Rest Area

Landry preferred driving at night. Less cars on the road, and the drivers of the ones that were had an understanding. She crumpled her burger wrapper and tossed it toward the windshield. Another car calmly passed her on the left.

Landry remembered being a kid and driving to her aunt’s house in Florida. Their arrival time was always in the wee hours of the morning and her aunt would be waiting outside the front door to greet them in the same uniform: tank top, sweat shorts, flip flops. She was always tired but excitedly greeting them.

Her parents would speak in gentle voices to wake her and her sister. Landry was usually stirring by that point, soothed by the car’s slowed journey from the highway into the suburbs of the Florida homes in a world that was still sleeping. Her parents would unload the car and pass Landry her suitcase. It rolled along the concrete driveway, then jumped the two steps into the house where the wheels relaxed across a smooth wooden floor, stopping briefly at the bedroom where it pushed through the carpet and stopped by a freshly made-up bed under the ceiling fan on high.

Her cousins were usually asleep, so the adults spoke in voices just above a whisper. “How was the drive?” Her aunt always asked. Her parents would answer with the amount of stops they made, taking pride when it was less than usual. Landry was the one usually making them stop. That’s why they called her “tiny tank.” Sometimes she’d hold it until she felt she would burst, and by then it was a scared but urgent request to pull over at the next rest area. This was always met with a quiet aggravation. Maybe that sort of thing was the root of why they didn’t trust her to tell them when things were bad.

As an adult, Landry got into the bad habit of forcing herself to hold it as long as possible. If she stopped after two hours, she had to beat that and wait to stop again after another two and a half or three. This drive was different. She was alone in the car and there would be nobody waiting for her at the destination. They would all be there for her aunt’s sixtieth birthday, but not expecting her. They had learned to stop expecting her at a certain point, learned to stop trying so hard to get her to out of the house and be with the family.

The rear-view mirror reflected the strong headlights of a semi-truck. It was just past midnight when she put on her indicator to alert the truck that she was getting into the right lane. There were no exit signs with a clustered menu of fast-food restaurants and gas stations, but a blue sign with white lettering that said, ‘Rest Area 10 miles.’ She shifted in her seat, bladder uncomfortably full, and dumbly had a sip of the half-empty Sprite from her cupholder. Landry’s stomach started to cramp and curdle, and her situation became more urgent.

The truck was now in her left side view mirror and moving fast. Another blue sign promised Landry the Rest Area was just a mile away. She leaned forward and pressed harder on the gas pedal when the truck started to merge into her lane. Landry honked but the front half of the long body was already diagonal in front of her and there was no room for the second half to scootch in, even if she hit the brakes. She swerved onto the shoulder, laying on her horn, and rolled down her window to scream obscenities at the truck’s taillights. They turned red.

The truck stopped and its body lurched toward its head. Landry sat back in the seat and took a few deep breaths. She didn’t want the driver to check on her, so she reversed a few feet, then pulled back onto the highway, bypassed the stalled truck, and flicked the driver off through her passenger window. She pulled in front of the truck and found the Rest Area just ahead.

She followed the gentle curve that guided cars to the left and pulled into a parking lot which held only three other cars. She switched on the overhead light and fumbled around for the pepper spray her mom had given her a year prior. There were a few others in the glovebox as it was an annual gift.

Landry surveyed the area, saw nobody outside, and assumed the other drivers occupied one stall or another, then stepped out. Despite her car’s dinging protest, she left the overhead light on. She followed the concrete sidewalk that snaked its way up a well-maintained lawn. On one side several colorful bins held discount motel coupons.

The truck parking lot was on the other side of the building and it was full compared to the cars’ side. There was a new arrival pulling in and another one warmed up to leave. She walked through the open-air center under the triangular roof. The women’s room was on the right just after the out of order vending machines. She knew the water fountains would be tucked behind the next wall and that they too would be out of order.

The bathroom was large and clean. She tried not to but glanced in the mirror as she passed it with her head low, the brightness of the fluorescents baring down on her. Her hair was tangled and her skin pale.

Landry grabbed the first stall and sat, but nothing came out. She thought her bladder locked up, shy in the public restroom. She stared at one print out on the back of the stall door that warned of human trafficking, and the other regarded plastic surgery. She grew frustrated with herself for not being able to release, then stood, confused when she realized she didn’t have to go anymore. The automatic toilet flushed anyway.

Landry slid the metal bar to unlock the stall, and the door flapped shut behind her in a series of decreasing bangs to its frame. She heard a thud from behind the door of the stall at the end. Someone had fallen from their knees to their side. Landry remembered her aunt’s soft, moss-colored, U-shaped rug that hugged the toilet. She wondered if it was still there or had been traded out for one in perhaps coral.

She called, “You good down there?”

No response. She walked over and the door was cracked. “Hey. You good?” First, she leaned forward and squinted, then stepped back quickly and silently, trying to make as little noise as possible. Which was silly because there was nobody alive in there to hear her.

The toilet seat was smeared in red. Chunks of food and blood mixed into the toilet water and filled it to the brim. The girl spooned the toilet with her head slightly cocked up against the wall. The slit across her throat was jagged and the car key that did it was still stuck in her at the end of its rip. Her hand clutched pepper spray with the cap off. Landry barely recognized the still eyes that stared ahead.

She took a quick step back, hurried to the door, and hesitated, sure someone would walk in at just that moment. She started to walk out, pushing the door slightly, then paced back over to the stall. “Hello?” She called again, but a response would scare her more than silence.

All the sudden Landry was very, very tired. She didn’t think she could make the trip to Florida. She thought it would be best to just go home. She needed to go home. Everything would be fine at home and would’ve been fine if she just stayed at home. She could surprise everyone with a FaceTime call the next day. She’d tell her aunt how much she loved her and to have a Happy Birthday.

She slipped out of the bathroom, checking the hall first to make sure nobody else was out there. She ran to her car, feeling guilt for something she didn’t do. The overhead light was still on, but she couldn’t get in the door. Landry could see her fast-food trash and craved a sip of the Sprite that would be flat by now. She smacked the window and cried. She wanted to turn off that damn overhead light. She kicked her door but it didn’t leave a dent. She begged the car to let her in and take her home. Of course it wouldn’t, because her key was still stuck in her throat in that last bathroom stall.

They would think she did it herself. They would think she waited too long to tell them how bad it was.