Vacations Should Be This Fun

by Jason Graff

Dad buried her up to the neck. Clumps of sand slipped inside her swimsuit. After he smeared sunscreen on her forehead, he laughed like he knew she wasn’t having much fun. He couldn’t know she wasn’t having any at all. Mom pointed out a cruise ship in the distance and wondered where it was going. She hated how Dad rolled his eyes at that, like they could still share silent secrets, like any sort of conspiracy could ever exist between them again. He poured another bucket of water on top of her and packed it down with a few more handfuls of sand.  
She squirmed. She had the chills. She wanted out. She wanted to raise her hand and scratch him across the face. At first, Dad pretended like he wouldn’t help her get out. His laugh was awful and she wondered if maybe that had always been the case. She hated all the times she’d laughed with him, especially when it was at her mother’s expense. She wanted to think he’d forced her or tricked her somehow but knew that wasn’t true. She’d always joined in because he was funny; she used to think he was soooo funny.
It felt good to scream at him, then hear Mom order him to dig her out. She’d always hated that mom voice, right up until that moment and now wondered how much she’d taken it for granted all the times it’d been used on her behalf. After a few handfuls of sand, her arms were free and he pulled her out. She sat on the towel next to her mother and sister, wishing he’d swim out to sea and get lost there.
At dinner, she wanted to ask questions that would make him squirm. Mom kept going on and on about them all going on a cruise next year, getting connecting rooms like nothing had or would ever change. It’s our second day here, her sister said, let’s try to have fun on the vacation we’re on. Her father laughed. She shot him a look, her eyes bullets. She wanted to ask about what he was doing outside the bathroom in the lobby, when she’d gone to find him that morning. Thinking about it as she sipped her Coke, she felt like screaming or crying or exploding or doing all three all at once.
They’d been up for a while and waiting for him so they all could go out to breakfast together. She wished she hadn’t gone looking for him; his back to her as she stood frozen in the elevator. Of course, he was wearing that stupid Pavement t-shirt he always wore with the scrawl on the back like a mental patient had written on it. She staggered her back against the fake wood paneling. He was making out, had his body entwined with another woman right there in the middle of the lobby, out in the open like he didn’t even care if he was seen. It was equal measures cringe and tragic.

Her sister asked if Mom was joking when they pulled up to the motel. There were cigarette butts and plastic bag and all other manner of disgusting swirling around the parking lot. It’s all I could get close to the beach, she said, turning to offer first her, then her sister in the backseat a pleading smile. They pulled up to the office. She almost stepped on what looked like a needle but didn’t say anything. Her sister was in enough of a mood. The lady who handed over the key smiled like she was getting away with something. She had a mountain of red hair that wanted to slide off the side of her head. The skin sagged around her face in angry folds. Despite their obviously being too old, she offered her and her sister lollipops, which they accepted if only to hear Mom sigh. Her vigilance against sweets had extended well past their childhood.
There were only two beds in the room which smelled of chlorine and damp laundry. Icked out, she didn’t even want to get her suitcase from the car. Blackened mold ringed the shower drain. The toilet made an ominous gurgling noise when she flushed. Let’s go down to the beach and watch the sunset, Mom said. Her sister wanted to change into her bikini, which she couldn’t understand. In all their years of going to the beach, she’d never once gotten in the water, not even when they were little kids. The most she did was sit on a towel and try to make everyone else worry about her getting sunburned.
Sitting on a towel between Mom and her sister, she kept clearing her voice like she was about to speak but then couldn’t even cough when she opened her mouth. What is it sweetie, Mom said as though hearing something in her strangled attempts to sound human. She had a lot of things to say, mostly questions for her sister about what had happened when she’d visited her at school in the fall, but her sister had served dark mood the whole ride from the airport. Bitchy was the word that came to mind, but she and her sister and their mother had made a pact years ago to never use any form of that word about or even around each other. She felt kind of guilty for thinking it. Don’t let anyone refer to us dogs, her sister had told her once, especially ourselves. She wished Mom had been bitchier sometimes, especially about the whole thing with Dad. She was sure they fought and she’d heard snatches of anger from behind their bedroom door once in a while, but Mom never said a bad word about him to her or her sister and even corrected them when they did; he’s your father, you don’t mean that. Yes, I do mom, yes I certainly do, she’d think to herself, always wishing she’d said something about what she’d seen on that vacation a couple of years before right after she’d seen it.  
They’d gone to an off-campus party across the street from her sister’s dorm. The house was painted the school colors, yellow and purple, which made it look ridiculous, a big playhouse for kids old enough to know better. A bunch of her sister’s friends lived there, big hugs from strangers the minute she stepped inside. It had wood floors and crown molding, just nice enough to make it seem a shame that generation after generation of college kids obviously spent their time wearing out its charm. The floor was badly scuffed and the walls were dotted with patches of noticeably fresher patches of paint where holes had likely been sealed up. Most of her sister’s friends were basic sorority types with their makeup and homemade bracelets and nose rings and pink-strapped, cross-body purses. It was the kind of click where they all referred to themselves and each other as girls out loud. They taught her to play a drinking game that involved dice and cups and flipping nickels off water bottles. She never really got the hang of it but they all kept pretending to be amazed at how good she was. Drunk boys in ballcaps kept hovering around their group, trying to talk to them. All scraggily beards and bad breath, they were too corny even for a group of sorority chicks. On the way back to the dorm, she asked her sister if she really wanted to join whatever Greek lettered club those girls were from, then experienced a little soul loss when her sister slurred; if they’ll even have me.
Back in her sister’s room with Taylor Swift dead-eyeing them from a poster behind the bed, she realized they hadn’t talked at all about what had been going on at home. She was jealous that her sister didn’t have to be around to witness firsthand the final disintegration of their family: Mom’s crying, Dad’s always-closing-doors-behind-him evasiveness; this from a man who used to have to be asked to shut the door when he went to the bathroom. It feels like part of our childhood’s been murdered and not in a good way, she said, he killed right before he left. Her sister nodded with teeth-bared ferocity and declared; Dad’s such a fucking whoremaster, I hope he catches something that makes his dick fall off, then leapt off her bed, taking Tay-Tay down with her, rolling around on the floor, tearing the poster to shreds. She tried laughing like it was funny but she actually felt a little sick. It sounded like her sister was trying to laugh too, but she might’ve been crying. Her sister then suddenly stopped what she was doing, sat up, pulled the trashcan out from under her desk and puked. For the rest of the night, she knelt next to her, holding her hair back and wondered if she’d need to remind her of any of this in the morning. At some point, they passed out on her bed together facing the wall that had once been Taylor’s. They held each other the way they used to when they were kids and one of them had had a nightmare.

