The Year I Almost Drowned (8 page)

toward the front of the car and opened the driver’s side door, touching the soft,

beige, leathery seat. The dashboard had tortoise shell wood paneling with a six

disc CD player. “This is so nice,” I said, still touching the seat. I watched my

grandfather as he ran his large fingers across the leathery passenger seat. He

caught

me

staring

at

him

and

stopped.

“What?”

he

said.

I

arched

my

eyebrows.

“Nothing.”

“I

bet

it

eats

a

lot

of

gas.”

“Not

as

much

as

your

truck,”

I

replied.

“Humph,”

he

grumbled.

Nana came out of the house carrying an army green cooler in her hand. Jesse

ran

up

the

porch

steps

and

took

it

from

her.

“What

do

you

have

in

here?”

Jesse

asked.

“Enough food to keep them well fed. Y’all better get a move on,” she said,

motioning

to

us.

“Finn,

thank

you

for

doing

this.”

“It’ll

be

fun,”

I

said

and

she

reached

over

to

hug

me.

My grandfather looked at me and said, “Guess you’re driving this thing.”

“Yep. You drive crazy,” I said. “It’s a great day to drive in a convertible.” For once

it wasn’t that cold outside. The sun was shining brightly and the air was pleasantly

cool.

“Charlie, don’t forget to wear your hat. You’ll get as red as a strawberry,” Nana

warned.

He picked up his green John Deere baseball cap from his lap and placed it on his

head, covering his stark white hair. “Now I’m covered,” he said and smiled at her.

She

kissed

him

on

the

lips.

“Call me when you get to a stopping point,” she said to us both.

“Have fun,” Jesse said to me. He leaned down and kissed me quickly. “I’m gonna

miss

you.”

“Me, too. I’ll call you later.” I started the ignition, the even and smooth humming

sound of the engine was music to my ears. It was going to be a lot better to drive

than Grandpa’s old beat up truck. We waved goodbye to Nana and Jesse and

set

off

on

our

journey.

***

Highway 40 was one of the worst roads I had ever driven on. It was far worse

than driving the crazy winding mountainous roads to my grandparents’ house.

There were two lanes: one adjacent to a concrete wall divider with semi-trucks

coming at you in the opposite direction going a million miles per hour; the other

lane was next to a rocky, mountainous wall and was filled with semi-trucks driving

quickly, taking up more than their fair share of the road. I felt suffocated, a little

claustrophobic–surrounded by a plethora of trucks. My first instinct was to slow

down.

My grandfather noticed the car moving at a much slower pace and hollered,

“Speed

up!”

I guess those were supposed to be his words of encouragement for me. I didn’t

feel comforted. I panicked. My palms were clammy, dampening the steering

wheel as I gripped even tighter. My heart began to beat quickly. The trucks

coming

at

me

from

both

sides

made

me

feel

closed

in.

“Finn,

put

your

foot

on

the

accelerator!”

he

barked.

“The trucks are everywhere,” I said, breathing between each word. It was as if I

had very little air, like I was drowning in a shallow puddle of water.

“All

the

more

reason

to

speed

up.”

I applied slight pressure to the accelerator and tried to ignore the numerous semi-

trucks that passed by me on both sides–from the other side of the highway, to

the lane next to me. I drove looking forward–creating my own tunnel vision, my

body was pressed close to the steering wheel. I counted silently in my head,

thinking that if I focused on counting from one to ten, it’d get my mind off of the

fact that I could be crushed by a truck at any moment. My grandfather messed

with the radio and found an oldies station. He turned the volume up, Elvis’ A Little

Less

Conversation

played.

“Providence,” he said and chuckled. I didn’t respond, I was too busy looking

straight ahead, trying to remain calm. “They’re playing Elvis, think that’s a sign?”

He nudged me. I still kept quiet. “Are you gonna sit there like a bump on a log the

entire

trip?

If

so,

drive

me

back

home

now.”

“Grandpa, I’m trying to drive with all these trucks on the road,” I whined.

He smacked his lips and said, “If you’d loosen up and quit thinking about it, you

wouldn’t

be

so

bothered

by

them.”

Then he did something completely out of character–he started singing, very

poorly and out of tune. I couldn’t help but laugh at the odd spectacle he was

making

of

himself.

***

We stopped at a rest area outside of Nashville to eat lunch and stretch our legs

from the five hours of driving. Grandpa called Nana to let her know we were okay,

that we had made it that far without any problems. We were more than halfway

to Memphis and the worst part of the interstate was behind us. I lugged the heavy

cooler to a nearby picnic table and waited for my grandfather to get off the phone.

He came over to me and sat across from me. I handed him a juice box and a

sandwich

wrapped

in

parchment

paper.

He

unwrapped

the

sandwich

and

grinned.

“Pimento

cheese.”

“Nothing’s better than Nana’s pimento cheese sandwiches,” I said. I took a huge

bite and swallowed it–feeling instantly satisfied. The creamy, delicious contrast

of

pimentos

and

cheddar

cheese

lingered

in

my

mouth.

