i tried my best to be guarded. i’m an open book instead.

But there’s a story behind everything. How a picture got on a wall. How a scar got on your face. Sometimes the stories are simple, and sometimes they are hard and heartbreaking. But behind all your stories is always your mother’s story, because hers is where yours begins.
– For one More Day

I drove from Philly to Maine in a snowstorm with my nicotine deprived, schizophrenic, little sister, in third gear…because my mother asked me to. And because I wanted to. I made a promise to myself this summer. To put family first. To stop running when things get hard. To let these people know me again. To take big risks with my heart. Christmas is a good place to start.

“5am,” she said. “ I feel confident about 5am. That should put you on the road ahead of the storm. You should be here by dinner time,” her smile, audible through the phone connection.

I had four hours of restless sleep. Sharing a bed with my sister and The Marley dog. He climbed in between us. Laying his head on our pillows. His warm body pressed up against me. Comforting. He hasn’t slept with me in a while. I haven’t exactly had a bed to share. So I reveled in this time, however brief and crowded.

Wawa coffee in hand. And a soft pretzel for good measure. (Philly water is magic for bread.) 5:03. We are packed and on the road. Right on time. Smooth sailing through Pennsylvania. New York brought snow covered ground and the promise of more flurries, but travel was still generally pleasant, despite the frigid temperatures. Hillary fidgeted in the seat next to me. Quick jerking movements towards the heater and ipod, then a momentary lull until her next spasm of exaggerated mannerisms. Every movement large and dramatic. Her dire need for coffee, and restrooms. Reading every sign posted along the highway. I gave her control of the music just to keep her occupied. We agreed on Jason Mraz, although she seemed to tire of his perfect voice rather quickly and opted for the bitter edge of Tori Amos and Ani DiFranco. There is only so much angry girl music I can tolerate in a tiny vehicle while trying to maintain some semblance of emotional control. We resorted to the radio. My sister has a new appreciation for country. Taylor swift and Brad Paisley suit me just fine.

The Southern twang on the radio was in stark contrast to the frosty weather outside. Snow accumulations were mounting and the roads were growing more treacherous as we progressed north. Plows worked their way through the network of highways, but were no competition for the frozen precipitation. Snow, sleet, freezing rain. The mix brought traffic speeds to an uncomfortably slow pace. My eyes darted from the road to the speedometer. Just under thirty miles per hour. The devastatingly long drive just doubled in duration.

We pulled off at an exit and followed a series of turns until we found our way to the Dunkin’ Donuts the highway had advertised. It was nowhere near the highway. And as we crept through the maze of lefts and rights I tried not to think about the uphill return we would be forced to make in order to rejoin the highway. My Ford Focus is a trouper, but let’s be realistic here, folks. After begging for hot chocolate for the last few hours, my sister once again decides on an alternative when actually faced with claiming her prize. Another coffee. The only thing worse than driving extended periods of time with my sister might be driving with my sister when she has had caffeine. There are reasons why doctors put warning labels on medications. Do not take with alcohol, nicotine…caffeine. Her animation is multiplied. And unbearably annoying in the confines of my tiny vehicle. She pokes and prods The Marley dog. Poor baby. But selfishly I am grateful not to be the object of her abrasive affection.

Sliding out of the D&D parking lot, I attempt to recall our route back to the highway. Snowy roads are more treacherous with oncoming traffic to contend with. And parallel rows of parked vehicles curbside. We wait at the light. The next left will put us back on track. The light turns green and the car ahead of us rolls cautiously though the intersection. My foot presses on the accelerator, spinning my tires. The car slides forward in inches. I try again to no avail. Yellow throws a cautious reflection on my ice-coated hood. And red calls on the brakes. My head forcibly hitting the steering wheel in anguish. Hillary looks over at me announcing the obvious, “We didn’t get very far.” A momentary lapse of control. I snarl back at her to keep quiet. Lecturing her about her stupid coffee and the idiotic fact that we are not stopping again until we get to Maine. Although I know my gas tank has other ideas. Deep breathe. Clutch. Gas. Shift. We slowly creep through the intersection and up the ramp, finding our way back into the stream of migrating, salt-coated holiday travelers.

Connecticut, Massachusetts, and New Hampshire bring more sleet and frozen rain. Our car skids along an ice patch, coming to stop at the snow packed guardrail. A gentle tap and the laws of inertia are proven. Slightly frightening, but thankfully giving me the perfect opportunity to clean my windshield. Unstrapping my seat belt, I slip across Hillary’s lap and out the passenger side door. I make an effort to stay clear of the driver side, leaning far over the hood to reach my ice encrusted wiper blades. The entire time, praying that passing cars avoid railing into my oddly parked vehicle. Back inside the car, I blow on my numbed fingertips. The defroster works overtime, huffing loudly at the windshields. The freed wipers reclaim the windshield, impacting the ice buildup on both sides of their broad strokes. My sister hums along to the rhythm of the system. Umph…badda, badda, umph,, bop, bop. It is almost impossible not to explode in frustration. I leer at her. “Seriously?” I ask her between gritted teeth. She giggles out an apology. Clearly amused by her musical creativity. Back to the radio. Christmas tunes this time around. I am definitely not dreaming of a white Christmas after this day’s fiasco.