She sat at the end of the bar trying to decide if it was the umbrella on the thick toothpick or the huge wedge of pineapple that was making her drink too ridiculous to enjoy. Going on vacation alone was supposed to be fun. There was no need to accommodate others’ ideas of how best to spend the time, where to eat, what to do. Three days in and she’d done little more than lay on the beach, sit at the bar and then lay on the couch in her condo, watching the gameshow network. She missed her mom and sister annoying her and thought fondly of their last trip together, the gross motel, the way it rained for half the trip trapping them inside that moldy cinderblock, where they played cards and watched bad movies and laughed more together than they had in years. The bartender asked her if she wanted chicken fingers again, and she definitely did not. She looked up places that delivered on her phone, as if eating pizza on the couch in the condo while watching Press Your Luck reruns might be turn things around. She sipped her drink. It was thick and frozen and she had to suck hard to make it come up the straw. Cold and sweet in that vacation headachy way, the tropical drink had begun to symbolize the unfulfilled promise of the whole trip.

They’d argue about it later, but she was sure she saw Lizzie first, climbing atop her stool at the other end other end of the bar. She ordered the same drink and deflected the clueless bartender’s attempt at flirting with a smile and forced laugh before pretending something on her phone required her attention. All Lizzie had to do was look over at her, not really even smile, and she was off her stool drink in hand. She introduced herself and said it looked like they’d ordered the same thing. Lizzie didn’t answer, just kind of kicked out the stool next to her. She sat down, putting her glass a little closer to Lizzie’s than she might have with a different kind of a stranger. I’m here alone, she announced in an asking, kind of hoping way. She wasn’t too fussed by Lizzie revealing she was on vacation with her boyfriend. She could tell Lizzie was bored with the life she’d been living from the way she said his name, kind of like he put her tongue to sleep. The fact that you could fill a large swimming pool with all the women she’d thought the same thing about, only to be proven wrong in an embarrassing way later never made much of a difference.
The night before she was going to leave for Mom’s, Lizzie sent her a text. There were only so many things, up for a swim?, could’ve meant at that hour of the night. Lizzie’s boyfriend had gotten drunk and passed out, she told her once they’d shed their suits and had swum a little ways out. They kissed, clinging onto each other like it might make up for the time they’d wasted without each other.
Standing in the taxi line outside the airport, underdressed and cold, she missed Florida. She texted Lizzie that she was on her way to visit her mom, thinking that it might prompt her a response. She didn’t now why. She hadn’t even mentioned her mother. Once or twice the dots popped up like Lizzie was composing but nothing came though.
She pulled her arms inside her jacket and hugged herself, wishing she’d let Mom pick her up after all. It was just that she wasn’t a great driver and traffic made her anxious. The man ahead of her in line gave up his cab. She thanked him through chattering teeth. Dress warmer hun, he advised. She smiled from behind the taxi’s window then flipped him the bird.
The moment she stepped in the door, her mother announced she had something for her father. She opened the cabinet below her huge, old ass TV and hauled out the wedding album. Mom dusted off the cover but couldn’t bring herself to open it. He might like to look at the pictures before I throw it away, she said. She couldn’t imagine her father would have any use for them.
Lying in what had in another house been her childhood bed with her phone next to her and the wedding album next to it, she thought about texting Lizzie but didn’t know what she’d say. She looked at the pictures, saddened by how happy Dad and Mom once made each other. It must’ve been the same for Lizzie and what’s-his-name. She tried to think of an obscure question or comment to make that might get Lizzie thinking about how much happier she might be with her, of how certain she could be of that. She wanted to remind her of the ocean, of the feeling she was sure lay inside of Lizzie’s hungry, sparking eyes.
