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I end the call, knowing there is nothing I can say that won’t create a shitstorm of worry, but it is what it is. I didn’t start this. I’m just going to do what everyone says to do and finish it.
If I can meet my objective, then she’ll know where I am, whether I turn my phone back on and take her calls or not.
I power down my phone before I get out of the car and walk around to the passenger side.
At least it’s freaking June. There are worse times for a road trip in the Northern US. Like, say, January. Winter isn’t always kind to the north.
It’s currently just after five-thirty in the morning and balmy out here. The sun is working its golden way up in the fiery sky. Trusting that my family made good on their threats to freeze my bank account, I slept in my car last night rather than risk humiliation when my credit card got declined at some motel on the side of the road. I had just over a thousand dollars cash kicking around the house, which I was able to grab and stuff in my purse. The whole under-the-mattress savings thing really would have come in handy. I don’t know why I ever thought those people were crazy.
You know what’s really crazy?
Chasing all your daughter’s boyfriends away her whole life and letting her think it was because no one was good enough for her because she was special and treasured, and then bam! Dropping it on her that, nope, she’s actually engaged, as though we’ve warped back to the Victorian times.
I’ve never peed on the side of the road before, but how hard can it be?
Okay, it’s really hard.
I’m now regretting that I insisted on something sporty with two doors and low to the ground when my parents wanted to get me a huge SUV in order to keep me ultrasafe. I got what I wanted and now look. There’s only one door to pull open, and I’m going to have to hang my bottom end out there for all the world to see.
All the world isn’t quite awake yet, and there’s absolutely no one on the road, but if there is, they’re going to get an eyeful.
This is not my fault. This is not my fault. This is not my fault. This is Granny’s fault. Petunia Roberts.Petunia Roberts married Rob Roberts. It’s my mother’s fault for marrying a guy named Gerry Geraldson. I wish I were kidding. There’s a thing about double names in our family, apparently. And arranged marriages. And also naming me after the crazy granny who arranged my marriage, even if it’s spelled differently and sounds different because I’m not a grandmother, and no one wanted to name me Petunia.
“Farge and damnation.” I grasp the passenger door with one hand and hike my dress up with the other. I tore out of the house in the clothes I was wearing, and I’m saving my extra set. The kink in my back from a night spent in my car, or at least part of a night in a gas station parking lot in the middle of what most people would probably call Bumfuck nowhere, makes itself known. “Stinkledoodle!” I gasp as the kink works its way down my back while I’m trying to do a very un-lady-like squat here.
I finally realize I have to let go of the door to get my panties properly arranged, meaning out of the pee zone. I’m not even sure what that is, given I haven’t done this before.
Any of this.
Road tripped alone.
Denied my family.
And told my mother and my granny to both go and sit on a cactus. I’m clearly not very inventive when it comes to saying horrible things. As a rule, I just don’t do that. I’ve had no reason to do that because, up until now, life has been good.
Ignorance really is bliss.
Okay, so maybe I’ve been a bit of a city girl, a pampered princess, a daddy’s girl—whatever. Okay,whatever. Our family might be rich, but we’re notthatkind of family. We’re actually pretty normal. We love each other, and we never did wild and extravagant things. My parents have a strong marriage. Yes, we have a nice brownstone and a vacation house in the Hamptons, and alright, so there’s one in Switzerland and a few others here and there in Europe and one in the Caribbean, but to be fair, Granny owns most of that. She’s the one with all the money. That’s why we were always fairly normal, as far as normal actually goes.
I can’t figure out how far I need to pull my panties out of the way, so eventually, I just whip them off. My bladder is thoroughly protesting. It feels like someone is punching me right in the kidneys, and it’s beyond painful. Believe me. I wouldn’t be peeing on the side of the road if it wasn’t an ultra-emergency.
I think the correct stance is to squat but also spread one’s legs so one doesn’t pee all over their own feet. Why do guys make this look so easy? Not that I’ve seen many men urinating in public before. Alright, so I’ve also lived a pretty sheltered life, but I’ve watched movies. They do this in movies. Guys do this…sometimes.
You’re overthinking it. Just let it go. Let it flow.
I’m at the point where I can’t not let it go and let it flow. I’ve been holding it in since nine last night when I finally pulled over because it was dark, and I hate driving in the dark, especially when I don’t even know where in the ever-loving pickle diddle I’m heading.
If any cars come zooming down the freeway, I’m going to literally freaking die. Not because they’ll do anything to me but because the humiliation will be too great. I look like a duck—and not a Wonderduck—out here, squatting down with my dress in one hand, panties balled in the other, legs spread all strangely, and my bright orange fuzzy flip flops facing opposite directions so they don’t get treated to a golden shower.
My face heats up, more at the fact that when I finally start peeing, it’s such a relief. It feels so good. So freaking good. Maybe the best thing I’ve ever felt, which is a pretty sad state of things. I barely stop myself from doing the wholeaaaahhhhhhhhhthing because I’d really like to hold on to a shred of my humanity.
This might be the longest pee of my life because that’s just how things go. When you need to be fast, it isn’t fast. I mean, it’s fast, but I’ve been holding it for a long time, and it shows. And shows. And really shows.
Oh my god. Oh farge. What now?
I didn’t grab anything to wipe with.
The only apparent choice I have is to hold this position while I stare at the collection of papers on the front passenger seat. A slight breeze rushes into the car, lifting the edges just a little. The whole thing is a blur of small black print on stark white.