Onward. We cross the boarder into Maine. The steel bridge marking the long distance we have traveled, and the hours that still lay ahead of us. We phone my mom to let her know our progress. She is grateful we have made it so far, but fairly certain we have another six hours ahead of us due to the speed we are gloriously keeping. Not favorable news.

Nightfall comes early this far north, and by four thirty we are in the dark. Saved only by the glowing reflection of lights on the snow-covered ground. When I am not being overcome by the searing pain between my shoulder blades and the wired exhaustion that is keeping my eyes wide open, I am able to appreciate the quiet beauty of the snowfall. The defrost blows loudly and allows us to roll the windows down for a taste of fresh air. The stillness outside at this pace overpowers the heater. And I am reminded of that amazing noislessness that accompanies the falling snow. White blankets casting silent spells on those around it. It’s magic. I happen to love the snow. Even now. In this huge travel inconvenience, I am forced to admire the fairytale that falls around us.

Hillary and I joke back and forth. A much lighter mood on both parts than I would have imagined. Lights in the road ahead cause me to pump the brakes. “Woah, oh, oh,” my sister gasps. The car slows and shifts, leading with it’s right, leading with it’s left, settling with it’s right. Two vehicles rest in the middle of the highway some twenty feet ahead of us. Not the most intelligent parking place. The drivers shuffle to their vehicles and move off to the shoulder. I stare at Hillary. What the hell was that? Questioning her level of fear. She awarded me the awesome driver award. Which means a lot at this point in the day. And despite the slip and slide action adventure she rates her level of safety in the highest bracket. At least she doesn’t think that I am trying to kill her. She remains remarkably calm. Even when the winds kick up and visibility becomes a few yards, if that.

Temperatures drop and gusty winds make it nearly impossible to see the signs overhead until we are upon them. Unfortunately for us, last minute maneuvers are out of the question in the deeply coated roads. Whatever direction your car is pointed is the direction it will maintain. Sudden changes in the wheel will only send us spinning. And accordingly, we follow the road left onto route one, north, when we should have exited right and continued on 295 north. I curved around a tight bend. Carefully to avoid careening into the snowy embankments that have now gained heights that rival the roof of my Focus. Hillary has named the car “Pinky.” Explaining that “she” is a cute girly car and, I am guessing, due to my display of annoyance and frustration with the exhausting conditions of the drive, that I am a mad scientist. She proceeds to sing the “Pinky and The Brain” theme song from Anamaniacs. I’ve had it. I need silence. And a new plan. Visability is next to nothing. And the new detour has put us on a slippery road with two lane traffic. My knuckles whiten as a car approaches from the opposing direction. My breath holds. My heart stops. I gasp for air once I am sure we are safely past them. A gas station ahead lure us, and as we pull in the driveway I find myself, once again, stuck in the slushy accumulation. A snowplow driver clears the area ahead of us. A series of forwards and reverses before we are free to try our hand at progressing forward. Tires spin. I rock her. Forward. Reverse. Left. Right. Until we are finally free. Hillary heads around the side to the restroom and I walk inside the empty convenience store. Warm air thaws my frosty cheeks. I stand, shaking, on the slippery, linoleum floor. I call my mom to explain our dilemma. “Where are you?” she asks trying to estimate our remaining travel time. “At a gas station,” I barely choke out. “I figured that much. But where? What town are you in?” I had no idea. The last sign I saw was for 295 Falmouth, but I knew we went the wrong way. I could barely make out that there were signs above us as we drove under them, let alone read what was written on their faces. Tears welled up. This was my breaking point. The silence that filled the empty room brought everything crashing down. I can’t go any farther mom. I just can’t do it. I am so exhausted. Trying to concentrate on the road and Hillary asking me eight thousand questions. What every noise is. Concerned that I am outside the lines on the road, although I assured her that normal rules do not apply today. It’s a free-for-all when it comes to traffic patterns. Incessantly asking how much longer? How much farther? It will take as long as it takes, I assured her. By this point, the only answer I could muster without lashing out and beating her senseless with my Nalgene bottle. My mom calmed my nerves and convinced me to brave the roads one last time for the evening. Just the length of the block to retrace or path to the motel we crept past a few minutes earlier. Beg them to put you up for the night. Seeing as how the Marley dog may be an issue. So I gathered myself and slipped behind the wheel. Ice had already formed a glossy sheet on my windshield and I hoped out in one clean move to chip away my wiper blades. Free them from the frosty hold. It was a dance I had become familiar with in the last few hours. With numb fingertips and chilled nose, I shifted into gear and pulled into the intersection headed south. The moment my car committed to the left turn, I knew it was too late. The blacktop glistened though, two parallel lines stripping the powdered abyss, which rose significantly higher in the midst. My tires slowed to a halt. My car bottomed out. A beached whale. I laughed as I stared ahead to the motel sign, and then over my shoulder to the parking lot we had just pulled ourselves from. We appeared to be stranded in the middle of the highway. I called my mom to tell her the good news. She instructed me to flag someone down. To have them help push us off the wintery pile up. But I hesitated to put someone else out. And also, we where the only car I could see as far as I could tell. My sister volunteered to try her hand at moving the car. The one hundred and ten pounds her slight frame once held is now the approximate number by which she outweighs me. Before her medication, she was slender and waifish. A fact she likes to point out in a variety of unintentionally cruel ways. A near constant chorus of “audrey’s got a big old butt, oh yeah” and backhanded complements for not being as “fat as I used to be.” In her description I looked good, “except for right there,” she poked her pudgy finger into my jaw line. Picking at the blemishes that lined my right cheek. I am under constant scrutiny. And depending on her mood, the verdict could go either way. One hour I am being devistatingly teased for reaching for a piece of chocolate, and the next hour I meet her gaze only to be graced with the most sincere complement. Staring over her shoulder to find me huddled in my mother’s backseat, she blinks twice and sighs, “You look really pretty today.” It’s a rollercoaster I would gladly step out of line for.

