Desert Drive

by Elizabeth Rosell

I remember us driving through the desert before you became too sick to do road trips. The rental car dinged again, letting us know it was running on fumes, and we both laughed. We had just passed the "Blue Canyon Oasis," two crows sitting atop the dried-out, weather-beaten sign, mocking us in the middle of nowhere. We hadn't passed anything—no gas station, no restaurant, no car—for at least an hour. Nothing, but the tall standing cactus, spread sparingly through the desolate landscape.

We're not talking, just looking at the world pass us by. Ding. Another hardy laugh. I'm suddenly confronted with the memory of us screaming at each other, the ding of the car somehow reminding me of my piggy bank hurling by my head only to explode on the wall behind me, you claiming it was the only money I would have. Of your rage, as you punched and threw me down the stairs. Of swearing to myself it was going to be the last time you ever touched me. It's a memory I have been unable to shake to this day, sneaking up on me at the most unusual times. In that moment, years ago, and for years after, I never thought we would speak again, let alone be laughing on a crazy adventure. Back to the present with another ding, I wonder what you are thinking as we sit in the car, the sun no longer above us, but heading dangerously close to the horizon.

When you were dying, were you thinking of anything? Did you feel regret at how you treated me, at how you never acknowledged it? I always thought that when you would die, I would be consumed by one of our more unpleasant memories, consumed by long-held anger. But neither came to me that day. I only saw your feet, naked, sticking out from under the hospital blanket, and worried they were cold.

I had made a choice (somewhere along the way) that I wanted a father, that I didn't want to be alone. You and Mom were my only family, and you controlled it. So, I did all the heavy lifting to rebuild that bridge. I accepted all the blame. Never once did we talk about the past. Never once did we talk about the hurt, the abuse. Never once did you say you were sorry.

Another ding just as we come to a fork in the road. You look at me and ask which way, to the right maybe? I’m surprised you asked. I want to say left, to go my direction, but I agree with you (to go right), the side you always thought you were on. I'm disappointed somehow when we find a gas station and a small town just over the hill.

Yet, now that you have passed, this bitterness is hard to hold onto. I know it will never have a resolution. That I will never be able to feel any sort of justice by confronting you with the truth you turned a blind eye to for so long. So, the bitterness dissipates more, as I remember this adventure with you, laughing and happy. It's hard, hard to stay hurt, hard to stay angry, because it wasn't all bad, was it?

BIO: Elizabeth Rosell lives in Northern Ontario, Canada, with her cat Belle. She has spent her life working in the non-profit field, inspired by her own mental health issues with borderline personality disorder. Elizabeth has been published in Lived Magazine, Amsterdam Quarterly, and Literary Cocktail. When not writing, she spends her spare time crafting and baking.