Page 23 of Here We Go Again
Vista Summit, Washington to Twin Falls, IdahoChapter Seven
LOGAN
A complete inventory of the luggage Rosemary Hale packed for a weeklong road trip: two large, four-wheeled rolling suitcases (rose-colored with plastic sides), presumably stuffed with every article of clothing she owns; one red cooler, filled with a variety of nutritious snacks and cans of LaCroix; a literal picnic basket with nonperishables, including enough gourmet crackers, almonds, and dried figs to make at least six charcuterie boards; a silk pillow; a first aid kit big enough to fit Hale herself; an emergency roadside kit; awireless printer.
“In case we need to make adjustments to the itinerary,” Hale explains as she puts on her seat belt. “My travel laminating machine is in my large bag.”
“They’re both large,” Logan corrects. She packed a normal-sized duffle bag with enough pairs of underwear to get her to Maine, where she can do laundry, and a backpack with six paperbacks, various electronics chargers, and a few snacks purchased from the 7-Eleven the night before. It’s only five nights until Maine. Then, once they get Joe settled, Logan will try to sell the van to someone else, or, worst-case scenario, they’ll donate it to the nearest Habitat for Humanity, and they will both fly homeseparatelyfrom there.
“Why did you pack so much food?” Logan asks as Hale spends five minutes adjusting her mirrors and the driver’s seat and the steering wheel and then her mirrors again.
“So we’re not tempted to eat drive-through the entire time.”
“Isn’t that the fun of being on a road trip?”
“If you enjoy acid-reflux, I suppose.” Hale clicks her tongue. Maybe Logan won’t kill her, but there’s a high probability she will cut out her tongue. Dangle it from the rearview mirror like a talisman for good luck. “What food did you pack?”
Logan pulls out a bag of Funyuns.
“You absolutely will not be eating those in my car.”
“Oh, so this is your Gay Mobile?” She doesn’t care that it’s six thirty in the morning: Logan opens that bag of Funyuns. “And no fighting with me while driving, remember?”
Hale huffs as she shoves the Gay Mobile into drive.
It took them six days to prepare for this trip, and they were the longest days of Logan’s life. The first week of summer vacation is usually sacred. She sleeps in until noon. She spends an entire day playingTears of the Kingdomwhile eating pizza pockets and microwave taquitos. She gets outside, hiking in the Gorge with the trees and the mountains and the river. She gets high on edibles and watches the sunset with her dad.
Except this past week she substituted sleeping in with seven a.m. emails from Hale delineating the day’s task list. She exchanged video games for learning how to change Joe’s diaper while he screamed at her about the indignity. She outfitted the van with a makeshift wheelchair ramp and an adjust strap above the sliding door, and she spent all her sunsets inside Joe’s apartment in the assisted living facility, packing up the stuff he cares about and donating the rest. He doesn’t intend to return to Vista Summit. She argued with oncologists who insisted this road trip was a terrible idea, and she ignored the nurses who handed her brochures about end-of-life care.
“It’s my end-of-life,” Joe complained, “and I get to decide how much I care.”
Hale signed his discharge papers. Logan lifted the heavy boxes. Because they were doing this.
They werereallydoing this.
Now, they pull up to Evergreen Pines for the last time. Joe is already out front in a wheelchair, his broken foot in a blue cast half-hidden by his brown corduroy pants. An angry-faced nurse stands behind him, and at his feet are the belongings he chose to keep: his record player, his collection of vinyls, a box of books, a Pendleton blanket.
“Sweet Walt-Whitman-at-a-log-cabin-retreat-with-Abe.” Joe whistles as Logan climbs out of the van. “That’s the gayest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Do you like it?” Logan does a flourishing gesture toward the logo even though she’s terrified she’s made a horrible mistake.
“Honey, it’s exactly the vehicle I would have chosen for my death road trip.”
Logan turns to Hale. “See? He likes it.”
“It’s not a death road trip.” Hale falls out of the tall van and twists her heel on the curb. “What is that?” she asks as she straightens herself, her tone again accusing.
“What’s what?” Joe asks innocently.
“That.” She is pointing at a dog.
“This is Odysseus,” Joe answers, gesturing to the all-black, monstrous mutt at his feet. “My cancer dog. You remember Odysseus.”
“Of course we do,” Logan coos. She crouches down as the dog lumbers over for scratches. “And he remembers me too. Yes, I’m the one who rescued you from that horrible place. How’s my little Odie doing?”
“Yes, I remember Odysseus,” Hale says through tight teeth. “But I am confused as to why he’s here.”
When Joe first started chemo, Logan had felt so helpless, so ill-equipped to provide the kind of emotional support he was going to need. So, she did the only thing she could think of: she went to the nearest animal shelter and bought him a six-month-old dog. A dog would have the emotional intelligence she lacked.