She had her mother’s eyes or so everyone said. She looked at them shining up with life from the page all matte and glossy. She took a picture, focusing in on just the eyes. Sending that to Lizzie seemed right and also seemed stalkerish at the same time. Touching her bottom lip lightly against the back of her hand, she could feel where Lizzie had lightly bit her as they pulled towards each other with the cool water lapping around their bodies in the moonlight. She sent the picture to her sister instead.
Lizzie had taken her hand and guided under the water it to the spot. Here was something she could do better than any man, she thought. Lizzie’s breathing grew heavy, her legs kicking out with force in the water. It seemed she was on the precipice of an orgasm when she pulled away. The ecstasy on her face melted to something like anger.  I can’t, she said, I shouldn’t. They went back to shore, their naked bodies covered in goosebumps. She wondered, not for the first or last time, why any woman would deny themselves the orgasm that was their living right. Was Lizzie being loyal to her boyfriend by stopping short the experience he’d always failed to provide? They exchanged numbers. Lizzie gave her a kiss on the cheek before practically running away, still naked, suit in hand. Women were so confusing. 

She stepped from the Uber into a slushy grey puddle that seemed to gurgle a laugh at her choice of footwear. The balloons tied to the streetlamp outside her sister’s townhouse bumped against each other in a stiff kind of greeting. Wordlessly, the driver got her bag out of the trunk and sat it at the end of the brick walkway. Curtains flickered in the window as she walked it to the door. She didn’t have to ring the bell. I thought you were going to drop a pin or text your ETA when you landed, her sister said with her arms wide as soon as the door was opened. I texted before I left, she said. You’re like 30 minutes late, her sister said. She sighed, knowing it sounded like their mother and asked if she could just come in. Once she was inside, she heard her niece, whom she hadn’t met yet, crying from upstairs. There was folded laundry and stacks of baby books on the stairs which led up to the bedrooms. You want to go up, her sister asked, I was about to feed her. She nodded and followed, leaving her suitcase by the door.
It sat there until she was ready to go to bed that night. She spent a few minutes in frozen panic thinking she’d left her suitcase in the Uber or at the airport. I’m supposed to be the one with baby brain, her sister said dragging it from the foyer over to the couch. Thanks, she said tucking the folded sheet under the cushion and trying not to think about whatever was in the grit she’d brushed with the tips of her fingers. Do you need some help, her sister asked sitting down on the chair cattycorner from the couch heavily and looking exhausted. I think I got it, she said. I should’ve made it up for you, her sister said, I’m such a terrible hostess. It’s fine, she said aware of how phony her smile was. What do you think of your niece, her sister asked. She beautiful, she said, of course. Her sister hung her head, hung it low almost between her legs like it might fall off. Her body began to shake. She was trying not to cry. Ryan left, her sister said, having for the moment it seemed, successfully fought off her tears. We weren’t getting along before Rayanne came along, but I hoped that would change, he would change, her sister moaned, I’m so stupid. No, you’re not, she said softy and without much conviction, sliding over on her knees to rub her sister’s back; he’s an asshole. You never even met him, her sister said with a weary laugh, looking up at her with eyes brimming. Most hetero men are, she said, a lot of gays too; I just assume this and then am very infrequently pleasantly surprised. Her sister scooted over so they both could sit on the plush round chair, holding one another. It didn’t surprise her exactly to feel how much she’d missed being close to her sister. As they huddled side by side in silence, she gave a hot thought to giving up her life and moving there to live with her sister and niece. Rayanne shrieking from her bedroom dashed that fantasy before she even dreamed a full day of living there. You want me to go, she asked. No, her sister said, she wants me. It was nice to be wanted by another human being, she thought as her sister made her weary way back out to the foyer and up the stairs.

