Growing up, though my parents held some strict values, my dad let loose from time to time, and if I was anything back then, I was a daddy's girl. As my mom took on more responsibilities in her field, eventually working night shifts, my dad took a step back, and over time we bonded over a lot, like our love for action and thrillers, classical music, novels, and chaskele (Ghana's cricket, otherwise known as). Being a first-generation American, getting to bridge the gap in values and culture between my parents and me has proven nothing less of a challenge, but my dad was always the more receptive, which is ironic given that my mom came to the States way earlier. I never got to know any of my grandparents, so there's some history of growing up I won't ever know directly, but the hardass-ery yet attentiveness and caring of my parents is second to none. The only issue is that I've never known how to express it well. My parents aren't the "I love you" type of parents; I can't tell you if I've ever heard those three specific words strung together, but they've shown love in other ways undoubtedly through praises or advice for betterment,

I hear a screeching whistle coming downstairs for a quick breakfast, and to my surprise, my Mom is already down there making toast and eggs. She takes a tea kettle off the stove (ah, that's what that was) and makes two mugs of Earl Gray. I catch the waft of peppermint as I walk in the kitchen -- I love peppermint in my tea. She made breakfast for us both ... I'm so used to dinner I can't recall when the last time we had breakfast together was, let alone her making it. 

"Good morning," I greet her, hoping the shock in my voice isn't apparent. 

"Morning," my Mom speaks hoarsely. She doesn't meet my direction at first, but as she hands me a plate of food and my mug of tea, I can see her eyes are puffy. 

"Oh God, you didn't touch the paprika mistakenly again did you?" I ask worriedly; my Mom is highly allergic to paprika, but we keep it in the house because I like to use it on occasion on my meals. My dad loves it, too. 

"No, no," she answers. "Just some chili. Eat well, we have a long drive ahead."

"Well, thank you," I say, sitting at the table and digging in. It's delicious, I mean really good, but my tastebuds are riddled with concern. I find it best not to press on, though; I did hear her up around 1 a.m. moving around, so maybe she also couldn't sleep well. I mean, I hope she did at least sleep for the drive; I don't even have a permit yet. She takes a seat at the table, and we both eat diligently. The silence is heavy, but like I said before, we aren't the expressive type; still, the excitement is palpable.

About a half hour later, we're both settled in the car, ready to go. The trip to Sunworks is almost two hours long, so with me I've got my newest literary adventure, The Hot Zone, and my Discman loaded up with Sade's Love Deluxe (an album I had to buy in secret on a day trip with Mallory a few years back). 

"Zora," Mom says, my attention to her before putting on my headphones. Okay, she's troubled about something, but whatever it is she's not letting on. Or will she ...

"Don't have that thing up too loud," she finally tells me as she turns on the ignition. 

"Yes ma'am," I respond, and with that, I snap my headphones on, cue up the music, and open my book. Sunworks, here we come.

-----------------------------------------------

"Dad? Dad?!"

"Back up, I'll get him!"

"What's wrong with him?! Dad!"

"Zora, call 911. Now."

"Hello?! It's my dad! Please hurry, he's -- daddy!!" 

"Who ...."

"Dad?"

"Who are you?"

"Dad, that's not funny you scared me!"

"Zora."

"What...?"

"WHAT?!"

**

My body jolts fiercely, only held back by the seatbelt. When did I fall asleep? According to my book, somewhere between pages 40 and 41. Wow, I didn't make it far at all. I rub my eyes and stare out the window; we're at that point of the trip where only barren land meets your eyes. I turn my head to my mom -- she's in full tunnel-vision mode. I've only ever seen her like this a handful of times; one time I remember all too well. I had been inflicted the worst imaginable pain when I was 10, so bad that I couldn't see straight. Next thing I knew, I doubled down the stairs in agony and my parents rushed over to me. Dad carried me to the car -- well, our old car, a 1988 Honda CRX -- and sat with me in the back so I can lay my body across the seats, wailing. Dad rubbed my arm up and down and wiped my tears as Mom sped through the chaos of late-night traffic. Honestly, if I wasn't about to pass out, I would've found all the attentiveness highly jarring and uncomfy, but reaching a state of delirium let my frail body enjoy the comfort pats -- but this was my dad, nonetheless, so at the least I could find this plausible. No, what got me was seeing my Mom in the hot, stinging blurriness with a look on her face I had never seen. It was scary but vulnerable. She couldn't even look at me because her eyes were glued to the road, and I'm fairly sure she ran a light at one point. As if anything borderline fatal were to happen to me, she wouldn't forgive herself. And I wondered at the time, "Why?" 

The danger turned out to be appendicitis, and boy were those the roughest few weeks of my little life. Mallory tried every day to call me, but half the time in the hospital I spent sleeping it away. Thank God my parents took me to the hospital they worked for at the time, but I can't imagine it made things any easier. Weeks after the surgery, Mom still couldn't look at me, as if I did something to make her hate me. Bills? Worry? The eventual speeding tickets she accrued, or time off work? Was it all my fault? I couldn't and wouldn't ask her, but I couldn't turn my anxieties to Dad, either, because he'd spent so much time at the hospital doing double shifts to make up for the time lost. Maybe that was the beginning of the end? Six years later, and sometimes I wonder if any of it was real. 

