off on the doormat. It’s my dad’s favorite football team. His friend Buddy gave it to him for Christmas last year and said “now you can walk all over the boys, just like everybody else.” I’m surprised my dad is using it. However, I wouldn’t be surprised if my dad hasn’t given Buddy a similar gift for his rival team. When I make it back to the kitchen door, Aurora is drinking coffee. Isn’t that a pregnancy no-no?
Aurora rubs her belly and gives me her list. Tea is not the only item. Time is of the essence, so I decide not to argue over the additional items. I take the list as I make my famous closed-mouth smile.
I go upstairs, give myself the once over in the mirror, eye make-up is great, but perhaps a dab more of gloss. I swipe the brush of my Cranberry Heaven across my lips and toss the tube back in my purse. I swing the straps over my shoulder and turn the knob. I close the door to my room, I don’t want the young detective duo of Winter and River to rummage through my things in search of dress-up clothes. I take two steps in the hallway. Megan’s voice is coming through her bedroom door, it almost sounds like she is in an argument.
“I just don’t want her to mess up the pie.”
“You have to give her a little faith.”
“Brian, you have no idea, what you are talking about. Lauren is not a baker. The pecan pie is a big deal. Everyone will be really upset, especially Grandmother and I don’t want her to have her feelings hurt. You know Grandmother isn’t doing well and she probably gave the letter to Lauren by accident.”
“Megan…you know the letter was written to Lauren, give her a chance, she might surprise you.”
“Maybe, but I think it’s best if I take out an insurance policy for her.”
“What are you saying?”
“Maybe, I’ll make a pie and hide it in case hers doesn’t turn out.”
“That’s a bad idea.” Brian opens the door to Megan’s room.
My eyes are about to pop out of my head. I take in a deep breath.
“Oh, hey Lauren…uh…”
I shake my head. “It’s okay, I’d feel the same way if I was her.” I suck the insides of my cheeks in. I’m not going to cry. Not over pecan pie. I rush past the door and charge down the stairs as fast as I can without falling. I hustle to the door. A car. I need a vehicle.
“Mom, can I borrow your car?” I wipe a lone tear from my lash. It’s not really crying if it’s only one.
“Sure, honey. The keys are in my purse, you better hurry, remember what your dad said, the stores close early today,” she yells back at me from the kitchen.
As I grab the keys from her turkey beaded purse, I push the home button on my phone. Yikes. It’s almost noon. I do not need any more setbacks. A tear drops from my other lash. I will not cry over pecan pie. Ha! That rhymes. I hop into my mom’s car and inhale. She always has a flavorful car scent, I check out the dangling piece of cardboard shaped like a pie hanging from her rearview mirror, pecan. I take a deep breath and put the car in reverse. My map program searches for the address as I back the car out of the driveway on the hunt for the best pecans in Texas.
I page down through the directions on my phone. The majority of my route consists of Highway 79—a fairly barren country road. It’s time to improve this road trip. Cue the music.
I turn on the radio. No sounds come out. Like any typical person, I twist the volume knob all the way to full blast, and there’s nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada. At the very least a monophonic ocean should be heard. A new six-disc changer sits where my mom’s factory-installed stereo used to be. What type of music is in my mom’s CD player? Let’s hope button number three is cruise worthy. Sometimes my mom has good tunes.
Button number three has transported me back in time to the eighties. I grab onto my ears, trying to shield myself from future nightmares. The sounds create visuals of oatmeal soaked with blood. What is this, the soundtrack from The Golden Child? I shake my head and clutch the steering wheel. The noises change. They’re no longer Tibetan monks, but something much different. I have no freaking clue what sound is coming out of the speakers, but it’s not normal. I feel like an alien has invaded the stereo and is trying to communicate with me through their native tongue. This girl did not get the Groupon for Rosetta Stone. I don’t speak or understand alien or whatever it is that’s screeching through the car.
Pushing every button over and over doesn’t stop the sounds. Rihanna isn’t singing, “Please Don’t Stop the Music.” Rather, I’m screaming, “Stop the noise!”
The off button is staring back at me like a cruel joke. It doesn’t budge. I try turning the volume knob all the way off. It falls into my palm.
“No!” This can’t be happening to me.
I inhale and begin pushing all the buttons, trying to short-circuit this sadistic machine. Yet, the weird sounds clamor on. I have no choice but to unroll the windows. The wind roaring outside the car is my only salvation against these horrible, repetitive beats.
I lean my head out the window to try and silence the clamor. Whoosh sounds are pouring in through my left ear while my right is full of offbeat wind chimes and deep throated chanting. This is torture. What the hell is this music? Actually, that’s an insult to musicians. This is noise. My mom doesn’t listen to this. It sounds like something you might hear in a patchouli factory or something.
“Aurora!”
Aurora must have used my mom’s car earlier and listened to this…this…abomination. I’m driving fifty miles an hour down an open Texas highway with nothing but road in my rearview mirror and even if someone was near me, they still couldn’t hear me because of this blasting noise! This is the worst.
The little blue dot on the map is a bit farther than I thought it would be. Halfway there, super! Half-full thinking, right? I try to tune the monstrosity out of my head. A text message pops up on the screen. It’s from Megan. Not really interested in reading what she has to say right now. The little red circle with the white number one can stay in the upper right corner of my green box. I’m not going to check it out.
Go to your happy place, Lauren, go to your happy place. What is my happy place? A beach—yes, a beach. Ooh, white sands. It’s powdery. Powder reminds me of the brown water I had to choke down this morning. This is not my happy place.
Go back to the beach, Lauren. Okay, I’m in the sand. There’s a tan, hunky guy bringing me a margarita. He smiles and offers me the frozen goodness. It’s rimmed with big chunks of salt. I lick the salt and take a drink. Ooh, that’s tasty. The breeze from the ocean gently blows my hair, while the sun is warming my skin. Paradise.
Bumpity bumpity bump. Oops! I’ve merged into the other lane. Thankfully, I’m still alone on the road. No close calls there. I shake my head. Regardless, I need to pay better attention. I scan down at my phone again. I’m three-fourths of the way there.
“Move, blue dot, move!” I shout into my phone.
This noise is beyond horrible. It’s like something out of Zero Dark Thirty—the kind of sounds used to break terrorists. This could possibly be worse than waterboarding. Okay, maybe it’s not that bad. My phone beeps at me. Another text message, she can be so persistent. As if she can will me into responding. Not going to happen. I’m not even reading it Megan, so there.
Deep breaths, Lauren. Just concentrate on breathing and driving. You can do this.
My chest rises and falls. I wipe some of my hair from my eyes. I am not a fan of hair blowing in the wind, at least not at this speed. These better be the best freaking pecans in Texas. No, the planet. Scratch that, the world! I shake my fist at my car’s ceiling.
They probably are