 

My mother assured me I had dreamed it, they hadn’t left the car until the sun came up and they were ready to drive again. Her evidence was that I had been so deeply asleep when they did get in the truck that I hadn’t been bothered at all when they rearranged me so they could get in the truck and continue our trip home. My father laughed and said that I must have dreamed about ghosts from the Oregon Trail because the turnout we’d parked on marked where that old highway of the distant past crossed over the modern highway we were driving on now. Mom scolded him for trying to continue my scare.

 

I was certain I had heard the thunk of a car door, footsteps on gravel circling the truck, silence when the steps stopped nearby. My mother was certain I had been dreaming.

 

Both of my parents are gone now and I can’t ask them what they remember of that night or that road trip. What I remember still terrifies me in the dark of the night when there is no starlight and no moon and I wake in a silent cold sweat.