On route to Cape Cod, 1994, we were in our van counting blue cars and collecting license plates. Sister and I had a book that we would have to mark them down in as we saw them go. I think that might be illegal nowadays. But it was a book, like a colouring one, nonetheless. Then we were playing eye spy. And pretending to eat play-dough, fooling the passengers in cars stopped beside us. I pretended to take a bite out of a play-dough hotdog to a group of teenagers on the i-95.
They couldn’t get enough of the production. Laughing hysterically at the prefect synchronization of faux bite and faux chew. The way I made the play-dough hotdog look so real, the way I angled it and fit it behind my mouth on my cheek. The boy in the passenger seat in particular admired my production. Eyebrows raised, mouth wide, he was in a full toothy laughter. I did this again, to a young couple in a white sedan. This time with a play dough cookie. They liked the performance as well, probably curious as to why they cookie was blood red, or what type of cookie it was. Zia told me to stop, but I had too many fans on the road now.
Mom was bare feet on the dashboard. Her red hair blowing out of the hair sprayed formation in the car wind – the kind that isn’t real nature wind, but only blows because you are moving. Dad at the wheel, with his ray bans and a thick brown moustache with a hint of handlebar. His forearm rests on the top of the wheel, at the helm of our Ford. Sister and I start singing, “Memories” from the musical Cats, and after the first chorus my mom turns and gives a look of both adoration and fury. Only mother can master these dual facial expressions, giving her children just enough fear without fear of maternal alienation. You could probably even call these transpirations maternal.
We are going to Cape Cod for a summer holiday, one week. Zia is single, tanned and beautiful. Long black hair with thick bangs, a smooth figure, full of relaxed health, and a perfect profile (something hard to come by in my family plagued by the busts of ancestral Romans). “If you ever leave anything to me in your will,” I say to Zia, nine years old. “Leave me your nose.” Zia comes with us almost everywhere, even when she had a boyfriend, she would come with us without him. It is because of Sister and I, I am sure, and not my parents. Sister and I are young, and Zia always wanted kids.
I’m wearing an outfit Zia bought me for the car. It is a jumper, like parachute material, in neon pink and green, with zippers all over. We count the zippers (12) and pockets (4). Sister is in a “tomboy” phase, so she wears white canvas sneakers a baggy t-shirt and long black shorts to her knees. Her wavy hair is in a ponytail, two elastics strong because her hair is so thick.
