A three and a half hour family car trip to a nearby city is no big deal. That’s what families do–just not my family. In fact, it was a rare day that we drove anywhere together with the exception of a quick ride to the icehouse down the street for a soda and a candy bar. Then there was the ten minute drive to my grandparents’ house for Sunday barbecue.
Actually going somewhere further than that was a big deal for us. However, the reality that one of our family members couldn’t even handle a car trip from the southside of San Antonio to the north without projectile vomiting didn’t seem to cross anyone’s mind but my own. Yet, off we went on our one and only trip to Houston–to visit The Space Center–NASA.
In my aunt’s car
After surviving the curling iron face branding administered by my cousin in the first part of our trip to Houston, it was time for the second leg of the journey. But, my family wasn’t the only one going to the space center. My cousins and their neighbor were going as well. That logistic meant that we had to take two cars. The girls were riding in my Aunt Aricela’s car, and that included the girl with the stinky but freshly styled hair. Four of us were squeezed into the backseat–me, my two cousins, and April.
At first, I didn’t think anything of this arrangement. The adults had decided that it made the most sense. Upon entering the car, though, I immediately noticed two things–the smell of the upholstery and the box of Capri Sun pouches on the floor board. The pouches were impressive because of their cost. It didn’t matter how amazing the silvery packs looked on the commercials, they were never gonna make it into our shopping cart. We drank Kool aide at my house. Packs of those went 10 for $1.
“Who wants a Capri sun?” my cousin asked. She adopted more of a motherliness now that we were in the car. Since she was the oldest, she was often called upon to take care of her sister and anyone younger than herself. And if she had an audience, she milked it.
“Sure!” April said excitedly. Her enthusiasm made me feel as though I should willingly partake as well, even though I was always taught to say “no thank you” when offered anything. Today though, I chose to be greedy like everyone else and accepted the drink.
For a second, I was happy with my decision. I punctured the pouch with the straw and started to suck up the goodness. Then we started driving. For someone who gets motion sick, the new car smell is an instantaneous way of bringing on the desire to vomit. The car doesn’t even have to be moving to initiate it. Mixing the new car smell with the “from concentrate” taste of sun juice was about to do me in. I realized then that I had no one to hold a towel in front of me as my mom had done on the drive to Houston, and I began to panic.
Janelle, my younger cousin, terrified by my sounds and the look of me, climbed over April and forced her body in between her and her sister.
“Janelle! SIT next to your cousin!” Jeanette’s tone was angry, but she still managed to hold onto the valley girl1 dialect she was known for.
“Nooooooo!” Janelle said starting to cry.
That’s when I turned to look at poor April–April who had only met me five minutes before. I tried to smile, but I still had the liquid in my mouth. Swallowing it meant that it might do a 360 and find its way back up. But there was a little girl next to me who had trusted her neighbors to take care of her that day. So I gulped it down in order to speak to her reassuringly.
“Don’t worry. . . I won’t throw up on you.”
April said nothing. She didn’t have to; her face told me just how unconvincing I was. She etched as far away from me as she could and stared–watching and waiting.
Revelation from this trip
Even though I’d been getting motion sick since I was six years old, it was on this trip in particular that I learned just how burdensome my condition was on everyone else. From then on, I tried my best not to vomit in front of anyone, even swallowing the beginnings of it when I could. But most all of all I tried to pretend that I was fine. I’d prop my elbow up on the car door the best I could and lean my head on my fist–trying to stay upright but also giving my swimmy head a break. I’d count the seconds until I made it home so I could let it out. If I was on a school trip, I’d pray to make it to my mom’s car, where she’d be waiting and holding a large bath towel.
- popular social dialect from the 1980s that included an incessant use of the word “like” and characterized by an intonation at the end of a statement that made it sound like a question ↩︎