But at this moment her extra weight might actually be to our benefit. She is unable to man my vehicle. Her medications have left her without a driver’s license, thankfully so. And I don’t feel confident letter her drive in these conditions under different circumstances. So she attempts to push. To heave and to ho. With little reward. Returning to the vehicle, I congratulate her effort. Encouraged by her willingness and uncharacteristic trust in me. A Subaru outback happens by us. Slows to a crawl and rolls down his window. It is confirmed. We are stuck. And after his attempt to push us out he retrieves a police officer from down the road. A tow truck is called and within the half hour, Hillary and I find ourselves sitting on the highway a mere twelve feet in front of where we had been marooned moments prior. Forty two dollars later, and a nod to the good will of the kind sir who helped rescue us, we headed to the motel that he had confirmed was open and accommodating. But my headlights would find the office window reading closed. And a sign on the desk inside, stating a black and white, NO PETS, order. WTF? Is all I could muster. And a string of profanities poured out as I, once again, dialed my mother. “Here is the deal,” I told her laughing to keep from crying. “Blankets,…sleeping bag… backseat…roads cleared…” Explaining my plan to pile the three of us into a sleepy heap and wait out the storm in the motel parking lot. It was a last resort. A decidedly not ideal decision, but the best I could come up with after eighteen hours behind the wheel. A decision made out of delirium and limited options.

It was decided. We would rest here until the snow stopped and the roads were cleared. Hillary curled up against my shoulder, wrapped in a blanket and under the sleeping bag that stretched across the length of us. Marley dog curled against my left side and sprawled across my lap to rest his head on Hillary’s arm. Despite his massive weight on my lap I was grateful for the added warmth. I think he knew. He could feel my unease. I set the alarm on my phone. Every hour for the next three hours. Check the roads at each interval. I needed sleep. This much I knew, but I was fearful of slipping into a hypothermic slumber. This is not quite the adventure I had envisioned when I left, but I had to laugh at the sight of us all curled up together in the Focus. Hilarious. If not entirely dangerous. The Snow came down around us. Casting that silent spell on the air. The windows coated quickly obscuring, and then all together blocking our view. After attempting to wrestling the wet socks from my stubborn sister’s feet, she furiously agreed to at least, remove her soaked shoes, and wrap them in extra blankets. My pleas for her cooperation where ignored. I don’t think she understood the severity of the situation. And I think in my sleepy state it hadn’t quite sunk in for me either.

Two alarms in, and a half hour or so, I received a phone call. It was after midnight now and the number read across the screen in an unfamiliar order. I answered to find the Falmouth Police department holding with my mother on the other line. Unable to sleep, knowing we were out in the storm, unknowing exactly where, she called a search based on the location characteristics I had given her earlier in the evening. After a half hour of back and forth phone calls, a trudge though the deepening snow and a cripplingly slow but steady drive ten miles down the highway, Hillary and I found ourselves at the Econolodge in Yarmouth, Maine. Marley was welcomed, and he curled up against my side as I slipped under the covers. My toes were almost defrosted. After sitting, perched on the sink with my feet submerged in warm water, I wrapped them in a towel and shoved them deep into the blankets. My body slowly relaxed, as the broken heater belted out its highest temperatures, through the remainder of the night.

Morning brought the last leg of the trip. Four more hours of slow moving. The sun shone brightly off the glistening snow, and my car wined its way through highway fifteen. I would never have been able to navigate this in the dark. And chugging up the steep grades in the slush and ice I am momentarily grateful I am not faced with a winter of navigating the treacherous twists and turns of Colorado. Sadly, but honestly, I don’t think my little car would hack it. So it goes.
Pulling up to my mother’s house we are greeted at the driveway, which has so kindly been shoveled out for us, by my bundled mom, running to the car side. “I was so worried about you. “she squeezes me tightly. Taking my chilled face in her hands, her teary eyes smile, “Welcome to Maine,” she laughs. “Merry Christmas, Your presents have arrived,” I smile back. This is The way Life Should Be.