Road Trip: Please Help Us Bury Our Sister

A number of years ago, my mom, my sister Kami, and I took a short road trip to visit her older brother. We left early on a bright summer morning, armed with snacks, caffeine, and the shared understanding that the three of us together would almost certainly find something to laugh about.

We always did.

The first few hours were uneventful. Mom and I chatted in the front seat about kids, work, and life while Kami napped in the back. Three hours in, we made our first stop at a dusty roadside store that looked like it hadn’t changed ownership or been cleaned since 1974.

Kami and I headed toward the restrooms in the back. Damp newspapers covered the floor outside the bathroom door.

This was not encouraging.

Inside, the bathroom smelled like mildew and stale urine. We used the facilities quickly, washed our hands thoroughly, and backed out like we were leaving a crime scene.

We grabbed bottled water and a few snacks and headed to the register, where we noticed a plastic Folgers coffee can that had been converted into a donation jar. A handwritten note was taped to it:

Please help us bury our sister.

I stared at it for a moment.

Then I wondered, out loud, where she was in the meantime. Possibly in the cooler in the back? Waiting for sufficient funding?

Kami lost it. I decided bottled water had never looked more reassuring.

We made it to my aunt and uncle’s house without further incident. During the visit, I mentioned I was trying to quit smoking. My aunt, who had successfully quit, proudly showed me her solution.

She had taken a drinking straw, cut it down to cigarette length, and inserted a Q-tip inside to simulate the draw.

She demonstrated, flawlessly.

I tried it.

I inhaled, and the Q-tip shot straight into my mouth and hit the back of my throat. I gagged violently and nearly threw up all over the table.

Well then… cold turkey it is.

We recovered, laughed, and eventually headed back home. South of Olympia, we stopped at a Denny’s for dinner. Our waitress, Violet, greeted us like we had personally interrupted her retirement. She smacked her gum with determination and practically scoffed at our order.

Service was… memorable.

Our final stop was for gas. From inside the car, we noticed a young girl, maybe 17, inside the store, flirting enthusiastically with the attendant. Hair flipping, animated talking, full performance.

Kami went inside for water and came back moments later.

Apparently, this woman was bouncing, giggling, hair flipping, and asking for his number with the enthusiasm of a teenager at her first school dance.

Kami reenacted the entire scene as she ran back to the car, hands up, head swinging dramatically to make her hair flip back and forth.

“She’s not 17,” she said. “She’s at least 30.”

We laughed the rest of the way home.

Road trips with the three of us rarely went according to plan; I love road trips.