There are three things I rely on, every summer, without fail: 1) the sun will rise in the east to scorn us in the West, 2) my ice cream will always fail to satisfy me and 3) my mother will plan several editions of “THE PERFECT TRIP” (!!!) throughout the summer, sandwiched somewhere between 7:00 on Friday and 6:00 on Monday that will be nothing short of blind torture.

#1 and 2 have occurred many times, but now I wait for the big one, #3.

She rolls into the driveway at 7 o’clock. I have lost all feeling in my corneas from relentless screen time and resolved myself to a twisted monkey pose because that position covers the coldest patches of plastic on the sofa. But eventually, my mom will come in and chastise my brother and I (who’s been slaughtering monster turtle zombies since the morning) about our laziness and wasting of time.

This is pretty normal for any parent to do. For my mother, it’s extremely normal. But in her case, this reaction only speaks to a host of issues.

She is a perfectionist.

She is paranoid.

She loves working too much.

She wants everything to always go perfect, because, in her mind, people should always especially try hard to have the best experience possible. That means planning everything to the minutest detail and checking everyone to keep in line with her meticulous schedule.

There are a lot more.

By this time, the sun has lost some of its effectiveness. The horizon stretches far across this plot of suburbia, two bands of sun and night blending together forever and away. I watch it and speculate. Speculate about what’s beyond that horizon. Beyond those palm trees. Beyond my mother’s bobbing head, coming closer and closer towards us. Her image quivers in the opaque glass.

My brother, Ben, hastily shuts off the TV as the lock jiggles loudly. He gives me a look, and we both know that our day is over.

“Ready?” He groans.

“No. Not really.”

My mom walks in swiftly, her heels clicking repetitively along the wood floor.

“Hi everyone. My presentation went perfectly today, of course. I planned everything to the exact last minute, of course. The secretary was late, so I complained ex-ten-sive-e-ly to the manager, but I think it all got taken care of, so everything worked out in the end. I think I’m getting that big promotion soon. That way maybe I can afford that nice vase I was looking at.”

This was all said to her iPhone screen, rapid red nails flying across the surface.

We offer her a shadow of a smile. She retreats into the kitchen. Pots and pans start sliding across the countertop. She’s started her usual routine of organizing all of the household items by use, appliance, color and size – when the dishes are washed or when a new kitchen tool is purchased.

My brother and I stare at the ceiling’s stucco as the sounds continue. I follow a trail of misshapen paint mounds until the corner of the room, and then my gaze drops down to the TV. I study the sterile furniture of the living room like it’s the first time I’ve been here, because mostly everything is new. The white vase. The shining tables, scrubbed to gleaming pledge perfection. I cough, the disinfectant going to my head.

We continue like this for a century. Letting the time roll past us like quicksand.

By the time our mom calls us to dinner, it is full-on nighttime. My brother and I rip ourselves off the couch and stumble our way through the bluish living room to the kitchen. My mom is standing there in the fluorescence, placing a tureen of rice in the middle of the table. She faintly smiles (a special occasion) upon seeing us, and then her face drops when she sees the vacant eyes, oil-slicked hair and sweat-plastered clothes.

“Oh, wow, I didn’t notice how dirty you two are when I walked in. I hope you guys didn’t ruin my couches!”

“Don’t worry Mom,” I mutter. “You’re good.”

She clucks her tongue and nods. “Good. But next time, please remember to be cleaner, both of you. I would like my house to stay nice and clean, please.”

We say grace and dig in. Grace is about 2 minutes. Dinner is as fast as I can eat. Today we are having green peas, steamed cauliflower and roast beef. How strangely American. Take-out is usually the main and only course, the only counter to the nuclear family my mother fantasizes about. I roll the peas around the ridges on my plate, butter leaving yellow marks on the ceramic. My mother stares at us, looking for our conversation like the plague searches for bodies.

We stay silent.

“Are you guys excited about tomorrow? Because I know I am.”