Rayanne kept squirming against her hip with her butt, trying to get closer and closer. Say Auntie, Mom said pointing her phone at them, oblivious to the fact that with the glaring sun at her back, both of her subjects were forced to squint, making their smiles seem pained or fake or both. I wish you smiled like that when I was in a picture with you, said her sister, lurking behind their mother. She wasn’t totally sure if the comment was meant for her or Rayanne. That’s my Ray-Ray, she said and held her niece close, partially out of affection and partially in the hopes that it would get her to stop squirming. Everyone was in a noticeably better mood, she thought, because their father, Rayanne’s grandfather had canceled the dinner he’d foisted upon them. Her sister must’ve told him about their plans to all go down to Florida. They weren’t all that near to where he lived with his latest girlfriend, so the only part of the surprise in his cancelling was how relieved they’d all felt.
As far as she knew, her mother and father hadn’t been in the same room since her college graduation. They’d shared a few words which was more like an awkward and mercifully brief transaction rather than anything resembling a conversation. In the six years since the separation, they’d forgotten who they had to be around each other. Lately, she could feel the same slippery nature of her own daughterhood with him whenever they spoke on the phone. It wasn’t just that she felt obligated, but it was clear he had things he’d rather be doing than listening to her complain about her car or job or apartment or whatever. Over time, they’d call each other less and when they did speak, they’d make vague plans to get together that never had anything like the flavor of something that might come to fruition; just words between two people not desperate enough to not become strangers. The last time she’d seen Dad, she’d invited him to stay with her then was relieved beyond words when he said he had to leave town the same night. It was the kind of offer which felt as though should get her off the hook for future accommodations, at least for a few years or so.
At dinner Rayanne demanded to sit next to her as she had each night of the vacation. It’d been a while since anyone was desirous enough of her company to demand and claim it for themselves. Ray asked what they had even though she could've recited the kids’ part of the hotel menu from memory by that point. She ordered popcorn shrimp just as she had on the previous nights. It was enough to make her wish they’d go eat somewhere else, but Mom was tired, always too tired by then to get in a car and drive somewhere. Her sister also had a fear of lines, of waiting, of what would become of her daughter were Rayanne not fed by such and such a time. She and her niece played the tic-tac-toe on the kids’ menu with Rayanne employing the odd beginning strategy of placing an X in the bottom middle square, making it a challenge to at least not beat her, even by accident, let alone allow her to win. 
What should we do tomorrow, Mom asked. Rayanne wanted to go to the beach again and no one else had a better suggestion, so it seemed the vacation was set on repeat. Rayanne offered each one of them a shrimp but demanded she be allowed to put it in their mouths. What could any of them do but say yes? She would’ve been surprised if anyone gave Dad a second thought.

She knocked on the thin bathroom door of her mother’s stateroom and asked if she was okay, even though she could hear retching. I’ll be alright, her mom gasped almost breathlessly, just need to get my sea legs, I guess, as if what she was currently going through was part of some painful but necessary transformation. Mom’s room was bigger than hers, she couldn’t help but notice with a desk, a queen bed and not one but two large portholes. Do you want some water, she asked. Have plenty of that, her mother said and turned on the faucet.
It was another day, day and half for Mom’s legs to be seaworthy enough to carry her from her stateroom into the well-lit cavern that was one of the ship’s five restaurants. She ordered only soup and bread, drinking what seemed to be copious amounts of water. There were more lines on her mother’s face, she couldn’t help noticing, more spots on her hands. She was sure she just hadn’t seen them before but couldn’t totally escape the idea that Mom’s seasickness had aged her. Well, her mother said between greedy sips from her sweaty goblet of water, what have you been up to; not sitting around waiting for me to emerge recovered, I hope. I sat by the pool, she said, sat on deck in the sun; cruising seems to involve a lot of sitting. Just like most vacations, Mom said, did you go ashore? Not without you, she said, what if you needed me. I would’ve been fine, Mom said, though I think you should be happy we didn’t get adjoining rooms; the noises I must’ve been making. You should’ve taken the motion sickness pill, she said. I wanted the full cruise experience, Mom said, queasiness and all. Okay, Mom, she said, shaking her head.
She followed Mom’s eyes. At first, she thought they were focused on the pink-skinned bald men, bent over their beer glasses at the table across the way then she realized her mother was looking at the window behind them, at the water where the waves broke the sunlight into glints of diamond. A couple of the men looked over at them, smiling like fools then too turned their heads to look at the water. They were miles from land, miles it seemed from anything or anyone else. It was just a flash, less than a second, the most fleeting of feelings, but she felt comfort at being isolated with her mother. Mom turned to her took another sip of water and smiled. What should we do with the rest of the day, she asked.  

Jason Graff’s debut novel Stray Our Pieces concerns a woman extricating herself from motherhood. heckler, about lives colliding at a struggling hotel, followed. His short stories have appeared in places such as Bruiser, The Decadent Serpent, Louisiana Literature, Bull, Troublemaker Firestarter, Umbrella Factory, Slab and The Razor.