We sat there and ate quietly, listening to the sounds of dogs barking, cars passing

by, people talking, and children shouting. The sun shined directly on us, which

felt good in the cooler, autumn air. There wasn’t a cloud in the blue sky.

“Looks like we’ll be in Memphis in about four hours.” He pointed to the city of

Memphis on the map. I nodded an “okay” to him. He continued, “Your Nana made

reservations for us at The Holiday Inn. Do you want me to take over driving?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll let you know if I get tired,” I replied. He was enjoying the

scenery, and I would have felt bad if he lost out on the chance to see everything.

This trip was about him. Driving for a few more hours wasn’t going to kill me.

He pushed his cap further down on his head and sipped on the juice box straw.

“I’ve

wanted

to

go

to

Graceland

for

a

long

time.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “I’ve been an Elvis fan since I was a teenager.”

“Why

didn’t

you

and

Nana

ever

go?”

He leaned back, folded his arms and inhaled a long, deep breath. “Well, life got

in the way.” He looked at me and read my confused expression. “What I mean is,

with everything that happened with your dad and then running the diner, there

was

never

time.”

“I’m glad you finally have the time,” I said earnestly. My life wasn’t the only one

impacted by my dad’s illness. Theirs was affected in more ways than I’ll ever

know.

They

had

to

sacrifice

so

much.

“I am, too. Lilly never had an interest in going... she’s a Beetles fan.” He made a

disgusted face and then laughed. “Don’t know why. She’s always walked to her

own beat, though. That was one of the first things I decided I liked about her.”

“I

bet

she

was

beautiful.

She

still

is.”

“Not just beautiful, but different. I dated other girls, but she was the only one who

made me want to be a better person. She challenged me. That’s what love is. If

you find a mate who makes you a better version of yourself, then you’ve got

yourself a keeper.” He took another sip on his straw, slurping the last of the juice.

He shook the juice box, realizing it was empty, and pulled another one out of the

cooler. “Course you don’t want to hear about love from an old coot like me.”

“I

don’t

mind.”

“In that case, let me tell you about my first date with your Nana,” he began.

Ten minutes later, I had learned about their disastrous first date. How Nana had

told him at the end of their date that she hated him and to get lost. How he had

sworn he’d never take her out again, that she was more trouble than necessary.

It definitely was not love at first sight. He said that they kept bumping into each

other in town and one thing led to another, they went on another date and from

there

a

romance

had

blossomed.

We finished our lunch and set out for the rest of our journey–driving on highway

40 toward the city of Memphis with the convertible top open, blaring oldies tunes

and

embracing

the

beautiful

sunny

day.

***

It was night time when we reached The Holiday Inn, which was tucked away on

a side street right off of the interstate. It looked new, like it had been built recently.

I pulled the car up to a parking spot closest to the front entrance. I hit the button

to put the top on the car up and then we grabbed our suitcases.

The hotel smelled brand new, like a fresh coat of paint and newly installed carpet.

The floors were squeaky clean and recently polished. The woman at the front

desk greeted us with a warm, pleasant smile and said, “Welcome to The Holiday

Inn. How can I help y’all?” Her accent was slow and drawn out, a little different

than

the

people

from

Graceville.

“We’re

checking

in.

I’m

Charlie

Hemmings.”

The woman gazed at the computer screen and typed in some information. She

looked back at us and said, “Yes, Mr. Hemmings, we have you in room 212.

Here’s your key.” She handed him a plastic key the shape of a credit card.

“There’s a continental breakfast from 8 a.m. to 11 a.m. And a swimming pool and

work out room. Can I help you with anything else? Recommend a place to eat?”

she eagerly asked. She had a sweet, peach shaped face that was smooth and

free

of

any

wrinkles.

“No,

thank

you,”

he

said.

“A recommendation for a place to eat would help,” I said to him.

She looked anxious to please and interjected, “Bo’s BBQ is the best place to eat

in

Memphis.”

“Barbeque

sounds

good,”

I

said.

“It’s the best in town,” she said enthusiastically. “Here, I’ll give you directions.”

She held a pen in her hand and wrote down the directions. She handed me the

piece

of

paper.

“Thank you,” I said, taking it and placing it securely in my purse. My grandfather

wrapped his hand around his luggage handle and wheeled it to the elevator. I

picked

my

suitcase

up

off

the

floor

and

followed

him.

Our room was bigger than I thought it would be–complete with a separate living

area which had a sofa and wide screen television. There were two queen-sized

beds, a table and two chairs. The bathroom was spacious and had a large vanity

sink covered in black granite. The floors were cream-colored and shiny. All of the

amenities

sparkled.

This was my first time ever staying in a hotel. My mother and I never went on any

overnight trips while I was growing up. Staying in a hotel made it truly feel like a

trip–away from home, on the move, and in a foreign place. Even if that foreign

place was Memphis, Tennessee. In one short day, I had seen two other states

that

I

had

never

been

to

before.

“This is a nice room.” I touched the soft, plush white duvet comforter. Two small

chocolate mints were nestled close to a burgundy throw pillow on the bed. I