Elaborate please.

“Did you guys forget? Oh no! Please don’t tell me you forgot!”

I did.

“We’re going to Half Moon Bay!”

S***.

My brother starts habitually scratching his stubble. His cheek has erupted into red blotches by the time I speak up. My mother is at the sink putting away her plate.

“Half Moon Bay, huh? Sounds, uh, fun.”

She claps her hands, excited again. “Alrighty! This is going to be lots of fun. But of course we have to make sure everything goes off without a hitch. Ok, so I will pack from now until 11:30, ok? And we will depart from here at 5, because that we can have delish breakfast at Sam’s Chowder House, and then we will go to the beach at 9, and then…we will go on the 2 mile hike up to the lighthouse. And then we will rent three bikes and cycle to the harbor and have lunch at 2, and then we will walk in downtown and we’ll go to 3 outlets, and then we will drive back at exactly 5:30, be back at 7, and then we can watch a movie! And I think it’s Ben’s turn to pick, right? Yes, it is. OK, so let’s get started!”

Let the madness begin.

Three hours later, I slide into bed with a satisfying bounce. The TV clicks on effortlessly with a tap of the remote. Thank the lord I do not have to get up and turn it on manually.

Outside, my mother has delved deep into her zone. I was out there with her earlier, stuffing supplies into the hatchback (albeit with much less passion) until 10:30, when I placed a small canister of fruit in the wrong place and she sent me inside because I was making too many mistakes. Of course, my brother got fully exempted because of his frigging SAT prep course.

The TV Guide flashes by rapidly. Full House is starting now on ABC Family. Perfect.

As the theme song starts up onscreen, I separate the curtains and take a peek at my mother. Her stringy hair is up in a tight bun, and her pencil thin limbs are repetitively picking up and placing in the car, picking and placing, picking and placing.

The Olsen twins come onscreen. Well, one of them. They would take turns onscreen, so if one of them got tired, the other could replace them. That would be cool if they could combine two of them into one. So cool.

I glance outside again. It’s almost 11:15. But she’s still out there, lugging and puffing and heaving away. I would be out there helping her, but obviously my fruit packing skills are quite lacking in, how shall I say, anal-ity.

Poor Mom. She has always held this steadfast belief that the best things in life are those that are planned by the second. She doesn’t realize that when it comes to being perfect, she controls that monopoly. My mom comes home and immediately dives into her work. Even when her work is finished, she barely even notices us, and these periods can last for entire weekends. When she gets time to take us on excursions, she always wants them to go perfectly. And I’m not blaming her for that at all. I just wish she would be looser. Every trip we go on ends up being totally not fun because of her rigidity. Sigh. I just, like, want to go to a movie or something.

By the time my musings are over, Full House is over. Stephanie and her friend Gia were hanging out with boys who apparently were from Europe, because they really loved driving on the wrong side of the road. Anyway, they were crazy and wild, but I guess girls like those things in driving, because they were going out in the evening with them again. But DJ, Stef’s sister, had some sense and stopped Stef from going. Of course, then, Gia gets into a car accident and goes to the hospital. Everyone learns a lesson and everyone is happy. Until the next 30 minutes.

Kind of like real life, huh?

I hear the door open and close, but Mom’s still religiously stuffing the car. Probably Ben. I yawn and settle into bed, tracing the outline of the Canadian flag on my wall with my eyes. I hear his footsteps clomp down the hallway, and I track where his footsteps are along the redwood – lined hallway. They abruptly stop, and then my door creaks open. I see a hand come through the door. Ok, Ben, yes? And then a book flies right into my nose. Wow, thanks!

“Ben, what the f*** was that for?” I groan, clutching my nose.

He sticks his face through the opening, making what I call his “dumb face”. He cocks an eyebrow and lets his jaw hang. Ben thinks it makes him look exasperated. I contest constipation. “Wow, Vicky, I did you a favor. It’s that new photography book you wanted from the library.”

