That morning, my husband and I had been trying to scare each other with plans for strict diets when we realized one of us needed to drive our daughter back to her college in western Mass. I thought I saw his eyes tear up a bit as we stared each other down by the garage door. I blinked, and before I could say “Framingham” I was in a bumper-to-bumper quagmire on I-90. The Pike before or after a long weekend is no place for a lady, or a gentleman, really.
My daughter and I passed the time arguing about which music to listen to, and imagining all sorts of life stories for our fellow travelers as they zoomed and inched by us—depending on the mood of the Beast that had us in its grip. In the left lane, a banged up, formerly white Camry full of sleepy college students revved up and screeched to a stop every minute or so. The driver always woke up in time to avoid what had seemed to be, until moments before, a sure collision. On our right, an older couple crept up beside us at precise intervals. The husband held the steering wheel in a deadly embrace while his wife rocked loosely side-to-side in the passenger’s seat, snug in her seat belt, fast asleep, head lolling around, mouth wide open. The old man shot her worried looks now and then but never let go of the wheel. One SUV after another carried New York and New Jersey families back home after the long weekend at Grandma’s. A kid stuck his tongue out at us and we all laughed like idiots. Cars sliced in and out of lanes whenever an extra foot of space opened up, each driver sure this lane was better. I think we hit 30 a few times. Hours passed. We grew tired of music and conversation. My hands felt numb on the wheel.
Finally, the lady inside my GPS announced we’d arrived at our destination. I helped my daughter unpack, enjoyed two really powerful hugs, and, after studying a real map, belted myself in. “Text me when you get home,” my daughter said, and I smiled at the sound of my words in her mouth.
I felt renewed after those hugs. Plus, on the way in, the last section of the Pike had cleared up a bit in both directions. Besides, I had a Plan B for the ride home that involved Rte 20, even though it dipped in the wrong direction at one point. I’d have to be alert for my exit —this stretch of the Pike is unforgiving, the exits light-years apart. But I felt hopeful when I rolled onto the highway.
At first, traffic flowed sweetly along, but soon the headless Beast reared up again, tangling every car, bus and 18-wheeler into a crunched knot of exhausted metal and rubber. My sciatic nerve woke up just then and hammered its way from my lower back, down my right leg and into my foot. Where was that exit for 20? I searched for new music, something inspiring.
In the darkness, just past Springfield, I crested a hill and looked east into the night. The ruby taillights of a million stopped cars sprinkled over the long black road ahead. On my left, the diamond lights of the oncoming cars were thick, but at least moving. Somehow, those moving white lights boosted my hope. And I heard Elvis sing,
“Since my baby left me, I found a new place to dwell. Well it’s down at the end of Lonely Street, it’s the… Heartbreak Hotel…”
I felt something soften inside me as I sang out, loud and ugly, protected by darkness, glad the other drivers couldn’t see me as I surrendered to the Beast, to the lurching trucks and the angry tour busses, to the night and to the unavoidable heartbreak of the road ahead.
Ana Hebra Flaster is a freelance writer and Lexington resident. Ana’s work has been featured on NPR and the Boston Globe.