Peeling Back the Foil

My sisters and I were like three worn out puppies as we sat in a huddled pile on the backseat bench of our family van with crusted dirt tagging our cheeks and foreheads. Lindsay, my older sister, started to fall asleep—head on my shoulder, her body wiggling a bit as her conscious began to slip and give way to lucid dreams that would pass the fourteen hours we had remaining to drive home from our vacation to Yellowstone National Park. Heidi, the youngest of the three, drummed her fingers against the surface of the car window, milky with fog. On the middle seat of the van, my four year old brother slept in his car seat, drool stringing from his thumb to his mouth. I listened intently as my mom and dad talked in the front. With sweet demeanor, my mom was pointing out the highlights of the trip—the glassy pools of iced-over water, the tiered layers of bubbling hot springs, innumerable buffalo—she listed them and chuckled a bit in memory of the buffalo. I joined with her in laughter from the backseat. Before long my dad abruptly interjected, “How are we going to afford this?” My father was a worried man and I had heard him ask that same question constantly. He always directed it in anger towards my mother as if she was responsible for wasting his wealth. She never did anything. None of us did. Yet he always had something to scream about, to rattle our fears, to make us question whether or not his insults and comments were valid. That car trip home from Yellowstone was a time that I never questioned, just believed. I believed every word he spoke, every hideous name he gave me or my mother. I had a way of detecting the waves of an approaching argument. The air changed and my parents’ conversation began taking on a certain rhythmic pattern. I waited for the breakout, as timely and predictable as the relentless geysers we watched emerging from crusted soil earlier in the week. My heart would pulsate with greater fervency leading right up to that moment of heat. Then, the moment it broke, my heart would stop, then slowly retard into a detained state of numbness that leveled and remained until the argument passed. I imagined my heart on ice—that living pinkish organ resting inside a white frozen box, impairing it just enough so that it lost its wild vibrancy, yet keeping it contained enough to survive in chilled stillness. During these times, I often found a way to preoccupy my eight-year-old conscience.

That day, I rested my forehead against the cool comforting stiffness of the glass van window. Then, I just stared. I watched the grooves of the window frame rattling slightly with motion, examined the road below us, it’s yellow markings resembling a line of flying darts—one shot right after the next. I closed one eye, then the other, creating a new picture that widened or shrank and jostled back and forth with each blink. I watched the trees passing; let them melt together slightly as I squinted my eyes, my lashes hovering and reminding me of little spider legs. These mindless games made a hush of the noise of my parents, and soon enough their voices were nothing but a tonal sliding and buzzing.

Before long, my father pulled over at a rest stop, to “cool off”. He slammed the door of the caravan and shuffled right and left before he committed to a direction and walked quickly away in frustration. I watched the heat of his mouth turn into puffs of smoke in the chilled air. Without fail, one of the four of us always asked my mom whether or not he would return—we had little reason to believe he would want to. She always lulled and pacified us with her words of stillness. She reached for each of our hands and squeezed them for an alleviating moment. She prayed for us, then for my dad. I could never understand how she would pray with such intensity and deep seeded care for him, her voice wavering with unrest, but consistent with some supernatural hope. “Amen” we all said together, my brother Christian and sister Heidi red in the face with tears, and Lindsay and I back to back, holding up each other’s weight carefully.

After an hour we were still waiting, Christian had fallen back asleep and we had all left our spots and were climbing over and underneath the bench seats like they were caves. I laid still on the floor, settled my back against the curved edge of the trunk and combed the carpet with my fingers. My mom suggested we all get ourselves a surprise from the vending machine. She passed us each a few shiny dimes and quarters and we walked hand in hand, Lindsay leading, to the vending machine. Lindsay bought a plastic purple ring with a Carebear on the surface of the boxy gem. Heidi and Christian both chose gummy bears, and I stood there, always the careful one, wanting to make the perfect decision. A pack of mixed fruit mentos caught my eye and I quickly made the purchase.

When we returned to the car, I nested in the backseat amongst some overstuffed sleeping bags. I held the candy package in my palm, thinking about how much was inside and how long I could make each mento last—maybe even all the way home to Seattle. I thought about how much I adored the pink strawberry mentos and how I really didn’t care for the orange or the yellow. Buying an entire package was worth it, even if only two or three pink mentos were found inside. In the moment, all I desired was the tangy sweetness of the pink flavor. For some peculiar reason, my mind remembered a moment sitting with my mother just before bed, her reading the Bible to me with my head cradled in her lap. “If you remain in me and my words remain in you, ask whatever you wish and it will be given to you” she read out of John 17. She explained this verse to me in simple terms—that if we follow Jesus wholeheartedly, he will give us what we ask for if it’s a part of His will. My child-like faith captured this verse, storing it deep in my mind, only to rise quickly when all I desired in the world was for pink mentos to emerge from below the foil wrapping in my hand. I squinted my eyes tightly and prayed, “Jesus, if it’s your will, I would like all pink mentos this time.” I really believed this could happen. I wanted to see if God could really do it. I started unwrapping by pulling a string of foil from the top. I felt like Charlie Bucket waiting for the golden ticket. I wondered if Charlie prayed before he peered into that chocolate bar. I kept opening, almost too afraid to look what was underneath. The first ring of foil came undone and there was one glorious pink mento, its waxy gleam coruscating with brilliance. My eyes widened and I reached to pluck the first treasure from the top of the roll. As I wrapped my tottering fingers gently around the candy, I pulled back slightly to reveal yet another pink pearl. Once more, I repeated and a third then fourth fell from the packaging. I began collecting them in my lap—placing them carefully just between my thighs, guarding them with the greatest immediacy. Suddenly, a zealous wave came over me and I ripped the side off the rest of the package. One by one they fell into my lap—each piece of candy pink—not a single orange or yellow. My jaw fell and my lips remained unattached for several minutes. I was speechless. What a wonder. Interestingly, I was more excited about God hearing my prayer than I was about the stack of brilliant pink gems in my lap just waiting for consumption. How did He do that? I thought to myself.

Before long, my dad returned to the car and without a word, we were back on the highway. He stayed silent the whole way home, despite my mom’s efforts to debrief and reconcile. Everyone became quiet again. We all just sat there for hours. My brother and sisters eventually fell asleep. Then my mom set her feet on the dashboard and laid down her exhausted head. Once in awhile, my dad’s eyes would catch mine in the rear view mirror, but I would look away quickly before he had a chance to speak something with them. I pressed my forehead against the glass for a second time, my dad heavy on my conscious, and I just stared. Instead of playing games with the scenery outside my window, I tried something new. I opened my lips slightly and in a quiet undertone I began to pray.