Page 20 of The Roads We Follow

Back before she had Annabelle, Hattie worked as a part-time event planner for Farrow Music. She loved collaborating with the artists for album-release parties, publicity campaigns, music videos, and more. I often wonder if she misses it. Every once in a while I can still see a glimpse of the confident, fun woman she was before she married a man who only wanted her when she was packaged a certain way—a rich trophy wife and mom whose only interests were his interests. It’s no wonder Hattie struggles with her identity—she hasn’t been allowed to have one for over a decade.

I’m just about to broach the subject of her considering looking into some part-time work on her off days with the kids when Mama steps into the front lounge. She stands with her back to the driver’s cockpit and calls for Adele—twice. Shockingly, my oldest sister graces us with her presence without a phone affixed to her ear.

Mama smiles at each of us and clasps her hands. “I’ve told Micah we’re not to start any day of this special journey without a prayer asking God for protection, guidance, and some good honest fun. Who’d like to pray for our first day?”

Our eyes dart away from one another, but nobody volunteers as Prayer Tribute. For reasons I can’t fully articulate, I can pretty much pray in front of anybodybutmy two siblings. Truth is, I’d rather be caught holding a dozen random pairs of panties than be vulnerable in that way with them. Our faith journeys are not something we share with each other anymore.

“Gracious heavens, one might think I’ve raised a bunch of heathens. Raegan, why don’t you—”

“I’ll pray,” says the deep voice to Mama’s right.

My neck jerks up so fast I’m on the verge of whiplash when Micah meets my gaze and then dips his chin just enough for me to know he’s taking one for the team. A team I’m uncertain I should join and yet ... perhaps I already have. Perhaps what we shared back in the den was the initiation of two strangers forming an alliance.

He prays for our trip—for clear roads and no traffic and easy parking and forgood honest fun. He says the last part with a near-perfect impersonation of Mama, and we all chuckle a bit as we sayamen.

And then Micah takes the driver’s seat again and slowly begins to pull the bus out of Mama’s driveway. It’s strangely captivating how at ease he seems behind the steering wheel. This bus is massive, and yet nothing about his movements make him seem intimidated.

Mama situates herself on the sofa opposite Hattie and me. There’s a marked furrow in Adele’s forehead as she lifts her phone and says, “I still haven’t seen the email come through with the itinerary you promised, Mama. Can you send it over now, please? I need to forward it to my assistant at the office and—”

“I’ve had second thoughts about that promise, darlin’.” Mama says this with all the ornery conviction of a child who reveals the fingers they’ve crossed behind their back. “I’ve decided it would be more fun to keep an element of surprise for you girls.”

On instinct, Hattie and I press our backs against the sofa and brace for the oncoming turbulence. Adele might be Mama’s right-hand gal when it comes to her work, but they are two very different people when it comes to ... everything else.

“I abhor surprises, Mother, you know that. That was not a part of the original deal we made when you decided to pull Old Goldie from storage and do an HGTV-style makeover on her. As far as I’m concerned, that was surprise enough. I was clear when I told you I needed to be available to the label while we are away. Furthermore, it’s not safe to be gallivanting around the country without a known plan. What if there’s an emergency or we have a breakdown somewhere?”

“I do have a plan, a solid one at that if you must know, and I’ve informed our driver of it, as well,” Mama says before she makes a show of counting each one of us—including Micah. “And if there’s an emergency, then there are four other passengers aboard this bus who can call for help. It only takes one finger to dial 9-1-1, and allof us are able-bodied enough to use our legs and walk if the need arises. Believe it or not, I’m a survivor of the BCP years.” Mama doesn’t wait for someone to ask what her abbreviation stands for before she lands her own joke. “Before Cell Phones.”

Micah’s unexpected chuckle from the front causes my own lips to twitch.

“I’m not okay with this,” Adele states, as if that was news to anyone.

“Well, I’m not okay with you working eighty-hour weeks, so we’ll have to strike a compromise for the sake of this trip, sweet pea. My vote is for you to sit back and enjoy today’s ride while it’s still today. Let tomorrow and all the days after that take care of themselves. It’s biblical, after all.”

To say Adele isn’t pleased with Mama’s pep talk is an understatement, but she does as Mama suggests and settles herself at the dining table without further comment. She’s probably planning a mutiny for after dinner.

As soon as Micah pulls onto the main road, Mama slips one of her paint-by-number canvases from her bag along with the high-end felt markers she’s opted to use in place of actual paint, and I smile at this newfound hobby of hers.

“I think I’ll be Micah’s co-navigator for the day,” Hattie announces ten minutes into our drive. She stands and stretches, and then makes her way to the jump seat beside Micah. An option I hadn’t even considered until now.

A flicker of something I don’t want to name pinches in my chest at her bold assumption, only I have no logical reason to protest. Micah is a grown man. And according to him, he’s an unattached man. Sure, he’s a good handful of years younger than my sister, but who am I to judge?

Hattie situates herself quickly. Conversation between them seems to flow as easily as Adele opening up her laptop and getting to work at the table. I can’t hear a word they’re saying, but that doesn’t stop the sour feeling in my stomach as I observe them.

It turns out, the sour feeling never fades. In fact, it grows worse over the next two hours.

Every time I try to focus on the list I’ve been keeping in my notebook, nausea creeps in. It’s so bad that at one point I have to put everything down and close my eyes. Slowly, I breathe out through my mouth and in through my nose the way I saw both my sisters do while in labor.

It doesn’t help.

“Raegan, are you ill?” Mama asks.

“I’ll be okay.”

“You’re white as a northerner in winter. You’re carsick, aren’t you?”

“I’m just a little nauseous,” I mumble quietly, leaning my head against the wall, but the world keeps moving, which means my gut keeps churning.

“You’re carsick,” she says as if it’s a clinical diagnosis. “I thought you grew out of that.”

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