by Olivia Brochu
dark, tangled branches like knobby fingers reach out to grab us on the highway, but mom never slows her red convertible, never stops hurtling us towards the border because she already called the Canadian cousins using some kind of code words, but she’s sure they know what she means because they watch the news and everyone knows what’s happening here – how things have changed –
the warmth of her car wraps around me like a fur blanket and I almost fall asleep for the first time in days, but every time I close my eyes I see a crimson ray of morning sunshine peaking through a torn blind, and it makes me sick – in fact, I might be sick right now – and mom pulls over just in time to hold my auburn hair back like she would when I used to vomit before a big test, and now I can’t believe something so trivial ever made me nauseous, because who knows if I’ll ever sit in a classroom again, and even the most brutal professor with an insane courseload would be more welcome than this when I’m not ready
mom says no one is ever ready, but maybe we can argue it was assault — “they do have exceptions for that you know” —but we both know no one ever gets one, and I feel sick again thinking about legal forms and police interrogations, thinking about those two pink lines blurring into red like his hair
what would I really say when the truth is I went willingly to his room, and if he had had a condom it would have been a different story, but he didn’t, so I said – “another time, then” – and at first he agreed with words, but then his body did something else entirely – and he seemed, suddenly, grotesquely tall instead of adorably beefy, but there was no escaping, and when he was done it was 3 in the morning, and there was snow coming down and my roommate wouldn’t answer her phone and there were no Uber drivers available because I had thought it would be romantic to go to college in the country with ivy crawling up the buildings, but that meant the town was dead now and I was too, so I just stared out the window until the ruby sun came up, growing brighter and brighter through the torn blind – and then he drove me home in silence
we drive in silence, too, continuing north, where there won’t be any questions – “like it used to be” – mom says with authority, like she knows firsthand, and I wonder how she would, but she presses her scarlet pumps to the pedal, going uncomfortably fast now, and for a moment it feels like no one can stop us, except for maybe border patrol, but we have passports and cousins and a warm car, so I give the finger to those witchy twig hands reaching outside the window, and keep my eyes pressed ahead
Olivia Brochu’s work has been featured by Flash Flood Journal, Pithead Chapel, Anti-Heroin Chic, and more. Two of her essays were finalists in WOW Women on Writing contests. She lives in Allentown, Pennsylvania with her husband and their four children. If you’re wondering what it’s like to have four kids – it’s loud. You can read more of her work at oliviabrochuwrites.com.
Emerge Literary Journal 