I smile too widely. “I appreciate the offer, but next time don’t shave off my nose doing it.”

Ben scoffs in that special way that only siblings can. “Right.” He leaves the room. I massage my nose and settle back into bed. Finally, the heat has ebbed away a little.

I let the slight air from the window wash over me, a breeze that was thin and scraggly, yet took some pressure off the summer night. The curtains curled across the window with the sparse wind. My mother was now closing the trunk, wiping her brow and carrying all the surplus supplies into the garage.

Just thinking about speeding down the road (and by speeding I mean two miles over the limit) with boxes of s*** stuck in every crevice of my body does not seem very attractive at all. I’m sure I’m not the only one that feels this way.

My nose still hurts, but I decide to go and relieve some of my feelings with Ben. I make my way quietly across the hallway, and step into his room.

“Ben, can I talk to you?”

Of course, he’s sitting on the floor and knitting while listening to Pearl Jam. Says it loosens him up, and by telekinesis, makes his pearl knits loopier. Give me a break.

He gives me a look.

“You can if you say ‘sorry’.”

Eff. You. I sigh deeply.

“Sorry.”

“Ok. Now spill your eager beans.”

I sat down on the floor, my legs sliding into crisscross-applesauce. I fingered the rosary that was around my bracelet.

“Ok, so Mom.”

“Mom.”

“Every time we go on a trip like this, both of us (I know this is you, too) get through it with gritted teeth. We follow her like we’re lapdogs. I mean, are we obligated to just follow what ever she has to say? Are we obligated to follow her insane plans?”

Ben places his knitting down on the rug and sighs, feeling his face where the stubble blends into his buzz cut.

“Look, I know it’s hard, but it’s only a few vacations. It’s better to grit our teeth, as you put it, than make a huge ruckus.”

“But why do we have to be on tiptoes around her?”

“This is the way she is. I love her, but she’s a crazy, obsessed perfectionist. You think she’s going to change? Not even Dad leaving did anything.”

“Well, maybe she needs to hear it from us.”

“Look, I don’t want to get myself involved in this. You go ahead.”

“I don’t want to alone.”

It was such a sheepish thing to say, but it was true.

“Then please don’t. Save yourself the trouble.”

And then, as though he had only glanced up for a second, Ben leaned down, picked up his knitting and continued to make large pearls with Eddie Vedders voice in the background.

I let myself out.

I don’t know what to do now. Perhaps Ben is right. I should just suck it up. One vacation can’t be so bad.
I shut the curtains and take about 30 minutes before drifting into restless sleep.

Seemingly, no time goes by before I’m strapped into the back of the car, two boxes of utensils nestled on either side of me. Fun. My watch reads 5 am. I fiddle with it nervously, because it’s the only thing keeping me awake and distracted from the excited ramblings coming from the front. My mother adjusts the heat ventilation controls with a twitching hand, the notches clicking sharply as they move back and forth. I watch, transfixed and glazed over, the subtle rhythms of her movements. Ben is out dead in the front, snoring and snorting. My mom’s many, many attempts to bring him from the dead failed miserably. Probably too much knitting. That s***’ll wear you out.
So far, it’s ok. I hope that Ben’s words prove themselves worthy.

“I think I am pretty much packed for this vacation. I am, aren’t I?”

My mom’s head rhetorically bobs in agreement, followed with a reassuring nod. I have lost all feeling in my front cortex and everything thereafter. My brain is a conglomerate of numbness. Figuratively, of course.

I lurch backwards as her head suddenly swivels towards me. That brings me back to the world of the awake. Why does she do this? I mean, 5 am. COME ON. The least she can do is concentrate on the road. I make my feelings known.

“Mom, please concentrate on the road.”

“Ok, ok.”

