Fine, Fine, Totally Fine

by E. J. Nash

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The screaming starts even though we’re still five minutes away. My daughter recognises the landscape: the goldenrods that crowd the guardrails, the white pines gazing over the highway, and the exit leading to the lavender farm. I imagine myself leaning over and jerking the steering wheel out of Greg’s grasp, heaving us out of traffic and into the lane that will take us to the lavender. The car won’t stop as I jump out. I will run to the field, collapse into the flowers, and let the indigo stain my fingertips.

Instead, I tell Erica that we’ll visit the apple another day.

“You say that every time,” she moans.

The apple. A massive forty-foot tourist attraction, wedged on the side of the 401, complete with an observation deck up top near the giant metallic stem. The electronic roadside sign announces over six million apple pies sold, not that we’ve ever purchased one. Each time we drive by, I can taste this phantom cinnamon on my tongue, something sweet and maybe cloying with an aftertaste that’s faintly burnt.

Erica wants to visit the apple as much as I want to see the lavender.

Travelling with a four-year-old takes time; somehow, my husband still wants us to be as efficient as we were before Erica’s birth. Greg doesn’t factor in packing the stuffed animals, making sure she has the only water bottle she’ll use, or pulling over at the rest stops so she can run and jump and expel the energy that prickles under her skin. We survive the drive to his parents’ place a few times a year, yet we’ve never managed to arrive on time. Not that it matters. His parents want to see Erica’s silky pigtails and her unicorn t-shirt. Only Greg cares if we’re late. He craves for life to be carefully contained in an on-time, perfect little box wrapped up with a bright red bow. Spontaneity is a foreign language.

I look over at him. Lavender? Apples?

He shakes his head and pointedly looks at the dashboard clock.

I wonder where my old husband is, the one who loved detours and adventures. Then I think about where I can find the old version of myself, the woman who would argue. Our conversations are transactional nowadays: dinner plans, swimming schedules, school drop-offs, dentist visits, and dance classes. The other day, my colleague asked me about my weekend. I didn’t tell her about Erica’s meltdown or the fact that I hadn’t showered in three days. I said I was fine.

I am always fine, always fine, because I’m not supposed to be anything else. Between playdates and school and bedtime routines and appointments, so many appointments, I don’t have room for much. Perhaps just enough space for a small lavender flower.

Now we’re hurtling down the highway, past those indigo fields, past the apple and the pies, and there’s not a sound from Erica, not a moan or scream or anything. The silence is the worst part. The acceptance. Greg tightly grips the steering wheel. Another twenty minutes pass before he mutters a comment about needing gas. A petty part of me wants us to be stranded on the side of the road, wasting precious time, listening to the cicadas and the hum of the highway, but Greg pulls into a rest station with plenty of time to spare. He pumps gas and I buy overly-expensive pretzels. The clerk asks me how I’m doing and I tell him I’m fine.

Outside, in the blinding heat, Greg leans against the car and taps his wrist with an overexaggerated gesture. The window is down, and I can see Erica staring listlessly at the cars hurtling past us. I never feel reckless on the road when everyone else matches the same speed. Only now can I see how fast we were going. How hard it would be to change direction.

I don’t know why I say it.

“I lost my phone.” The lie is smooth and soft. It tastes delicious. “I think I forgot it at the last rest stop.”

Greg is aghast. He says we should forge ahead as we’re already late, but I argue that we can’t lose the photos in my camera roll.

“I’ll drive,” I say to him. “That way, you can take a break.”

I will worry about Greg later. For now, after I double back and miraculously find my phone, I will travel down the same highway. This time, I will take the exit toward the orchard. I hope Greg will come with Erica and me as we walk between the trees. We will climb the giant apple, the iron walkway echoing under our steps. Once we’re on the observation deck, I’m sure Greg will stare down at the roaring river of the highway. Erica will point towards the petting zoo. And I will be looking west, towards the lavender fields, towards the tiny violet flowers.