Pbbtbttt -- bttt..tt...

"Shit," Mom uttered. I had to turn my head to the window so my eyes wouldn't grow wide in front of her; it's extremely rare -- I mean, once every blue moon rare, and probably not even that much -- that my mother utters a swear. Of course, I saw panic in her eyes before I turned away, and rightfully because it sounded like our gas was giving up. As it were, Mom upped the power on the pedal, where I'll just be grateful we were still in tumbleweed territory so no one caught us. She makes a sharp left, knocking both our bodies around, and eventually pulls into a gas station. An eerie, chill-inducing gas station. 

"Stay in here, lock the doors, and lay your body back," Mom instructs me before clicking her door open and slamming it shut, the car rattling ever so much. I do as I'm told. Pulling my seat back only reminds me of how badly I need to pee, so I start reading my book again; to no avail, though, because I can't concentrate at this angle. I go to put my music on again, but it's not starting. Click goes the Discman.

"Oh come on," I exasperate. Great, the battery's dead. I sigh heavily, but before I know I hear the gas pump click in the tank. The guzzling noises don't help my plight, so I close my eyes and start to follow that weird block of color you see in the darkness (just me?), and suddenly I think of my happiest place: anywhere Mallory is. Right now, I see us both at the City Barn, eating pancakes and fruit amongst the confused decor of modern times and 1930's Great Depression-esque art. I wish I could be at the movies right now with her seeing The Sixth Sense but nooooo, she's there with Jhene and Havana. I mean, if nothing else, the Setiawans somehow share a deep common interest in thrillers, same as I! We've had many movie nights together, the unsettling and terrifying statics of the TV filling their home whilst their parents slept half-awake because "We can't fully fall asleep if spirits are coming to haunt you watching these!"

To my surprise, it's Havana who can't stomach the scaries. We got around to talking about it during our Thursday session when I felt someone behind us and checked, or otherwise using my sixth sense. She shuddered a bit:

"God I'm not looking forward to that."

"What, can't handle a little movie?"

"Well, no. I don't do horror films."

"It's not so much a horror film but a psychological thriller."

"So, horror?"

"Wait, you seriously don't like them?"

"You ever watch the Gremlins? Yeah, I'm fairly sure it started there and I haven't looked back since."

"No way! That movie is so corny!" 

"Maybe now, but to six-year-old Havana, it left me pissing my bed for weeks!"

"Ewww! Wait, tell me if this is right."

Something I've come tp notice about Havana lately is her ability to swtich modes. We just mentioned wetting the bed and next thing, she's intently going over my work with the straightest face imaginable. Much as I couldn't imagine myself saying this days prior, Havana knows her stuff inside-out, up-and-down, left and right. She's still a goofball, but if a goofball was a descendant of The Count. 

"All good."

"Wait, really?"

"Yeah. Nice work!"

"Wow."

I wasn't exactly sure what to say to that, but a simple thank you would've sufficed. Luckily for me I said:

"This is so good I could pee myself."

Smack! my hand goes on my forehead. What on Earth possessed me to say that?! I forget myself, it seems. Thank God we're talking about Havana here, who busted a lung at that line. Total goofball. My God this car is getting hot, and the Sun directly on the windows aren't helping. A bead of sweat drips down the bridge of my nose. Oh that's right, I have to actually PEE. I hear the door click open.

"Mom, can I --"

Before I finish, my mother slams her head down against the while. She's gripping to it so tight her knuckles could burst out of her skin. We sit in silence. What the hell happened that she's seething so bad? I don't know how to ask without feeling awkward.

"A-are you ..." my voice leaves me. I don't ask that question often to anyone at all. I don't know how. Mom breathes in sharply, eyes closed tight, then wide open as she stares out the window.

"We have to turn around."

The words suckerpunch me. "What? Why?" She doesn't immediately answer me, which makes anxiety riddle my body like a rash. "What happened?!"

"Th --" Mom starts. She's shaking her head in disbelief, almost. I've seen that look before. I gulp hard and click my tongue.

"It's the car, isn't it?" I ask. When Dad had to be admitted, Mom sold the CRX so we can have the money to buy a new car, one that would be top-of-the-line for moments like these. Instead, "top-of-the-line" entails a two-ton waste of space that's prone to breaking down every business month.

"What kind of a gas station only allows for a half-tank ..." she mutters. Wait, what?? A half-tank?! I guess I shouldn't have expected naything at all at a place with a "raccoon warning" on its doors, but seriously?! 

"I'm ... I think it's best if we save this for another time."

I'm frozen. I can't even process this correctly. I can't at all. But before I know it, Mom is pulling out the station and my views are all too similar, but this time flipped around. I choke back tears and bite the inside of my lips. This isn't the way it's supposed to go. The trip be damned, we shouldn't have to even make this trip! Dad should be home with us. 

There is no home without him. God, I hate this car.

I hate my life.