We are approximately 15 minutes into our trip. We exit the freeway and head towards the San Antonio Shopping Center. The car maneuvers down a side street, past high-rise condominiums and broken down gas stations, and finally rolls into a drive – through Caffino. The woman serving coffee sees us and starts smiling, even though we are directly on the other side of the parking lot from the stall. My mom always likes to go here to pick up coffee so “we can be at our very best for the trip”. Yay.

The car halts. The woman is still smiling.

“Hi-llooo! Welcome to Caffino! What beverage/pastry may I have the privilege of seeing you order today?”

Um.

My mom speaks up, wearing an equally radiant smile. “Hi! We’d like two black coffees and a latte, please!”

She bats a hand. “Wow! You know your kids so well!”

I smirk. Yuh-huh.

“I memorized their coffee orders. Just to save time, you know?”

“Oh, of course. So where are you all headed so early?”

“Half Moon Bay.”

“Oh, how much fun is that? I love an adventure. The unexpected!”

“Well, not really the unexpected. I think it’s always best to plan things out so that you can be most productive with your time.”

“Well, in some situations, yes, but I don’t know, I like just doing what ever I feel like!”

“But don’t you miss seeing things that are there to see?”

“The whole experience is in the spontaneity!”

My mom’s smile has dropped to a thin line. I don’t know whether to ask God for popcorn so I can enjoy this show, or ponder how ridiculous and/or great that my mother is getting owned by a barista.

The woman hands us our coffee with a giggle. “Have a great time!”

My mom drives off into the dust, her car turning into the empty road as fast as possible. I can’t believe what just happened.

“Let’s stop at this gas station. I need to go to the bathroom.”

As she swerves into the parking space, we smash into the curb. The collision wakes up Ben in a jolt, his hair in crazy spikes and his eyes baggy. My mom gets out of the car quickly.

“Whassguinawn,” Ben groaned.

I explain to him the transgressions of what just went down.

“S***. She’s going to be in such a bad mood.”

“Whatever, man, that was great!”

He gives me his dumb look and a scoff. “No, it’s not great. Not at all. She’s going to be all up in our ass for this, you’ll see.”

“Ben, maybe now we can talk to her about her perfectionism, and, you know, everything else.“

“No! Look, just give up on this, all right? I don’t want to have to deal with her exploding and getting all mad at us. Just be normal and get through this, all right? It’s just a day. One day. Please do this for me.”

“Ben, -“

“Please, Vicky.”

“Fine, fine. Whatever.”

I decide to lay aside my feelings. Maybe she’s changed her mind in the bathroom, and maybe she’ll come back and we’ll drive home and we’ll just eat Oreos while watching endless reruns of Friends.

Ben picks up his coffee. “F***, did she order me black coffee? I hate black coffee.”

“I know.”

“Can we switch?”

“No way.”

Coffee is the only thing distracting me right now from the surrounding chaos.

Ben glares at me. “Fine. I’m going to sleep.”

My mom slips back into the car, her hair in a loose chignon and her hands wet.

“Ok, let’s hit the road. Gosh, is Ben still sleeping? Ben! Ben!”

And now I know it’s an act. But I’ll let Mom bother him rather than me. Because I have a revolutionary question to ask.

“Mom, are you ok about what the barista said to you?”

“Oh, she was an idiot. Didn’t know what she was talking about.”

There’s my answer. I now have horrible confirmation.

So I stay silent, answering my mom’s small talk with even smaller fragments. We continue driving, now on the freeway and passing the glittering Crystal Springs Reservoir.

“Are you excited?”

“Um, yeah, sure.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Mom, I’m just tired, ok? I don’t want to talk.”

“Fine.” Her head turns back again. I shoo it away. She keeps on going. “But be honest with me, ok?”

“I promise.”

“Did you two not want to come on this trip? I ask because you and your brother have been pretty out of it since yesterday evening. I mean, just very unenthusiastic about this. I understand that you forgot but still. Let’s try to have fun, yes?”

“I am trying, ok? I am trying.”

I probably should have stopped and let the situation deflate itself. But I was on a roll, and the day’s events certainly didn’t help. I muttered quickly under my breath, “To clarify, under the circumstances I am.”

“Stop giving me sass. I am your mom, you know. A little bit of respect would be nice.” Now it was her turn to go all in. “I work so hard to make these vacations nice. So please, stop – for lack of a better word – bitching. Not always about you. Shoot, we’re running behind schedule.”

I squeezed my fists as hard as possible, willing them to bleed on me. I was done with her being so controlling and aggressive and unloving except when she thinks it right.

“Not everything is about schedules. Can’t we, and by we I mean you, ever have a frigging vacation without a rod up our butts? I mean, even the barista disagreed with you.”

“Don’t you dare speak that way to me! How ungrateful are you? And that woman was an idiot.”

“So ungrateful. I mean, you come home, you tune yourself off the f***ing grid, unless of course it involves work, then you’re like a puppy on a teat. And then you force to be figurative slaves to your literally dictatorship-ish trips.”

I let everything loose. I was done with her BS.

“Mom, I love you, but I am done. I can’t do this anymore. It’s ridiculous. I want to have a say in my life with you too.”

Silence.

“Mom, please respond.”

Nothing.

“Mom, please. Respond.”

I hear her breathing. I feel her movements. And yet she does not look back. She does not respond. She just keeps on twisting through the mountains, her sinewy hands flexing and relaxing as they move around the wheel. We curve off the freeway and are now speeding down a one-lane road, the cliff side rising ominously.

After maybe 15 minutes, we roll up to a stop sign. We sit in silence while the fog rolls in, around and over the car. My head hurts immensely. My body aches. I had normalized my mother’s problems for so long in my head, only complaining about her from a distance without taking any action, that when I finally did something, the illusion of her was completely shattered.

I hear her sigh, and then mutter something under her breath.

“Come again?”

My mom tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear slowly. A rattling, inorganic breath escapes her.

“I wanted to give you guys the best time possible.”
“I don’t deny that, Mom. But you’re stuck on it all being perfect that you forget to talk to us, the ones that you’re really trying to make happy.”
“I – I don’t know what to say. I try so hard.”
“But maybe there’s a reason I feel the way I feel. MOM!”

Our car speeds along the left side of the road, itself and my mother oblivious of its trajectory. She violently rips the car across the yellow stripes. I clamp my eyes shut with painful ferocity. The tar screams as the car leans across the cement. Holy s***, holy s***, please God, I don’t want to die. I hear my brother’s yelp as what sounds like his head hits the window. Horns scream past us. My mom is yelling, I’m yelling, we are all yelling.

And then we are back on the road, in the right lane. There is nowhere to stop on the ominous mountainside. But another stop sign approaches. No cars. So here we take our time.

“Say ‘aye’ if you’re ok.”

“Aye.”

“Aye.”

“Ok. Good.”

We continue to stew in silence.

My mom tucks a long, free strand of hair around her ear, and I hope that she’s finding the words to say. Finally, those words come out.

“Obviously, I have done something wrong.”

Perhaps.

“I don’t trust the barista girl, but it’s too bad it took a crash for me to realize that maybe I did something wrong.”

I agree.
“Therefore, I have a proposition to make, everyone.” My mom says meekly.

Ok, Mom.

“I am sorry that that is the way you feel. I’m not sure entirely way”

I swear –

“But I’ll try to understand. I’ll try.”

Thank you. I’ll take that.

I add, “I’m sorry about what I said.”

“Don’t be sorry. I can see that it was eating you up inside.”

“It was. Thank you for understanding.”

“By the way, I’m sorry I almost killed all of us.”

I smile. “Eh. Joint effort.”

She gives me a glance in the mirror. “But mainly me.”

Yes.

My brother gives us a tired, confused smile, still scratching the side of his head. We move forward.

My mom takes a deep breath in. “Maybe a step at a time. Maybe go home?”

And then we took a U-turn.